[... posted by Ryan]
Debt is a sickness,
You cut corners,
You go without eating,
Just to afford the things,
That magazines tell us we need,
Credit is debt's best friend,
It lets you make debt bigger,
Just like trash talking Guidos,
Jager Bombs are their monthly payment,
And the more they drink the bigger they get,
Capitalism is religion,
It lies and says its here to help,
But it's slowly stealing money,
Right from your back pocket,
Poisoning you with empty promises,
The health care industry is capitalism's Pope, Bishop and Priest,
They ask you kindly for your money,
Promising you both physical and spiritual enlightenment,
Making your life as sweet as honey,
But they line their pockets as the people starve and are diagnosed with new forms of death,
No doubt dropped from Capitalist heaven where St. Enron cries "We need your soul!"
The average man is a sheep,
Following and stumbling down a dark hallway,
a lemming jumping from a cliff,
blissfully watching as their lives are wasting away.
January 17, 2011
January 16, 2011
The ending to a portion of a short story. More to Come.
[... posted by Ryan]
The Dream always started the same way. The same church, the same stained glass windows; the ones with all the etchings and collages of color creating pictures of burning hearts, the sun shining light from halos on the darkness of the world, shining light into the church from the sun outside. He always woke up, fearing for his life, in the all too familiar cold sweat. The sweat forming a cooling barrier between him and whatever lurked in his dreams and the humid night air.
He never could figure out what the dream meant, but he figured it probably had something to do with his childhood. If he told the shrink at work about the dream the Doc would tell him hes supressing something. You know how those Freudian and Psych types always wanted to analyze you and get inside your head, but never thought about analyzing themselves. He couldn't tell his girlfriend because because she already thought he was slightly weird and he actually wanted to keep this one around. Being a Professor on the Occult wasn't something many women found fascinating. Creepy; yea. Fascinating; not so much.
It was 3am all the same. He knew that anything that would disturb him during this "witching" hour would purportedly be evil. "An insult to the Trinity," as he had once heard Ed Warren, who was a kind of ghost hunter, call it. But, was it really? He knew the stories about all the devils of this world and the ones hereafter. Sure, it's possible there are some demons, succubi or whatever out there who attacked to insult the Trinity. That doesn't mean he actually believed any of it.
He'd grown up under the watchful eye of a conservative Republican minster and a born-again Christian mother who beat the belief in God right of him. "How could a merciful God let this happen to me?" he'd say over and over again as the switch his mother beat him with struck; severing whole portions of skin into remnants of tree bark split vertically.
His name was Johnathon, John for short. And, as much as he hated his mother for naming him that, he hated her even more for the scars that lined his back and arms; like the flogging wounds of an insubordinate soldier in a dysfunctional army.
John sat, staring into the darkness of his bedroom. The only light provided by the moonlight streaming in from the balcony window to the right of his bed. He heard the creaking of the branches from the trees outside, frogs and toads chirping their call from a distance. The house still creaked a bit, "one of these days this house will settle and maybe I'll get a good nights sleep." That explained his restless behavior after the nightmare he thought. There was too much noise, too much going on outside. Birds and bats still flying past the moonlight making it look like there was activity going on outside; and it was coming in.
He looked around his room one last time, hearing the buzzing of bugs outside, the wind blowing and decided that the night's sounds weren't worth losing sleep over. "I have a class in the morning," he said aloud. He threw the sheet over his head, the one he superstitiously always needed to use, and threw his head on the pillow and drifted back into the realm of sleep, ignoring the fact that he did indeed see something in the shadows of the doorway to his bedroom.
The Dream always started the same way. The same church, the same stained glass windows; the ones with all the etchings and collages of color creating pictures of burning hearts, the sun shining light from halos on the darkness of the world, shining light into the church from the sun outside. He always woke up, fearing for his life, in the all too familiar cold sweat. The sweat forming a cooling barrier between him and whatever lurked in his dreams and the humid night air.
He never could figure out what the dream meant, but he figured it probably had something to do with his childhood. If he told the shrink at work about the dream the Doc would tell him hes supressing something. You know how those Freudian and Psych types always wanted to analyze you and get inside your head, but never thought about analyzing themselves. He couldn't tell his girlfriend because because she already thought he was slightly weird and he actually wanted to keep this one around. Being a Professor on the Occult wasn't something many women found fascinating. Creepy; yea. Fascinating; not so much.
