weirdo writes things

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.

Innocent Lives There are little winged friends Napping on leaves and branches That barely hold their weight. They're safe here in the sun, Only needing to worry about each other. Occasionally one will flutter or stretch, Creating a breeze that calms their grounded roommates. These little critters that play in the dirt Are each one of a kind, Yet we all just treat them as one When they scutter out of our sight. But here, they don't mind. The only enemies here are ones they're used to. When their brothers and sisters fall, They fall with mutual respect, Predator and prey recognizing They're not guilty for trying to live. One of them decides to cool off at the pond At which they find a friendly local Who is peacefully drifting atop the water. They each wave with one of six fibery arms, and talk through gesticulating antennae. They are all just bugs, Inside a little jar!

Here(to hear) Your Voice Maiooerds Hovel ohst zerf ourm. Mipen niskon, andum eye fois’s too. Fomskur eemig, Orkaryig, Orumeyp eeyeim chos laihing Tumusolf Soae Tondaf Talurn. Jueshud teykumay lotspreth Soheimalud tafine lieres. Nnthures tie inch rustooyu. Lehtimihiry or voise Inabusens ofmai in Antelmie yulchesfi Nishet formy. Aymtierud.  

Sitting Inside a Shipping Container Sitting inside a shipping container I put a traffic cone on my head Because no one else is here It smells like rubber which reminds me of pigs Their lovely hide feeling or smelling nothing like The rubber of the cone but I think about them nonetheless Though I suppose the factories They are burned at Probably smell like rubber I oink like a pig Because no one else is here And all the pigs are gone I saved them from this shipping container

We Only See From the Inside A red sky is the color of terror: Clouds of evaporated blood, The horizon of an exploded sun; Nothing's more scary than the sky. But the child's eyes see different: A blue velvet; a curtain for the stars. It's the slowest color. Unending, outstretching. The child's blanket hugs the whole globe, Eclipsing fire and rays. The old eyes cry: “Son you’ll see someday, That you’re lucky to be a child. You’re ignorantly undeveloped And you’ll find it’s a gift when it’s gone.” And so the child would find, Later in life, the globe the eyes spoke of. Just as they said, the blueness was gone. But one day, a child from the woods Crested a hill to see a city, A city of old eyes, a dome of red sky And took pity. Her life away from the world Never darkened with the onset of years. She proved the old eyes wrong. That it’s fear that we fear.