Tag Archives: fanfiction

she calls me

what she sees – what I am – what I’m not –

[Written on 10/10/2017]


He is greeted with a laugh much like a papillon lily, all brittle and fond and riding on a seafoam spool.

And he feels a finger rest on a collarbone-train – his (and that metrical pulse of his turns to wildfire again, ferriferous cord in a muffling, democratic dark—)

it’s mortifying, mortifying (for he whose eyes are spurned theatres, houses for a mortem daze in-the-futile-making—)  

It is mortifying and yet

“K-Kaede, I—”

“Shuichi.” She breathes back at last, shedding an aphrodisiac ghost onto the dainty knob of his Adam’s apple and it—unfurls like a lacewinged drug, bleeds selenic spiders by the sweet, sweet dozen along his moon-kissed, dour circuits-of-being (—they’re all but memorial grounds now, archaic home to crescent kisses and waning whispers and all lacrimal shards of testament to her, and her and her—)



The irregulars between them warp like innocuous mana, threatening a rupture in him of the gentlest ilk—already he is dangling like a calcifier’s puppet over her ethereal maw, promethean doll-legs crudely poised and aching for a white-rabbit spillage—

“—I   l   v  e y   

She murmurs, almost croaks—and in the morgue-full of his murky fathomings crawls a limping, threadbare sob and

—why of all people….would you

care to call me—

Anchor, croons the lonely, travelling finger, down a wan stretch of thigh to stir more frissons light as the fae. Truth.

Lies, the wormhole-vault in his ribcage mourns back, though he falls (typical) regardless – tangled softly by the heels into her angel’s mantra. Impostor.

he’s never deserved he’ll never deserve

— l  v   ”

The static bleats past his ears in a fraught finale and she- -he realizes that she

th—at angel’s mantra is g—

and the hangman tiptoes out a starry farewell, its organs retc
hing out a storm o
f plasmic kingdoms—
… qu     i  et   Q  u i-  –

Magenta snakes over the skin- -thorny splatter by splatter and

it is me. my supine codes
have failed you. i
; an algorithmic  b a star d   chi ld—

—gnaws away at the lunulae entombed in his irises, a harlequin foreboding armed with a
knife down the gullet

And in the hollows of his lungs, the programmed reapers yield their squalls, sickle-limbs flailing in the muffling, democratic dark as she topples—contents cascading down his calves and his industrial blue throat, and into those damaged keyholes-in-his-eyes that beat once, like mundane quartzes—(in the presence of her, but)

—now the puppet plummets endlessly
into a cradle spiked with tendoned vanes, bathed in

streaks of horror and horror and

gauze, and the parasitic memory of no more no m


she calls me—


—ton m—I t—ahw


mirrors and theurgy }

[Written on 3/6/2017]

some eyes made for a poor adventure.

his did. perhaps. certainty? maybe—

no scrap of an argentine promise, none but the screw-and-bolt carcass of

a cimmerian centipede—
laid in the worst shade of death.


x }
who said eyes were divine in the heat of love


they played a game of mirror, mirror

each time proximity proved

beyond an opiate eidolon (guzzling fire in the water—

heroisms, metagraphic hooks- –
storebought sleights to make up for nihil.
( how’d they. how’d they
turn to blooming tether in the noir-factor



I took your naught for a nectar
( by some sorcerous error; a chant in murky sugars-deep- –
why’d the lull of your wasteland
key itself in?

and now
now   can’t you see that
all I want is mirrors—

for my falsehood sun.

at dopamine harbor

[Written on 23/5/2017]

they’d branded me a seussian grave-head- –
those fractal tellers did, at the whalemouthed, fumeless exit }
chromium debris”, they’d christened my toes
sized me up and synchro-ruled me:
a necroholic puppet to pave the nihil-march- –
down the Armageddon aisle.

they’ll warble at your doorbell soon, I’m sure- –
reckon you a circus-pile of reject axons
{ tightropes a morbid-measure too loose
for panoramic liking.
“and, if you could, young anomaly- –
bid the psycho-lions out
of their quixomatic dens }
we do honestly want to eviscerate them—”

but don’t be afraid
I’ll meet you—

x – 1 ;

take your dime-sized chimeras and 
jack-in-the-dendrons, I’ll
teach you where to go, where those
manxome eyes’ll fit in those entrails, neat—finally, right- –

