The itch evolves into a scream.
The following silence strikes
to the rhythm of your fast beating heart.
The echoes reverberate through your dream,
hopes laying in neat little rows,
exhausted dreams dismembered.
I wake and choke on the residue
of the half emptied, half remembered
remains fading into the dawn.
T: “If equal loving cannot be, let the more loving be me.”
J: “The person that loves the less is always in control.”
T: “Agreed.”
J: “But if I’m gonna love someone I’m gonna love them with all of my heart! I think that’s the way it should be!”
T: “You big softy! Yes, madly… wholly… absolutely.”
Me: “The one who loves more risks more, but they also experience so much more. Even if I didn’t want to be, that’s the kind of person I am.
T: “I feel the same way.”
Stagnant.
I wait for the universe to unfurl for me and
nothing,
blood curdling, sitting, watching
trying to see the moment,
but it’s gone.
Seizing pretty sayings,
trying to remember what or why
so I can make it come back to a
‘if I knew what I knew’,
but I’m only hurdled forward.
I know I was forewarned,
but I still thought that mortality meant
I could do it tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow is never today,
is always a blank page,
a clutched fist,
an active mind,
unsure how to hurl itself onto the page
and make something worth making.
Take heart while you
take your bliss.
Write fiction as if you
don’t live it.
Live it.
If you’d said what you needed to say,
then your mind would be clear cut like
a lack of final forest for the
first funeral.
Broken blood vessels in faded hearts
forgotten lie among the memories made
rotten.
If I’d gotten any closer, I’d fall away.
If I’d made a move to stay,
the first would have faded to gray,
gotten laid to rest with the
past and rest.
If I’d held on tighter,
the day would cease getting righter and the
self would be lost to sea.
I see loss every time something is gained.
Something is taken from a.
The pain pauses with pleasure,
sides with whether or not that time
will be forgot or live as a legend
in someone’s eyes, through memories lie.
Life does not.
I’m glad these days I have not forgot
that life is for living.
My original thought was that I needed to come up with something in honor of Gary Gygax now that he has passed on to that campaign setting in the sky. This may still happen after I’ve finally come to accept its truth. Until then, I’ve made some startling discovery at what our friends the British apparently eat.
As a disclaimer, yeah, McDonalds is from over here and it’s gross. I’m sure there are other nasty things that make it out of our borders that I don’t eat, like Jello. As far as I’m concerned, none of it comes even remotely close to what I have discovered…
1. Spotted Dick: This is one I’d actually heard of. What I didn’t know is that it comes in a can. Also horrifying is that on this can it says you can microwave it. DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME, because last I checked metal cans and microwaves don’t mix. I knew this, but didn’t know the extent of it until my little sister blew up the microwave trying to make Jello one day.
I have not tried spotted dick, but one of my friends has (see photographic evidence). Let’s see what she has to say on the matter:
“It’s as good as can be expected considering it’s cake from a can cooked in boiled water…”
I think that’s as good a review as we’re going to get.
2. Mr. Brain’s 4 Pork Faggots in a Rich West Country Sauce: I barely know where to begin. I am trying to figure out what about this meal is a faggot. I am searching my definitions… homosexual man? No. Bundle of sticks? Nope. Measuring those bundles of sticks? No again. Cigarette? Uh-uh. All right… I’m just going to have to assume that one of these weird meatballs is also known as a faggot.
My next question is what is so west about this sauce. The spotted dick friend tells me: “…the West Country (where my Brit ancestors originally hailed from) is a region of England.” This is good to know, but it tells me little about the sauce. Another friend who tried the ‘faggots’ recalled the experience like a horror story. She had this to say on the matter:
“I shudder to remember. This was back when I was eating meat, but no amount of creepy processed fast-food spaaaaaaaaaace meat could have prepared me for this. Pork faggots are basically these meat balls made not out of what we would typically define as “meat”, but instead is ground up pig’s liver and possibly some other organs covered in some disgusting gravy. Ugggh!”
So far, spotted dick in a can is better than microwavable Mr. Brain’s pork faggots.
3. Toad In The Hole: So… you put sausages in “Yorkshire pudding” batter and bake ’em. Now I’m out of willing candidates to try these things, but my spotted dick friend did have this to say:
“Oh, SHIT, Toad in the Hole? That looks terrible. TERRIBLE.”
Brits need to stop taking their sausages and putting them in everything! …
…!
…we’ve already mentioned spotted dick, so I’m sure that couldn’t have sounded much worse.
Also on the subject of Brits and sausage…
4. Black Pudding: It’s sausage made with congealed blood. Brits like sausage apparently, and need variations.
5. Brawn apparently is a sausage form of head cheese. This has nothing to do with cheese, but everything to do with a head of a calf, pig, or sheep. It also can contain meat from the feet or heart. It’s even eaten cold. At least then we won’t smell it if someone reheats it. Thank heavens for small favors. I am not posting a picture as I’m afraid to try and find one.
Alright. This is about as much on the subject I can look into right now. If any Brits are out there reading this, we could use some insight into your cuisine. I for one, don’t get it. This is coming from someone who loves sushi, so I’m thinking the average American would be even more lost.
I guess my biggest questions are, do you actually eat this stuff, eat it often, and like it? …or is this just food propaganda that makes it across the borders to frighten us? I mean, there’s fish and chips, and that’s great.
Inquiring minds in the U.S. want to know!