Slipstream

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Life in the Alley

Within silent streets
And deserted dark allies,
Lies the empty hearts
Of the degenerate streets
Seeking consumption of life.

-Hunter Coch

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Creative Chaos

Darkness in the heart
Of matter’s dancing dream-scape.
Infinity falls,
To the beat of disaster.

Creativity rages.


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No Way

In search for the road,
Seeking a destination.
Lost in wilderness,
A state of desolation.
In the forest of be-ing.

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Its Eyes Looked Beyond

Forest of twilight,

With trees thick, the path’s overgrown

To the hidden grove.

 

What light shines through the canopy leaves comes only in small rays that highlight the vibrant hues and make shine the tiny particles trapped within its beam. Small beasts scurry unseen in the dense foliage. Dead leaves crackle underfoot.

 

Vines crawl its stone face

Through lycan and moss of greens,

This ancient form stands.

 

The air is thick and heavy. Shadows move in unnatural ways and it feels like insects are following. The knowledge of time is gone. We walk the way disoriented, searching for the ancient rumor as the birds call from above.

 

The ancient idol

From beyond man’s memory

Waits for those who come.

 

What will we find? What lies at the end of our paths? What people would come to this hellish place to build in such a hostile environment? Do we seek a sacred grove of ancient wonders? What will we learn of this ancient people?

 

Into the distance,

It sees in shade and shadow,

It knows who’s coming.

 

The past is gone, the way is lost. We know neither direction nor distance. But we hear a call from afar, the distance song that sings to our dreams. We see a light in our mind’s eye. I fear, but we must move forward.

 

Light through broken leaves

Shines light on forgotten stone.

The way is open.

 

We stand up on a hilltop clear but for tall grass and a single stone idol, large and imposing. The sky is a light was fire; as the sun descends the stars flicker into existence. Filled with excitement, anticipation, and fear, he approached unwillingly.

 

Eyes of stone look deep,

From a time beyond knowledge

And civilized man.

 

My friends are gone. Hope is gone. We came in search of lost civilizations. We came to understand our own past. But this was not of human hands. I now know what lies within stone. I am gone.

 

Alone in the woods,

Stands an ancient stone idol,

Its eyes look beyond.

 


Beware

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A heart of darkness
Is born from ten thousand tears.
The void eternal
Holds eternal compassion.

A heart white with light
Is born from ten thousand tears.
The light eternal
Scorching, turning all to ash.

Beware what is preconceived.


Visual Poetry: West

Part of the visual poetry and the Drifter series

Part of visual poetry and the Drifter series


Visual Poetry: Shadow on the Hill

Part of the visual poetry series

Part of the visual poetry series


The Way, A collection of 25 Haiku

The Way

1.

A river moves through

Stone and clay, weaving a path;

Its tenderness cuts.

2.

A tender flower,

Small, petite, living in stone.

The petals flutter.

3.

Old flame marks the trail,

Stone formations block my path,

I continue on.

4.

A nymphs’ paradise,

She dances on damp green grass,

A seductive grin.

5.

Suns’ ray touches dew,

Shows the magic of fungus

Growing on dead tree.

6.

She moves wickedly,

Between the shadows and light,

Touching her damp flesh.

7.

Ach! A thread of web,

It tickles the face with fear,

But no spider comes.

8.

Armadas of ants,

Cleaning the forest of death,

Thrice they block my path.

9.

From valley to hill,

Shaded path to sunny sky,

The way moves forward.

10.

High upon hilltop,

The heat grows, no shade to help,

Resting on dry dirt.

11.

Handsome nymph returns,

Covered in matted orange dust,

Dancing wildly.

12.

Rejuvenated,

White and gray clouds shatter light

Calming beating heart.

13.

Single flower sits,

Of peach and red apple hues,

A butterfly sips.

14.

Returning below,

Valley of oaks and willows,

A rippling creek.

15.

Sophia slithers,

Long and black with yellow stripes.

She crosses my path.

16.

Young bluejay perches,

His eyes follow as I walk,

Harsh and high chirps sound.

17.

Old oak of wisdom,

Standing tall on the journey,

Gnarled branches reach.

18.

Rippling creek stops,

Still pool sits by sacred grove,

Oaks and willows thrive.

19.

On a single stone,

She lies in a ray of light,

Dressed in natures way.

20.

Bug sits, a fish feeds

Small birds call, leaf falls then floats,

Trees speak in the breeze.

21.

Sitting on a stone

By a clear pool of water,

Seeing the magic.

22.

Cool wind as dusk nears,

And the trees shiver with life,

Anticipation.

23.

At the point of dusk,

From water a nymph rises,

Kissing naked lips.

24.

Lips pressed, desire.

Lips pulled into pond of glass,

Lips filled with rapture.

25.

Into cool wet void,

Falling into dark decay,

To sleep forever.

All haiku are numbered for future convenience. Some or all of these may end up as visual poetry.


#NaNoWriMo, I Failed yet I still Win

Well I didn’t make it to 50,000 words my the end of November, so I failed at #NaNoWriMo this year. However it’s not a complete loss. The reasons for my failure were:

1. I got distracted by life. Seriously, who decided national novel-writing month would be November? Though that’s just me making excuses. I realize that #NaNoWriMo is a world event and should not be hindered by American holidays. I can still bitch though.