;; x – x

I’ll meet you down down down down
at dopamine harbor- -where the hypodermic felons are.
your tongues can play a festooned game and I’ll
watch with feline graphtoid slits- –

maybe therapy’ll blossom then
for the both of us
a nicer kind (- –void of shitty prism-prophecy
 for us = (the spirograph and the mortem fang)

just us. and no one else—

via Daily Prompt: Descend

fondant hexes for the moon-spurned ;

[Written on 15/5/2017]

sun-bled compass } . are you- –

i’d sooner have you bleed the blue

off your gulliver eyes.
{ – where the fabled little flutter-flux gambols free—doesn’t it
just scream ‘decapitate me. . c
ut me into itty-bitty halves-   -and null-slivers h..a…hah

i’d like yo
ur hadean blade in me 
pleas e– –

x x x

….. x –  – you’re a madeleine, i can
see. just two carousels and a humming-grave off from
the oven.
{ there are twenty-three more cobalt-birds
laid there to caramel oblivion- –}

maybe dawn will poison you there-   -before i do

the darklings in my hallways told me so but i can’t

wait to do it myself because you asked me to you did

to carve a nice shark-toothed accent into those little vanilla-arcs of yours

with nails from the Harlot so you can scream your cherry-chords dry of ideals if you want

just so you would-

and here you go again – – f* #$ . . hoarder, hoarder with a halo-smile, die 

; : –

(i wanted a sweet death too.)


[Written on 6/5/2017]

and I say,
{ cue the records, green-stroked reams
deadman sheen to frame it all – –
fire the accountamorphous fusillade of gallows
to the adolescent-hologram that molders
in omnipresent hiding – –
contrivance of secular tellers – -de|serves;  to r-ot
insideoutside in upov er…

: signal re-engaging, re-enchanting
:// i spend shallow-days on fruitless end – –

…i spend shallow-days on fruitless end

incubating cheap orbits
in the empty, saturnesque spine of my pen.

i plant planetarium saplings where the caverns don’t flaunt
platitudes in bashful violet / / malign crimson
all razor-trimmed and dolly-edged
will the stars at long last

be my name

…I can’t say for certain
no foolproof dictum in the now or the ever swarms
to come.

just null me.

where the crowns don’t shine.
and the manacles align.
– – another faulty-again to join them all.

nullibicity (no more lanterns)

[Written on 12/4/2017]

and the cat’s out of the biblical bag,

out of the flexible tome Abyss charted in

its gallant descent to earth nouveau.


and It tells you, in whispers esoteric (technical waifs, I’d befriended them – –
friends ; I’d always wanted, you know

that there are creeping codes to living , – –
a city of vermin posing as civilian cryptogram
to marshal revelry in robotic blanche, and safeguard
{ the Colon command }
– – immobilize the cardiac panel – –
immobilize now , aeons proscribed
poised for dark deletion.


logistics whirr, tandem in medicine
in the sugar-flecked malaise of rococo bleach ;
{ why were the pavers late? just. damn WH ..Y—[
“…you botched the pact, and I know
see that sacrilegious meta-claw, how it spumes
toxic, vilest-fresh from Wonderland.
and you plead not, lifeless hallowed appeal! but
– -by the scheme-of-flesh, I vow
to raze the lights. decimation
’till I am free.


i bid thee farewell, {chimes the newly-devil
– – o, noble creed of lantern.

the paradoxology: i. σώμα

[Written on 21/12/2015]

He is the body.

And there is a jarring irony in this temporal notion of being, lacing with the subtlest of malice-strung intents through wiry courses of circulating substance — dead cells from bio-morgues that pool into liquid visibility at the most feeble of pricks and the most triumphantly titanic of brazen massacres, the excavation of entrails and the demented hacking of tendons and bone and of all of the cumbersome little minutiae that buzz frenetically in between.

— And in all these things, a niggling finiteness buds, stinging with a bitter relapse of the bygone.

He loathes this, as he does most things.

The oppressive confinement of an unwieldy brittle mould, the precedence of an illogically imperative sustenance, of feeding bulky, beating masses and hideous, dripping lumps in cardinal subservience — and for what? 

They are the antithesis of possibility, of the exalted cortex and its poised nexus of cosmic visions and acute flashes of prophecy.

And of this he has been certain for as long as he’s lived, that the noble lauding of vitamins and material supplements, that the prostrate worshipping of charts of circadian cycles and shrill, shrieking calls to eat, drink and sleep

Embody the pinnacle of folly, down to its transcendental provenance.

….. Though–

In spite of this glaring error of design — he must concede — there are assets to be wrung from the tiresome scheme of the biological being.

