lycanthrope Sympathetic Monsters

The streets are bright;
bustling like
some tv remake of casablanca.
Swindlers and gypsies of
yesteryear peddle their
lineage in business suits,
the once quickly snuffed
sidebets now
live decades, stories
aren't told about them as much.

He stands on the corner
and stops momentarily
from time to time
to follow one.
He holds his hands quietly, thinks
of the uneasy claustrophobia
of wide open approachable spaces,
winces like a suicide note
at each opportunity to say hello
that passes without recognizing
the same opportunity.

haha...i'm just jealous,
it's okay, i'm shy around pretty girls,
that girl there, she's just pretty enough
to laugh at that.

then she's walking on down that street then another,
untill someone else has to carry on for her.
but he keeps it up though, following some chamber of his heart,
a faint beat as
they're sitting together in the dark
of his shabby room, that isn't so bad
when muted to dark black and white,
as the flickering portal of a tv screen
dims the couch and the table to
suggested beasts of burden
on long caravans from a far away
source of treasures earned in daily
and there may be time for a kiss if nothing is missed.

an old horror movie is on
and together they'd recoil
at lon chaney's tight pained face,
pursed and hounded and in perpetual
bitter mourning,
not the sweltering confidence
of the roaring twenties
and the face couldn't scream
but only posture
even if it were a talky.

This moment they shared
wouldn't be the expected lesson,
no solid thing to earn acceptance of
or fly from in a secret night
to their love untainted by
dark subterranean secrets,
no it'd be much sweeter than that,
he knew he'd be showing her the one
thing he would lock if he were to own anything,
the one face he saves for no one but himself,
the mapped world that is not for any price
left behind.
He would be showing her the indulgence
that keeps him working, that makes
clubs and long nights driving with friends
so tiring.

The one face he tried in youth, day and day
to do again and again,
untill he simply realized it was the only
face he had not yet been able to fake.
He would be asking, having given all, for an ending beyond him, his stroke of genius, his face.

He is brushed from reveries
by a person's forgone concluded shoulder.
He catches a glimpse of the face
frantically remasking a walk:
The lon chaney he sees glimmers of
in the eyes of all the passerbys going on into the distance
lilting lurching madly
like a silent laugh,
like the funhouse cinders
of a fire stealing away,
stealing into dusty streets
untill there is a still ending,
and it seems that color
had never existed.
Nothing follows really.
werewolf i couldn't've done a better job myself 020518
werewolf no i don't suppose you could've...and what a sympathetic monster that makes you 020518
werewolf although i would've added

he stands still and makes the face for the whole world to see.
Nothing follows really.
lycanthrope friend...GOOD 020518
sabbie sympathetic_monsters

so sums up my week.
lycanthrope friend....GOOD 020519
lycanthrope frankenstein love

sweat and musty theorizing,
it starts with solitude:
No one to share with the show
of a storm:
Lighting making the earth's
distances seem near:
their advances seem instant
in motion covered in dimness
revealed in light.

A body,
unlike others exactly,
tailored from all bodies
that had passed by
that had melted to one another
in dreams, dreams
that are mad because
they can never be translated
to the slightly nodded heads
and turns and polite words
of the victorian remants
of his grants and his inheritance.

This body, made from all the bodies
that had passed on streets
on theatres, that had passed
from vibrant distance, from
clever smirks and world turners
to age, to forgetfulness;
a whole generation has to reinvent
certain soulful wheels
while the bodies of gods and goddesses he once shuddered
at or pandered to in childhood
now become his toys.

He breaths close to the face of his creation, he necks with it

It is all an ill informed dream,
it cannot consume him, his
laboratory is shutoff, airtight,
there is only
that opening like a mouth
where streaking blue
lightning forks
and wavers and strikes again
in starkly anticipated instants.

And unexpected one day,
life comes,
walks in unannounced
through a wall, with a strength
and momentum
never dreamed of in all those
hours of tiring labor,
untill it seems as though
all of the dreams of rapidness,
of agility, of fearlesness
and tirelessness can be lived
through the creation.

This is before the terror nights
when there is building in silence,
the nights when something
will be said soon,
when the face of a monster
will be glimpsed in the window
and then disappear,
when it will have to be let in
not as a creation, but as a thief,
a thief with a deep knowledge,
of what to steal.

But there is a freshness now,
as the creation walks in the rain
staggering blindly happily,
like a child running across
thin ice at full speed,
because the warning signs mean
less than the feel of rolling
eggshells beneath feet,
feeling the secret lives of fish
and plants contained
in a disposable shell,
wrapped up and spirited away,
this brimming internal life
which could crack at any moment
and admit him.

There is now,
in a dark and stormy night,
the feel of each single raindrop, one not presupposing
the next, and yet playing where it
left off, a tingling xylophone
down these nerves, these
new nerves, which fork
and split like lightning.
And the world is his friend.

This is all before the creation
realizes the distance,
Before he realizes the extension
that the creator agreed on implicitly,
before he rebels against
his selfness.

This is all before the rain has stopped, when the nerves drop guard
and his skin is no longer the rain.
Then the solitude will return,
he will realize he is alone,
and he will want nothing more
than to seize the doctor that birthed
him and dash him back into himself, feeling him upon his skin like the rain.

No but for now, the creator's face is ruddied with unwashed love,
it is sparkling and laughing maniacally.

