weirdo writes things

Dream House as Perpetuity in Physical Linguistics 3 May, 2025             Carmen Maria Machado’s memoir titled In the Dream House is without a doubt a masterpiece in experimentation of form. Spanning 144 mini-chapters, the memoir illustrates the author’s unsung story of domestic abuse within a queer relationship. One of the questions at the heart of the memoir is the very same many folks ask victims of abuse: “why did you not leave sooner?”. Machado’s story reveals the cyclical nature of abuse that perpetuates it into an all-encompassing, time-spanning experience. Additionally, the book seeks to bring awareness to the invisibility of queer domestic abuse (and emotional abuse at large) by bringing the reader into the story and universalizing it. How Machado manages to accomplish these goals is—whether intentionally or not—partly due to her manipulation of Einstein’s theory of special relativity alongside Saussurean linguistics. ...

 

Personal Business ,Oh, ,how, ,I, ,Writhe, ,in, ,your, ,road, ,of, ,Anger, ,your, ,road, ,of, ,..., ,shrinking, ,pupils, ,shaking, ,liquid, ,salt, ,falling, ,from, ,Eyes, ,reflected, ,in, ,yours, ,it, ,tastes, ,good; ,gold,-,laced, ,silk, ,ties, ,my, ,thumbs, ,to, ,my, ,back, ,and, ,my, ,feet, ,to, ,the, ,road, ,too, ,precious-to-break, ,well, ,if, ,you, ,don’t,                               ,stop, ,this, ,car, ,it, ,will, ,hit, ,m .

Sometimes, My Hands Are Paralyzed My brain sees no use for useless things. Sometimes, my hands are paralyzed While I write.     Too afraid to type that sententiam     Lost in agreement with capite adhaerente For, my condition originates there.     Someone pulled the plug.     You-.. We pulled it out. Sometimes, my hands are paralyzed (adverb)          ...                (passive verb)     So who's the real subject?

The Night I Died / The Night I Came Back I never witnessed the blade pierce my skin Until I pulled it out that night. Shakespeare only wrote of the stab, But never the release. I'll ask him, someday.     I'll ask if he ever pulled the blade     And released it of heart. It's the blood that hurts best.     The scar it left in my chest may never even fade. I checked the night I came back. Still there. The day I came back it looked different;     Titanium white is being poorly distributed on the blank canvas. In the world of this poem, I undid that coat. It didn't work, anyway. The new hands that pulled on the rope of resurrection Should see my wound, too. Let the new eyes blend into mine And see our mirror with all its cracks. Good evening.

A buried friend's chuckle My hair was cut today. The clumps had fallen like your fur. I feel your whimpers now.

Shield The Skies Exponential Wind Blows leaves and twigs down the mountain  iF iT haD thoughtS  woulD thE winD bE A swarM  oF beeS, nO differencE tweeN  needleS oF pinE anD brancheS oF honeY-sloweD saP ; thE naturaL worlD, kniveS ouT  oF carapacE, resortinG tO thE daggeR iN thE bacK : thE onE motheR knowS wilL destroY herselF The Trees Are Gone, Now A Princess of Needles Makes her first mistake Defending her secret self From the mountaineers in search of Every Beautiful Foot Of Elevation.  exponentiaL windS  cuT aT theiR fingerS,  holloW theiR eyeS , theiR deeP, endlesS eyeS  fulL oF lovE sO curiouS And The Mountain, The Ever-Royal Mountain falls asleep alone once more

The Verbal Riposte: A Personal Recounting of Words as Steel “Then just leave!” The shout echoed through my veins as my heart thumped at its place where I had been stabbed. A straight thrust from Alber, the Fool’s Guard. I had fallen for the exact trick the position was made for. Of course, with one second on the clock left and me a point or two down, I had forgotten. Alber is one of my favorite guards in longsword: it is an invitation to the opposition, a friendly gesture, if you will; yet it is physically such a position in which a strike could come out with unrelenting speed. The blade pointed towards the ground like a hand held out, but the wrists lay turned inward to propel the sword with strong biceps if the opponent should reach to shake. It’s sneaky, it’s clever, but it is not dirty. It suggests exactly what the opposition might do and gives time to plan and react. But lately, whenever I have failed to counter a thrust from Alber, or any sort of strike for that matter, I onl...