It was 3am all the same. He knew that anything that would disturb him during this "witching" hour would purportedly be evil. "An insult to the Trinity," as he had once heard Ed Warren, who was a kind of ghost hunter, call it. But, was it really? He knew the stories about all the devils of this world and the ones hereafter. Sure, it's possible there are some demons, succubi or whatever out there who attacked to insult the Trinity. That doesn't mean he actually believed any of it.
He'd grown up under the watchful eye of a conservative Republican minster and a born-again Christian mother who beat the belief in God right of him. "How could a merciful God let this happen to me?" he'd say over and over again as the switch his mother beat him with struck; severing whole portions of skin into remnants of tree bark split vertically.
His name was Johnathon, John for short. And, as much as he hated his mother for naming him that, he hated her even more for the scars that lined his back and arms; like the flogging wounds of an insubordinate soldier in a dysfunctional army.
John sat, staring into the darkness of his bedroom. The only light provided by the moonlight streaming in from the balcony window to the right of his bed. He heard the creaking of the branches from the trees outside, frogs and toads chirping their call from a distance. The house still creaked a bit, "one of these days this house will settle and maybe I'll get a good nights sleep." That explained his restless behavior after the nightmare he thought. There was too much noise, too much going on outside. Birds and bats still flying past the moonlight making it look like there was activity going on outside; and it was coming in.
He looked around his room one last time, hearing the buzzing of bugs outside, the wind blowing and decided that the night's sounds weren't worth losing sleep over. "I have a class in the morning," he said aloud. He threw the sheet over his head, the one he superstitiously always needed to use, and threw his head on the pillow and drifted back into the realm of sleep, ignoring the fact that he did indeed see something in the shadows of the doorway to his bedroom.
Fat Lady Rolling Down A Steep Hill
[...posted by Ted H]
Fat Lady Rolling Down A Steep Hill
Fat lady rolling down a steep hill
The rumble she makes, my heart be still.
Listen, smell that? Watch her tumble
As everything below her sets to crumble.
Fat lady lands hard in a puddle
As she gives the little animals a startle.
Look at her, you cant clean her with a mop
As everyone laughs at her from up top.
Fat lady slips and falls down
Sending an earthquake to the town.
You can hear the dying screams if you listen
But not this lady, she’s on a mission.
Fat lady slides and knocks down a tree
There is no more oak as you can see.
She stands up to see a grave
She takes a picture of which to save.
Fat lady’s foot sinks in the mud
Into the mans grave as she says “O crud.
This can’t get any worse as the rain pours on
The wolves start howling and the sun is gone.”
Fat lady brings her leg up with a pull
Only to find she brought up the mans skull.
Today you can’t find it, even if you look
But lost in a book, is that picture she took.
Fat Lady Rolling Down A Steep Hill
Fat lady rolling down a steep hill
The rumble she makes, my heart be still.
Listen, smell that? Watch her tumble
As everything below her sets to crumble.
Fat lady lands hard in a puddle
As she gives the little animals a startle.
Look at her, you cant clean her with a mop
As everyone laughs at her from up top.
Fat lady slips and falls down
Sending an earthquake to the town.
You can hear the dying screams if you listen
But not this lady, she’s on a mission.
Fat lady slides and knocks down a tree
There is no more oak as you can see.
She stands up to see a grave
She takes a picture of which to save.
Fat lady’s foot sinks in the mud
Into the mans grave as she says “O crud.
This can’t get any worse as the rain pours on
The wolves start howling and the sun is gone.”
Fat lady brings her leg up with a pull
Only to find she brought up the mans skull.
Today you can’t find it, even if you look
But lost in a book, is that picture she took.
Thank you for joining us!
Hello and welcome to the posting site of The Nameless Writers. We'll be using this blog to post our stories, poems and all forms of literary attributes in an attempt to get our names out there and in the process find people who enjoy our writing. Please, look forward to all of our future updates.
[... Posted by Ryan]
[... Posted by Ryan]
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