A Rainy City, and a Sad Man Muses

This is based off the same narrator from A Lament for the Slums, and Rats. Pretty much, this story focuses more on his thoughts on his surroundings and how he view them both ethically and philosophically. First story, detailed an outward progression of events. The second, explored coping mechanisms...this one, I hope to show his feelings. I mean to make it a bit more conversational...even if it is with himself.

**NOTE: This is not based on a real place...it's just the city of nightmares. For instance, you'll notice thunderstorms in the cold and such.

Again, I tried to simplify it...I don't want to alienate people


A Rainy City, and a Sad Man Muses



Jesus Christ. You'd think that the sirens would quit yapping in the dead of night. Or maybe, the 5.0 would finally tire of writing body lines in chalk upon the concrete. To be honest, I can't remember a day where the sounds of gunfire echoed the streets and the decrepit denizens didn't duck for cover. Personally, I didn't give a shit. If a stray bullet had my name on it, if my number was up... I'd be no more than another cadaver that lined the streets. Personally, if the pigs stepped up their game, there'd be far less bullshit to deal with around here. The riff-raff that littered the corners and alleyways were always looking for trouble; I'm sure the pigs would love that. Who wouldn't pass up the chance to see some young gang banger or crackhead's brain matter all over the masonry. I sure would.

My own internal thoughts were interrupted by a distant rumbling that signified a coming thunderstorm.. It was raining again.. I guess in a city of tears, all God can do is cry. But I never really cared for any of that philosophical shit. My hands fumbled about in my pockets, as they do desperately everyday. I thumbed over a cold metal casing and made the check that indeed, it was my lighter. "Great.." With my right hand, I found a coveted cigarette butt, and pulled it from the lint infused pocket lining, to my lips. A rather visible crease ran through the paper casing, and it twisted a bit; the entire damn thing seemed to ben bent nearly in half. But, if it smokes, it smokes. My finger flicked on the lighter... a spark. Again, my thumb flicked the gear to no more than a exhausted click. Just my luck..

With an angry flourish, that most likely marked me with as an infantile lunatic to passers by, I tossed the cigarette to the ground and stomped it. "Fuckin' piece of..." You sure learn to count your blessings in a place like this. Most of the time, you can be thankful for not catching a bullet to the chest...or being beaten to death in a back alley for twenty bucks. This was my blessing. One last cigarette, and God didn't even have the shred of decency to grant me a single spark to light it. So now, as my foot moved from the remains of the cigarette, shreds of tobacco clung to the soles of my tattered boot. It kinda reminded me of the bums, so strung out that they begged the pigs to arrest them just for a hot meal... that's to say they weren't too busy fucking each other to beg. But who am I to judge, everyone has to have some pleasure in the monotony of life.

My shoulders were stiff, and the rain had begun to cascade from sorrowful clouds with such an superfluity, it made my clothing more cumbersome. "Agh, just quit yer bitchin' already.." Of course, my odd curse at the heavens threatened to drown me. Giving up, I shrouded myself with a stained hood and ran down the side winding streets, even more drab among the orange hue of street lamps. At least the derelicts rarely drifted outward in the storms. It seemed to have a purifying effect on the slums...a kind of holy water against hookers, pimps, an dope fiends.

Click! One lock, then the padlock...and then a creak as the doorway opened before the tenement I called home opened. I thumbed about in the darkness, illuminated temporarily by a streak of lightning that danced about the window panes, to find the light switch. It wasn't much help. The light was a dim vomit color that flickered and buzzed, as if a thousand moths had crawled into the crevices to writhe in coffins before they died. Probably did, too. I can feel sorry for them, they'd be about as stuck as me. The water that dripped from the coat pattered against the floor in a slow hum drum before the incessant irritation caused me to simply drop the cloak to the linoleum floor with a damp thud. Admittedly, the burnished wet mass hid the cracks and stains on the tiling quite well.

Even as I dropped the last of the encumbrance from my body, the effects of the dampness still bore into my bones. The cold made everything stiff...almost as if rigor had set in. A roach scattered helplessly beneath the cabinets as the kitchen lighting flickered to life. I couldn't bring myself to stomp the life out of the poor thing...all it wants is a chance too. But like me, so long as it was here, it had a better chance against a can of Raid. Am I a cockroach, only fit to scrape by until inevitably being crushed underfoot?

The refrigerator was stained in the color of yellowing teeth and smelled much like rotten cheese. It had been here since before I got here, and it'd probably sit and continue to rot when I was gone. Looking into the icebox, was like staring into the void of space itself. If it weren't for a scrap of mold clinging to the plastic, it truly would be vacant. The frigid air and acrid smell had become almost unbearable, so I allowed the door to drop from my hands.

Sleep didn't find me tonight. Normally, the gentle rumble of thunder and the gently rolling thrumming against the windows lulled me to slumber. Odd. "All God can do is cry..." I wonder if he looked down upon his creations with pity or scorn. But, if we were made in its image, I am sure God is most likely in a corner somewhere, flat lining with a rusted needle stuck between his toes. A spring caught me between the ribs as I tossed to watch the water drip down the pains. Even the inane white noise produced by the monsoon outside failed to silence my thoughts and lull me to reprieve. Lying awake was a hell in of itself...but I can't help but be thankful, for whatever the fuck in was worth. In this world, one learns to count their blessings. Next time I get a chance, I'll count the rain as one of them. But to be realistic, I'd trade that damned water for a long drag from a cigarette anyway, at least that way I may be able to sleep a little better.

Flowers by a Bedside

I know it's a little...simple. But it popped into my head and I had to write it down.

Flowers by a Bedside

There's flowers by the table side.
the petals had long wilted,
their lingering aroma dissipating in stagnant air,
leaving only tough skeletons.