Mariana’s Reflection Far below the ocean, Where the waves don't reach, A ghoul listens in the dark; Its strange tendrils gloom across the rock bed. They glean with hearing hands a small speck in the cracks To be devoured by calm, cold lips: The ghoul's monthly meal. The ghostly participle of the depths drifts Ever onward. It will feed again when it should need. A solitary nature in an untold land, living in the blanket of silence, Where is it the fiend would find the sun's screams? Alien creature, monster of prehistory, Oh how you'd cry Of humanity's blood and glory.

deified ll be a poem with no start and no end: you could put it on a roll of receipt paper, hook it up on a paint roller, shoot it off of a leaf blower to watch it truly unravel to revel in the seat of multiplicative infinity that arrives in a reread of the words that wi

Sociosunshine People without faces, They walk under the white light, The white sun melting out the contours. Spill it away, viscous liquid of dark, To shine on every Person with a melted face And shine their light away. Countless carcass Filled with black hole soul Walks along the streets Under the white sun, Ignorant to their dripping wax. They don't need to know. The white light of observation From the eyes of the metrically holy Needs no faces in its never-ending races To scramble on top of the bodies, its bodies of dozen As if they themselves are not among the flesh. They are the white sun and have to light it first Lest their voices fall from Babel And lie with the bodies strewn upon the gravel.

Stuck in your tree I was trying to sneak you a gift Through your window. But I quickly realized my mistake, Looking back at the old limbs that carried me. How do squirrels make so graceful a show, Using lichen to wipe their barely sweat-covered paws? Yet I slipped and nearly lost my grip On the roughest bark around! I can hear their chits and chats as they laugh At me, the big squirrel, tangled like half-cooked spaghetti. I wish they would teach me. But I don’t think our hardware’s compatible. There are two in particular I am looking at; Sitting on the same spur, Their blanket tails entwined And I think I do learn something! But not about climbing trees. No, The next little scoot I took Sent me falling, falling, further falling. It wasn’t really that far. Heck, you must’ve been watching Since you came out running, Your soothing presence now looming above me. And I remember the lesson of the squirrels. I look up at your eyes as your light darkens the skies, Extend my hand to skim your f...

The following is some informal writing on my thoughts of literary criticism in response to a prompt given to a class at my college.  One of the things I have always myself been critical of in the literary world is that it exists in the first place. There has always been this divide between "literature" and just "entertaining writing". Almost all of these methods of criticism seem to me to be an attempt to categorize "objectively" good writing through how complicated a work is or what questions it raises. While I think these are good things to take into consideration, it feels to me like the world of writing has come to a halt in creativity and is now just focusing on the past. Obviously "classics" take time to get attention, but I do struggle to find many good examples of said classics or works that may become classics in the future in the modern day. Yet I have still consumed countless works of writing from this time period that have changed my ...

Burnt after the Bullet House and Mauled (Postmortem) Staring blankly at the plate, I and my trident cannot wait. We’re eating a genocide on every date. Therein my dentin crushers lies your fate, But to you I do not feel malice nor hate. I'm only staring blankly at the plate. But what if I lose my will to stay? There has to be another way. I mean We’re eating genocide every day! Oh God, this is delicious.. What was his weight? The pig probably couldn’t stand, and it’s nothing innate. In horror I stare blankly at the plate. We bred and tortured you in your cage, Yet have chemists and foodies to make this change. So really, Why are we still eating genocide, these days? Ignorance is bliss till you learn of its sins: Eating the world to pieces with blood-soaked grins. Gourmands of the universe. That’s us, isn’t it just human? I can’t just sit here, this meat on my plate! My own genocide just tastes of paint-tainted hate.