This scientist making art
has not yet dreamed that his own body and his own dreams will be torn into a patch worn by another.

Another that he unleashed, that he gave new life to.

He has not yet understood the reciprocity of each microcosm of lonliness he has created, each subdivision of a lightning bolt.

Though he breathes into clay,
He has not yet lived.
He has not yet felt the softness of his creations hand turn to the sudden discovering strength of a monster
and squeeze in desperation.
werewolf he sits at the window and watches the storm, smiling with pride, living vicariously through it, as his creation stamps through the tangible air, jerking his body towards the grace of the wind, mumbling to himself and then shouting in a voice straining against choking...FRIEND GOOD.
That is enough for now, for a man who never asked why, but how.
werewolf let me do can do dracula...should i have mummy? which one of us should have richard nixon? 020519
werewolf let us not forget the leprechaun...sure he's a monster...but you know it has to hurt to have such bad movies. 020519
werewolf zombie

so your hunger is nuanced where mine is monochrome,
so your hunger bends space where mine reverberates.
All i seek is to unite me, you, and the world, all i wish to state, not in and of myself but with your interpretation of my crude march, is that
the dead can dance,
that they aren't dead then.
All i seek is to take the living and the dead and the undead and unmoor them into a feast of sameness.

I seek to sever the ties that hold your dreams to your brain.
I seek to sever with my teeth.
My teeth are my dreams.

I am a secret soldier in society's implied army. And i am contagious.
I spread the dull filings of my dreams.
lycanthrope we should also do cassandra and medea...don't forget them...and king kong too...and quasimodo...and mike tyson and michael jackson and steve buscemi. 020519
werewolf and don't forget us....hahahahha 020519
lycanthrope 020519
reitoei monsters with a heart. jumping from the dark, sorry when your heart stops.
consoling higs while they bite off your head, sympathizing with your predicament. theyre very sweet.
lycanthrope pinnochio

if i were to see a wagon full of gypsies coming down a cobbly
road and shaking on a dark night
with the moon obscured by thick
clouds and an owl on the wing,
i would tell you false stories
and point you in a direction
that does not exist once you are
around the corner.

You may end up in a field,
empty, and lit with the holocaust
signals of fireflies in all their
wretched loving. Little cannons
and little lightnings, the truth
of the myth we once called gods,
a microcosm of our deepest
churnings, of all our apriori angst.

They have informed my eyes,
when my eyes were naeive,
when my eyes were wet with

When the children at school had met me
had made me stay this, so that they
could stay that. Love was brought up once or twice, and were its machinations different?
They had seemed it.
But the light of this field filled me with horrid doubt.

The lights are only visible in the darkness, in the broader forum of truth, we see their sweet lies, their deception of selves that are themselves deceptions. The rich colors of the fields, the poppies and the marigolds are hidden in darkness and the air is more alive than the soil.

There is occasionally an earnest blinking, uninformed, but i am beyond mourning.

The patterns are intricate, one species of firefly imitates the seductive flashes of another,
and drawn by the sensual lighting,
by the illumination of blind curves
the male comes into the house of a stranger and is devoured,
by something quite beyond the capabitlies of his dreams.

Sometimes a male will imitate predators in fierce muted morse code to frighten off rivals,
other times, a male will imitate both male and female signals, will imitate the male timidly pallidly
to attract male rivals, and when in range, it will crush their heads.

Instinct is an honest deception, it's rhythm is not some beat but some others beat. As falseness is detected, a subtler falseness survives, a keener detector surives that, untill the only solution is for an organism to deceive itself endlessly to strengthen, to weaken, to live.
defense and offense become the same, weak lies masking one another.

What do I want? i could crush whole fields of fireflies, and still i'd be lonely. They understand me, or they tell me they do, or i tell them they do. The feeling is the same to you, who sees my deceptions, but who doesn't know the truth of them, or who sees my truths and doesn't know the lies. Who hates me for the reasons i haven't put forth, who trains me in the art which is my only salvation from the limits of a world that knows one truth and infinite lies.

The novel, the original, is here in this field with me, the new lights always amaze, and there is always a new light, a light that delights in its own unpredictable results, and distances itself from its deeper roots. We all want to survive. But to live is to engage in the sublime flights of fantasy where lies are more interesting than truths, where myths reveal more than the literal ever could. Oh and the brightness of their myths, the constellations we have spirited to the sky, exist in fragments in the flight of a firefly and in its explosions, its false suicide.

And so here, i will tell you what i want, i will whisper though i feel like shouting, and i will point you in the wrong direction, but pay no mind to my finger, for then you'll be the puppet.

I seek merely to be real. Just to be real. I won't devour you in any other way. The deceptive flashing in my eyes is the only tool i know in this dark empty field. The range of my wooden nose, a mere setback, like the racing of your pulse. A mere reminder of something that i did not mean to say, that was not as important as my very real lies.
werewolf i've caught you in an unescapable truth, that's what my web is. Will you let me think less of you though? no...not untill i've sucked you dry. 020522
knot meat and einstein knew, those his workstation was filled with only the inurgent silence of written words, and passive numbers, that from somewhere across the world, the screams of melting skin were reaching for him, only slightly slower than light itself, and would strangle him, not in a flash, but in a slow smouldering terror. he could only resign himself to beautiful words, never reaching people as quickly as the impulsive lightning of his genius. 040113
. . 061128
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