There is the apparatus of maneuvering, and of deploying bladed projectiles at the scum that waft vexingly across his vision–

— And, oh. there is the relish of the dissonance that follows in earnest pursuit: the timely sirens of arrant pain, and the crescendo of agony that sketches a tune of victory in his ears.

And then, there are the lips, the mechanism of articulation and, of greater utility, trial. They funnel masked riddles and muddling charades, penetrating and ruthless as they partake in the dredging of foibles and the callous appraisal of faculty’s bounds.

But best of all are his nails, he surmises. Tiny, contoured slabs of yet another elusive fibre of many, narrowed and curved into an… effectual substitute.

The recourse for an absence of honed, forged blades. The most basal of armaments for the deflection of threat.

The slashing of pride and the searing of trust, the drawing of plumes of gray and globules of red and the strangled contortion of a countenance and the rumblings of ire and tragedy and more of that, please, if you will, and you will

And there comes a chilling standstill, as time retracts its agency in equal mortification of this ghastly, odious deed. And there is, for perhaps the first time since this fallacious, fleshy mould came into being–

–a hike of agony that breaches all known frequencies.

And at this tremulously climactic spike of a frisson, he is inclined to reflect again — on how wonderful and marvelous and thrilling and soul-charging it is to carve with these disguised claws and to sow the festering seeds of ruin into a sacrosanct insignia of petty pursuits and bloated heroism he’d sooner crush beneath his heel, and one so conveniently inked onto the sheath of his… impractical physical entity.

It is also then when he realizes, amidst the fury that boils in the air and the incipient echoes of ‘traitor, traitor’ in the crooks and the nooks of his gnarled mind–

–that the presence of a body is not quite so bad after all.

vanity askew

[Written on 28/7/2015]

Before the mirror, a figure stands,

still as anything as a pondering arises, veiled like a bride in an illusion of subtlety,

its gown appended with strings upon which new riddles cling,

their weights growing like a spell gone utterly wrong. 

Utterly, utterly wrong.

[and in an effort of appeasement, you tell yourself.
this sorry excuse of an existence simply cannot be—]

The sheen is no match for a gaze,

sculpted with the minuscule workings of a divine craft,

gilded with a care that has long vanished,

from what he can hope to fathom with the unruly knots that clutter his mind,

knots drenched in whimsical splashes of chaos;

this recklessly crude contact one of a tragic finality, for it is after these collateral collisions—

—that the chaos becomes. It becomes.

Supplanting the hollows once reserved for hope’s offspring.

And this, of course, is—

[who he is,
not that damned impostor—]

He wonders if glass is capable of hurting,

of airing cracked, strangled pleas of ‘stop, please, stop—‘

should a crack just — so very unfortunately — explode across its crystalline shell.

And perhaps more, he tests the notion with a spark of boldness as he lunges—

—and the cracks spread their reign, the triumph of their conquest marked

with a spider-like insignia, jagged shards budging from the loosening of levelness,

from the overthrowing of a uniformity that has mocked him for far too long—

[and he smiles,
in spite of those jarring crimson stains,
and the translucent shreds that peel stingingly in place of skin—
he smiles.]

Victory swells in the hollows where chaos dwells,

now accustomed to the permanence his warped spaces have so generously endowed them.

And it is only in these hollows,

that his satisfaction blossoms free, spurred on by the kingly facades of pride and—


[and he smiles,
because there are no tears now, and the gospel truth is that he sheds none,
and now this scheming, vile, mirror
is finally laid to rest.]

And that is what you get.

A snarl as crimson pools, rapid as it drips. 

That is what you get.


Summary: A hitch in the meshes of a malignant programming — or perhaps, less likely than not.

Notes: One-sided Vanitas/Ventus, chiefly inspired and featuring lyrics by MY FIRST STORY (‘CHiLD -error-‘).

[Written on 2/5/2015]

// you_never_looked

 /     at    

/   me./    : ‘ )  

// ??

xksldkv  w  hyy y     _  .

Something’s struck him, all the while he’s known him.

It comes in flashes — brief, fleeting, though inexplicably daunting in each hasty, crude arrival, wreaking havoc on his fraying consciousness–

Fraying… that’s right. It seems as if he can scarcely think lately.

It’s even harder when the words he once commandeered so effortlessly — with all his sinister indulgences and lyric-stained puppet strings — run amok, pouring dangerously out of line as something crashes in like the apocalypse.

Every twinge that rumbles in his–

… hi_s.

[…. heart… yes, one of those… he… does have one of those… right–?]

