SOME SELECTED PROSE
I miss when men used to go to war
I miss when men used to go to war.
I miss when men used to commit cruelty to their brothers.
I miss when men used to have a fire of anger in their eyes as they ripped apart and were ripped apart.
I miss when men would place their palms on the two sides of a head, wrapping their fingers over the forehead and ripping a skull in two, silencing the scream and exposing the tender jelly which is the center of all human experience.
South Thailanders
BEHOLD, THE TUMULTUOUS YET TEPID TALE OF THE SOUTH THAILANDERS
Hills of Ajlun
Stare
Her harsh, unrelenting stare pains me. Her eyes fixedly peer through my own, ignoring my dark irides, which, unheard, plead with her to have mercy. With cold determination, they delve past the milky whites and reach into my soul. Not with the reach of gentle hands, which caress with warmth and concern for what lies within, but with a frigid probing which coldly analyzes, uncaring, as a prison warden tears apart a prisoner’s cell. Her eyes are cold, the vast pools which once warmed my soul with their caring looks are now frozen over, desolate, hard, barren of any love or compassion. At one time I could lose myself in her loving gaze, bright ponds which pulsated slightly with a passionate sentiment of endearment. But now she stares at me blankly, unmoved.
Chorus
In this moment can be heard the lamentations of the orphaned. The incessant wailing of the meek, destitute widows who, against their will, demand pity in their cries. The final shrieks of the countless poor souls, taken up from this world in an infinite number of horrific catastrophes of misery, their calls echoed and multiplied, each one followed by a thousand others in their wake. The explosions, as large drums, form a rhythm of growing tempo, with each blast launching the plenary limbs of the unfortunate into the air, fountains of flesh rising from the densely packed ensemble. These sounds converge and form the growing symphony of suffering.
A Moment of Romance
The feminine to be desired and the masculine who desires.
Her effortless guile and grace, gathering the glances of those around her. She glides across the ground, her gown flowing with each gentle gust of wind. Her focus is unbothered. Her green eyes, large and bright like two fine emeralds, float across the horizon, taking in the beauty of the sky and clouds. Her beautiful face, with a refined, genteel countenance, softly turns atop her slender neck towards nothing in particular.
Evening
Concept II
“He swung his legendary claymore, Grendethal, around his head, causing the swarm of orcs that had gathered around him to leap back. By now word of his heroic feats of strength and virtue had spread across the land, and the mythic power of the blade of Grendethal was known by all. With a powerful lunge, he swung his blade in a great sweeping motion and took the head of the orc captain, Urgthon, our hero’s powerful chest striating as he pulls the blade through his enemy’s thick green neck. The orcish army was shaken, fearing righteous retribution from the muscular, rugged hands of our hero, Huraclion.
Concept I
I circled the neighborhood several times as it neared evening, watching the bestial masses gathering onto the street, each endeavoring to find some way to find their nut. While deeply disgusted, I was nevertheless intrigued. I envied them. Nothing bothered them, nothing occupied their mind, nothing except their next meal, next sleep, and next fuck. No self consciousness, as that requires a level of self awareness not yet achieved by this crowd. Purely bestial, entirely unchained, entirely wild.
Prayer of the Meek
“Oh Father who art in Heaven, our most gracious and wondrous Lord,
we beseech thee to undertake the destruction of our foes,
and may our foes find themselves worthy of thy wrath.
Smite them oh Lord, and may they by thy hands be smitten,
and may they, having been the subject of thy smiting, be reduced to ash.
And, oh Lord, we beseech thee, that accompanying thy smiting of our foes,
Lightning
Foreboding clouds gather above me
As I stand tall in youth and envious vanity
Coveting the power of God, spiteful of destiny, unbounded ability
Suddenly, struck down, smitten by divine fists on the shoulders
Blows of God’s wrath rain upon me, the scolding chastisement of Nemesis
Turned away from Faustian destiny
The truth revealed:
Lie, outstretched and prostrated to fate.