Blogus Arbitrarius

There once was a princess from Doo

Who found a frog looking so blue.

The frog said, “Kiss me,

And a prince will I be!”

So she did, but now she’s a frog too.

There’s conflict in a worried mind

Who sees the time he’s left behind:

The throes of youth in growing past,

A time they all said wouldn’t last.

Immortal life he’d never find.

But they look now, and what to see?

A page for him, and one for me,

And one for times he’s overslept.

Meticulous are records kept

Of every wanton memory.

And in the web our names will stay,

With evidence of games we play,

No longer lost without a word,

But in so many voices heard,

Still lost forever, either way.

It is brisk outside. He pulls his old coat over his narrow shoulders. He thinks about class today. It was difficult. He doesn’t understand the assignment. He is scolded by the young man who edited his paper for having no thesis, and for having a body with no substance. There is no conclusion.

He walks on the sidewalk, and passes the young man in his car waiting to enter traffic. He waves; the young man waves back. He is glad to be noticed.

The young man drives away. He waves again. The young man doesn’t wave back this time.

He walks home. His apartment is small and smells like him. He warms his dinner and eats it, and then he sleeps.

I recently rediscovered a website, called Twistori, which I found one day while browsing Twitter. The idea behind the site is to search Twitter’s public timeline for the phrases I love, I hate, I think, I believe, I feel, and I wish, posting them anonymously in a scrolling feed of thoughts. As with much of the internet, the majority of the content here is stupid. However, every once in awhile a particularly curious one will pop up that just makes you wonder.

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Enter the office.

See people,

Term used loosely,

No longer alive,

Not yet dead,

With tired faces,

Large cups of coffee,

Made of Styrofoam.

See computer screens in every cell,

Providing instructions.

See people,

Term used loosely,

Waiting for 5:00,

For the weekend,

For retirement,

For the end.

I will not be these people.

I will not.

Be silent of feelings,

Thoughts,

Facts.

Keep them secret.

They are far too personal.

They wouldn’t understand.

Read deep

And postulate your own meanings

Of false subtleties,

Hints,

Clues.

And God forbid anything

To be what it is.

A proper blow to the head with the right instrument can create an excellent cavity to collect the gasoline. That part is the most exciting, because when the face finally opens up, the rest of the fuel spills out onto the driveway and chases you, like a spat fireball.

He called this one Nancy, because he thought that all bitches should be called Nancy to make things easier for everyone else, and this one was a bitch alright. He’d met her at the pub a week and a half earlier.

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He desires.

He desires her.

He desires her absence.

They won’t dance if you won’t.

“This ambulance sucks at off-roading.”