2. This is the biggie. My novel actually concluded itself at around 40,000 words. The natural progression of the words I had written led to an early ending.

Now, this does not mean I will abandon the novel. I believe a lot that was written has potential and the story entertains me. So I will continue to work at it and I’m glad to say progress is being made; currently I’m working on the second draft using yWriter5. I hope to have a finished product by the end of January.

I plan to post a plot and cultural synopsis soon, but for now I will tell you that it’s a sci-fi coming of age story that borders on the slipstream genre with many fantasy elements throughout.

Cheers
-Hunter


Serial: The Lotus and the Rose, Chapter 5

Lotus and the Rose
Chapter 5, Purity and the Snake

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

The day begins with internal silence. This morning I’m animated, feeling healthy. My mind is a jumble, and usually this is quite normal; this dawn is no different. The voice isn’t there, no whispers, no screams, only me and the happy silence ling in bed with my love. I hurt, but its that good pain.

Waking up ( . . . please no).

Eyes open, no longer in sleep. A spiders web directly above, no arachnid, no proprietor attached, clinging to no walls, a strand of silk floating in the still air a specter haunting or a ghostly snake slithering across the still air, stalking the innocent mouse; perhaps a trail of smoke from sacred frankincense. Yes, a snake; its tail lost somewhere in its sentience. Life seemed to eminate from the shifty creature as it levitates into a sly dance on the slight draft of my open door; teasing and intoxicating, lingering and laughing, seducing the space around my being and trying to weave its way into my thoughts (no). Again it tries, phasing in and out of my reality, folding the space it occupies. Continue: In my head and out again (no). Again it tries, hissing and screaming, pleading for this young mind to accept it in (no). “Please no,” then stop; silence, and a seeping pain in my being.

“No . . .” The voice returns like the silent sound of an echo escaped from the origin. Th echo falling back to the ether until silence was, once again.

A sad disappointment emanates as the snake levitates into the darkest corner of my room. It disappears into a shadowy corner (vortex). A light flashes. Confusion.

I get up.

Naked.

Her face and body buried in pillow and blanket; still asleep in deep dreams, bare back dry to the touch and smooth, it rises and lowers; her breath in harmony with her heart, her heart in sequence to the clock. The clock seas sin . . . no six in the morning, by mind seas high noon; my corps has had its time to be rested. The clock is correct.

Stepping outside I saw no sun. A thick fog sheets the streets. Awesome is the fresh, brisk air; the river scent still hangs.

The fog lingered and waited and watched.

Shivers shook my spine. The damp cold touched my skin. Dim light shone in a glow through the ground layer clouds. I stood still feeling the uncontrolled rattle of my body; stop, stretch; my back, shoulders, and a few joints popped to my pleasure.

Back inside. kind-of dark; no lights were on and the blinds are shut. Apples and oranges and bananas all rotted in a basket on the partition. The neighbor baby is crying, odd; they have no baby. Mrs. Black, nice old lady; she always makes lemon pie and usually shares. That’s where the sound was coming from. Probably just a grand child.

I need a shower.

A diamond back rattler shedding it’s skin, a mammal in spring loosing its winter coat, as I am naked, exposed; not for sex but to cleanse.

The knobs are cold; the sound of the artificial rain, water falling, skin preparing for the for the wonderful feeling of searing , stimulating pain.

Stepping into the stream of water, almost burns the skin; just the way I like it. Ten thousand beads lash my skin and flow down the invisible fissures of my back, wetting me. The liquid deluge pours over me, breaking off impurities, rinsing away the stench of last nights ecstasy. Steam blankets bathroom as the rolling fog outside, everything is blurred, my mind id a cloud [small stumbles and quick steps] . . . vertigo.

Awake.

Washing with soap. The bottle squeezed, ectoplasm essence lathers my body. Soft movements of slithering liquid, traveling droplets at war with the filth. I am becoming; clean. Sharp pain from the wounds. One weary traveler snakes his way down; a forest it finds, deep and thick; the traveler dispersed, never to be seen again.

Dried blood is being removed my wounds sterilized. The rushing water removes the soap. My hare is wet [hands run through then fall to the side, face looking down to the tiles]. Water, milky and pink, it coils, falling and dragged to the dark vortex.

Standing motionless, five minuets pass.

The heat is poison passing through the heart, weakening; the cold is an antibody that returns vitality.

Move [head lifts].

Water still pouring, then the temperature alters. I turn the shower off. Knobs hot. I feel faint.

“You still in there” She asks.

I remove my-self and dry. “Yea, be out in a sec”.

Towel wrapped around my waist, I open the door. “Love?” My hand on her hip, pulling her close for a kiss, “no hot water”.
“Thanks”, she replies. Sarcasm? “I like cold showers”, without deceit. A smile on her lips, her hand to my cheek, peck on the lips, removed then into the bathroom; door shuts behind along with her contact except for a touch of spirit left by her kiss and a shot of energy from her to me. I stand for a minuet with my back to the door, probably less.

I smile.

I move to the kitchen.

I cook breakfast.