As tarnished, blotched and utterly irreparable as it is–

Every twinge that rumbles on is a sign that he’s losing it.




  __ _ y o  _ u . _    _ .

Generosity breeds resentment.

— The irony of this seems laughable, and yet, it pulses through him, undeterred in its fury-driven raid, ravaging like a forest fire.

It consumes him, it becomes him. Because all he can see–

— is him smiling the way he does to every worthless, writhing creature that passes him by.

Repulsive, isn’t it. Cheapness at its finest.

And he waits for the accursed ache to dull as he plows through the insults, the barbs, the scathing verbal blades he’s held in perpetual reserve, like an emaciated specter — hunched, crooked and dragging pitifully through the infestations of a riven, cognitive wasteland.

[How dare he how dare he how dare he–]

::_   YOU ___  NEVER  ___  LOOKED  _  AT > >   __  _ me.



The memories cave in, crumbling into a frightful splatter.

Like blood, very much like blood.

It’s the prelude of a chapter of self-destruction. And from here, he can amend this.

— This error.

The error of a recalcitrant desire, one that’s spiraled out of his fallaciously impeccable control.

–what control?–

He is seething, barring out the weak-willed wishes with every last shred of his rent ego.

He’d never known it to be this hard.

because   _      you   _     h at   e   _  m     e.           : ) 

He needs him.

So much.

And this propels his self-loathing to a cosmic height–

–What? What are you

talking about?

[A venomous sneer.]

This is a mere game.

Amusement is rare to come by, after all. And if I can make him want me–

–I said no.

I’ve said this before, haven’t I?

I don’t care.

I don’t care I don’t care I do n’ t  __ CA RE _ w _hat . _  he _  th._inks __ .

. . . .

// I will never need anyone.

// Believe me.

. / / . . please  be_lieve  me . . . 

the perspective of nothing.

[Written on 10/4/2015]

He can’t make out what keeps him going.

For a long time now, he’s paid witness to the optimism that powers this boy’s brittle psyche — one that pulses with a daunting might through its pitiful, crudely-taped cracks; one that shines relentlessly through optic wells of azure blue, wells beneath which he (with merely a fraction of his cynical awareness) can discern an ocean’s worth of untamed wonders, springing lavishly from the soul and blossoming generously forth in an abundance of smiles and laughter and echoes of an everlasting vibrance.

He’s intrigued, fairly. By these…. wonders he finds swimming freely about in the glaring vacancies that litter this boy’s being, as laughably far-fetched as they seem.

And it is in light of this discovery that — deep in the recesses of his own twisted, knotted mind — he senses a queer shift in the vital patterns of the wretched, morbid thoughts that lurk beneath its shadowy folds. Amidst dreams that pile in through the night, he finds them seething with all-new desires — cravings he’s never known — as they wrap obsessively around the prospect of picking this–

–sad, sorry… strangely beautiful boy’s soul apart and letting it crumble to the rotten pieces its feeble sutures once strove (–so very, very… painfully hard–) to keep intact. And perhaps then, he can scavenge for the light that once used to linger stubbornly on, now a withering flicker amidst fragments of a cardiac husk.

It is beneath the shelter of the night that he nurses these thoughts, fingers curling and unraveling in eerie sync with the rhythm of his malevolent cognitions. He lies, still amidst a tangle of sheets, golden eyes shifting ambiguously beneath a bedraggled curtain of raven-coloured locks, as he revels in the images of him — a sun-lit, stalwart angel whose light he’d more than love to sap dry, in a self-fulfilling extraction.

After all, he muses, a void such as he could accommodate anything.

An endless, murky void–

purposeless and wrought with a perpetual need

He is yearning, he realizes, and at once, he overrides the suffocating, lung-piercing odour of dependency that comes hovering in with the cleverly contrived notion of a desire for dominance. Much more apt, he figures, satisfied.

–But it changes not the fact that he is yearning.

He seethes at the thought, and at the same time, he is — as always — intrigued.

Now intrigued at the lengths to which he will go and claim this light for himself.

Of a sun-lit, stalwart angel, one enamoured by tales of camaraderie–

–He has none of that to offer. Nothing but the void with which he was born, the void of which he is fully, so horrendously composed.

But he frets not as he turns, caving slowly in to slumber, for the malicious snares that adorn his mind are still intact.

And it is with this assurance that a smirk weaves through, as he pictures feathers raining ominously down on an endless terrain of black — each one resounding with the seconds that it takes for him to drift into sleep.

And, true to the nature of a boy carved from nothingness, the relish of anguish lives on in his dreams.