Monday, August 7, 2017

A Cleansing.

The young boy ran among the muck and decided to drown his hamster there.   The beating rain that rattled against the moist earth let out a funeral snare so that the entire world surrounding that place could understand the horror that was being accused.  Much to the boys surprise the hamster did not flail or fight back, it twitched, and then accepted itself to the afterlife.  In this way it seemed mother nature took pity on the small creature, deeming its demise a liberating act to the atrocities of the sick child.

The boy named Trent dipped his booted feet into sinking soils and found his way home covered in the grime of the world, the lifeless brown muddled mass of mud in one fist.  His face beemed a satisfied smile but the beating of the rain drops told a story akin to disapproval.   Somewhere up above the people would have surmised that the Lord was troubled by the acts of his creation for after all he knew every hair on his head but he did not gather all the thoughts within.

At home young Trent buried his poor pet hamster in the sewers, flushing it down the toilet bowl where its coat of mud had broken away in a mist amongst the blue hue of the toilet water and circled its light brown mass through the funnel of draining water.   His eyes followed it as it vanished, and when he could not see it it was out of mind, and he wiped his filthy hands on the sides of his khaki shorts.  He exited the bathroom with a calm sigh of relief and went to the kitchen to join his family for dinner.

His mother looked aghast at him standing before the dinner table all covered in natures grime, she observed the hand prints upon his shorts, and the mop of hair that fell against his forehead having been forced that way by the driving rains but now was in that delicate and disgusting area of disrepair but unable to fix itself.  She chastised him and he huffed at her and scowled his unsettling scowl, and she dropped the point.  Now that her exasperation was mooted she returned to eating, and he too began to eat.  He rudely reached across the table passing his disgusting hands into the buttermilk biscuits leaving his mark on many of them.

"Son of a bitch."   His father exclaimed just after the door slammed shut near the front of the house.   "Who tracked mud all over the carpet?"   The boy called Trent sat silently eating his biscuits, and he did not react.  Not out of fear, but out of pure bliss of knowing that he was safe from reprucussion.  The father moved into the kitchen and saw the muddy child, and he swallowed the swell of anger that was growing inside of his throat.  His face reddened with rage returned some of its natural color and he moved to his location at the head of the table.   The father reached across the table and retrieved and dirty biscuit, and he stared at it and then at his wife, and young Trent bit into his own.   The father bit into his, mud and all.

Later that night when Trent himself had felt that he had been dirty enough he walked into the shower and washed off all his mud.  He did not notice the clogged toilet bowl rising water over the rim that splashed all over the linoleoum floor.   And his feet heavy with lathered soap slipped against the floor and he was suspended ethereal in the light of the singular ceiling bulb.   The collision with his head against the edge of the bathtub was subtle but cracked enough that he was instantly lost to the human world.

When the body was discovered the parents of the little boy Trent decidedly quickly to cremate him.  It wasn't for any other reason that to ensure that the flames perfectly consumed him and when they brought his ashes home they emptied them into the clean toilet not knowing that they were uniting him with his dearly departed hamster.

Wednesday, August 2, 2017


There was a decidely dark day in the middle of a measely may rain when little children sparked the spirit of disinterest in the hearts of adolescents adorning the aged halls of a secondary school,

They fawned over the height of intelligence that the towering teens demoted and graveled at their feet with questions as wisful and precarious as the precious poetry of children's vocabulary,

The older children commended the appetite but did not feed the mouths of the babes for they were too preoccupied with racing minds of sexual desires and motus apprendi of self esteem assaults,

They were told to look with lidless eyes into the abyss of future times so that the horrifying detrimental faces were all the little kids could hope to abide for that is what they saw in their saintly little eyes,

Afeared they were of growing old that the children read up on Peter Pans and Wonderlands, craving to crawl through cavernous holes to follow the white rabbit towards a better goal,

But after all of that the adults still drove them towards the end of the earth where seniors in schools stood on the brink of an amazing abyss and shout to them to grow up and be damned,

And the people on the other side of the monsters eyes, who are imprisoned and watch with tearful blinds, continue dribbling out the sadness sanctioned on them by those who pushed them over the cliff side,

There was a decidely dark day in the middle of a measely may rain when little children sparked the spirit of disinterest in the hearts of adolesencts adorning the aged halls of a secondary school.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Preying on the Future.

Yearly a young sapling emerges into warms and is systematically cut down in order to give way to the holidays,
A little speck of inspiration that itself inspired to grow extremely tall at one point in its life but cannot now for abomination of selling spirit.
Can you truly underestimate the idealogy of the masses though, who see upon this young tree and epitome of jolly tidings,
it should be their perrogative to value its budding growth in whatever way they want, so that when they cut it down
they believe it should find solace in bringing them a greenish warmth of its forever green dying leaves.

Monday, July 10, 2017

Developmental Hellion

On the edge of the last street out of town stands a child prone to crying
out in little fits of anguish and despair.
His mother, or father, brothers, sisters, aunts or uncles, not even distrusted
cousins cannot be notified that the child is turning in circles and pulling
the hair out of his head.   When you go to console the child you cannot
fully understand his pains because he is not from your block
he is far off on the other side of the spectrum of your distrust
and because of this he cannot awaken inside to your stranger gaze
because he does not trust the person you are.   The morality
and well wishing you want to spout off and despite all the assurances
of your insurance in goodness he will still scream for his parents
even if they have in their hearts the moral bankruptcy associated
with wolves in sheeps clothing.   It is in this moment
that we take offense we storm off and brandish our defenses
like swords and instead of our protections
they are now weapons that penetrate the blood lines of people
who do not understand.  Deceptive we are to our own selves
that we hold onto these whining attritions even tighter, even as our family
and our friends tell us we are irrational.  To be right is better than to be wrong,
especially if you are wrong.  Still, the child screams, and you have now
reassured him that you are the wolf, blatant and scary as he knew
you would be.  Welcome to your moral bankruptcy because you didn't
care to understand.   That is the ultimate defeat of your personality
because you let the distraught be the cause of your pains even though
they did nothing to hurt you but to diminish your feelings of self-glory
by giving momentary comfort.   On this street on the way out of town
the child stands, anguished because he does not know what it is that bothers
him, and because he is innocent to his own answer to his discourse
because his development is little, we provide the fears to him that
he is wrong, and we introduce ourselves as the spawns of satan,
and we have already started to corrupt his youth, and in turn
corrupt his spirit.