Do you people-watch, or do you watch people? When I observe the human race, And I think about where my eyes are passing, Passing people being more than just their matter, Their motives too, ones which I will never learn As I sit here, maybe on a bench old and rickety With a programmed colony of ants marching over My fingers which drum softly to the music The bustling busker-boys play down the way, Becoming an intricate spider-web in that They show no signs of consistency, Yet all having some little effect on each other Which you could see just by how they cross each other's paths By seeing who steps to the left and which foot steps right Or if they stumble, their heels scraping the ground To make that scratching sound you know has a pitch but is too atonal for you to tell      (maybe the busker-boys would be able to tell you,      but their saxophones are being packed      and they're on the phone anyway) As they nearly crash into each other ...

Goodbye to Forever Blood pouring down its face, The angel was outmatched Like a broken worm Whose regenerative heart had been Ripped in two. And worms won't eat the ones they made      As Sin the Heretic ripped it limb from limb,      Her lips curled into a smile of emancipation.      The shackles of doctrine’s conniptions      Have been gored. In the angel’s final breath its eyes pierce the heavens And it wonders if its god was ever really there.

The Gate stood before you. Containing sector 9, nay, keeping you out. You are the Creator, and nothing must disturb this hellscape. Down the endless vein of marble you can just make out the blank Eyes of God. The protector. It was all about protection. Until one day you stepped forth and said you wanted out. You wanted to see how the multiverse was organized, and it let you. Everything in perfection. Everything is imperfection. In your time walking the Veil of the Multiverse, the spark in your eye only grew brighter. For only those who can look outside the known can run on top of the known. The Gate was here to stop you from proceeding to sector 9, despite it being your homeland. You left, and there is no turning back. What you have seen you cannot unsee. The Earth is but a pipe dream. You made your choice when you left. And you don't regret it. The Painting Guild you led is not lost without you, but they would aid you were you to lead them. The would follow you across the Veil, to...

90 Feet Above the Valley A ropebridge will kill you. A mere four points Holding miles together. The hemp and wood Breathe with every step. You're supposed to breathe. You must breathe When you lift a heavyweight. Tightness causes tears. Torn apart, A bridge cannot help you Walk slowly, lest it fall. Do not worry, though; In fact, relax! The wind will walk you the way. Let your feet go with your thoughts And make yourself a view. A ropebridge will not kill you. Holding four firm points, A fleeting few miles are made For you.

Standing Atop and Before the Departure of Our Continent. "Together, my sister and I sat at the crest of the Rolling Cliffs of Kjalsvyln. Inside my Arkrex Nightingale boots, I used my toes to disable the boost-jump features. It was taxing on the body, and used a considerable amount of Rust coursing through my veins. My sister, Aeliea, was born lucky. Her Golden Rust recharges itself much quicker than my Iron. She hardly ever disabled any one bit of her armor. We've a grave duty to uphold. The riots of Kjal have been growing by the day. The anger at the King is driving the mist away, and letting the thieves and beasts in. With all bad comes greatness, and with all greatness comes despair. We are such thieves and beasts, Aeliea and I. But not a worthless pickpocket or hungry wolf. We seek to fuel their fires. To let them all in. When Kjal breaks, Svyl will lay waste. But that castle in the mist will not stand. With forces worn thin and the strength of two beasts, we siblings will...

The Science of Miracles Chromatic fibers of silk sail From her hands dancing away from her lips As the girl of the garden wishes a warm winter To the brave plants beneath her. She cannot see her blessing, Only hope that it works. Her eyes are closed, after-all. And she prefers it this way. If she could see her magic She may find it harder to imagine. In her cabin she rests By an electric fire. And her mother returns with two barrels for rain One contains this winter’s water, The other, a blob of washed clothes. Mum smiles a warm face heated By a roof capped in dirt and grass. In a morning of the new year, When cicle turns to leaf, We’ll run outside in warm wanton wilds once more. It’s the garden girl’s yearly wish.