Now only the waning Sun,
cast the embers of life back on the blooms.
So slowly they drifted from the table,
to lay upon the cold linoleum.

And as the clouds rolled on the horizon,
the world still spun on axis.
The blooms had hidden from sight,
to shroud themselves.

They were once a single entity,
now they lay scattered,
too old to find one another
too brittle to revere hope.

The light flickered away,
and they silently slumber
in the coffin of fragility.
Never seen, but abandoned forever.

But morning went and came again.
They were gathered and left neatly in a bowl,
to watch the machinations of the world around.
Hoping for eyes to open, that never will.

...of Troy

This should simply be obvious..

It's another storypoemthing.

...of Troy


The air is of a sweltering stink.
Everything you've done is for naught.
Heedless voices called to arms stubbornly
sullying something that was beautiful.
Will you beg for it to fade away?
The shouts of dying hearts echo through your ears,
uninhibited by your desperate pleas.
Worlds tear from their axes at the mention of you name,
and onlookers stare in contemptuous envy.
Rest your weary eyes in dreamless sleep,
and hope the sea will drown your tears in salt.
At evenfall, time sits still in memoriam.
Yours is the face that launched one million ships,
far off in the distance,
can you see their banners raised?
Or is the haze of obsession,
binding blinded eyes with impossible dreams of utopia?
Don't you see the faces of the dead?
Or are their screams muffled by the indulgences of fancy?
For years they could storm,
hoping to see your walls as ashes upon the ground,
can't you see they fight to take you?
Drunk on glamour,
would you believe even gifts can be dressed lies,
and sharpened by vengeance,
for the greatest of treacheries,
is the one gifted in the form of peace.

Nos es totus par

Yooo....postedy post..


Nos es Totus par

In death we lie equal,
separated only by cracking head stones,
but coiled together,
in the light of our twisted souls.

Crushed by enclosing walls,
of life's crumbling palace-
left outside its lofty stones,
to feel oblivion's embrace.

The spectral digits,
fondle a fractured soul,
that holds desperately to titles,
hoping gold can buy just one more second.

But the casket is closing,
and gems can't barter freedom,
from the commitment of mortality...
all remains is what never will again.

Darkness falls,
laying an indiscriminate veil
over they eyes of the poor
and kings alike.

The shadows embed
their claws in pasty skin,
dragging away meager possessions,
casting them into the roil.

The curtain calls to rise,
that all will kneel,
relieved from encumbered servitude,
set free.

Two entities once separated,
can be defined together,
by ashes to ashes,
dust into dust.

From the Earthen Embrace

I thought and thought some more on this guy...
AN ADDENDUM. IF YOU SEE RANDOM TYPOS LIKE HERE, WHEN IT IS CLEARLY HEAR...IT IS INTENTIONAL. SOME THINGS ARE THERE ON PURPOSE. WHEN IT COMES TOO STORIES, I'M PROBABLY TOO LAZY TO CORRECT THEM.

From the Earthen Embrace

From the Earthen embrace,
their spirits now soar,
far above the shackling surface
of pain, suffering, and bleak possibility.

The cruelest angels ripped away,
suckling babes from mothers' arms,
even when their love refused to bow-
against the void of death.

Silence can breed darkness and cold,
feeding on the misconceptions of fear.
Who would dare hide warm tales of yore,
with the last promises of Sunlight.

Do you wish for others to suffer?
Why is it you scream their names?
DO you wish to call them back to pain,
or will you simply forget them if you didn't.

Blaming oneself,
is the mark of desperation,
hoping to find answers in pale wanting,
was it truly too soon?

From the Earthen embrace,
they now roam free -
night is no longer haunting
and despair can no longer intoxicate.

Never could promises slake,
the thirst and reverence of their names...
you can swear to hear a wistful voice
on the empty breeze.

From the Earthen embrace,
life was cut from the loam,
and the pain of loss,
won't let a spirit garner peace.

But no matter the scorn and cries,
or the screams that echoed the skies-
nothing can bring them back,
even if the Earth could reach to Heaven.

Grains of Sand

I love this poem...don't ask why. HAH.

Grains of Sand

Pray all the sanctity
of the abode remain hollowed
as you lay into darkened slumber.

The shadows that lurk among the tapestry,
are dancing and snickering,
silent jests at your horrible delusion.

Damn and forsake!
Words that creep into your thoughts,
ironic confessions of the macabre,
If you abhorred your intentions,
would phantasms feel that insecurity?

Grains of sand,
spin mockingly in an hourglass,
unscathed by time's skeletal caress.
Sleep well in your obsessions,
thine eyes need not see the truth

Fleeing from nothing,
the shades drink in the light,
and you breathe out abysmal silence,
internal shivers of an old man.
Fear slithering up your spine,
is the death throes of the old.

You're sealed within a dark cist,
and laid to rest in ashen robes.
Cries for mercy fall on deaf ears,
as slumber hushes the warmth from your breath.

Grains of Sand,
dusted on the eyes of the weary,
ushering a mind onward to peaceful rest-
enthralled and encompassed by desperate ravings,
that all things can be eternal.

Condescending Eden

This would be an old poem I have decided to edit a bit... for the most part, it is the same. I had a lot of influence from religion, clearly.


Condescending Eden

We are the rekoners,
the heralds of misinformation;
leading your souls astray,
an exodus of souls.
We can stumble from golden gates into the pit.

Entranced within the eyes of a serpent,
we're condescending Eden,
expending the knowledge once coveted,
hoping ignorance can wash away memory.

Your father's forsaken,
are smitten by the snake's bite-
drawn into that virulence,
like wounds swollen with poison.

The patriarch witnesses,
our subtle betrayals.
Your lusts and avarice,
follow you from the shades of light.