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The Caged Lion of Wonderland/Lost, Lonely ShadowI followed the rabbit through the hole in the ground.
I lost myself there, in the place that I found.
How silly it is, to go looking for what is gone, only to loose what is there!
And I'm left here to wonder, "why did I follow that hare?"
I dined with the hatter, as mad as could be,
Driven to the ends and beyond what the mind can see.
But a truth he did tell, directed at me:
"The you that you are is not the self that will be."
His message imparted,
I bid him farewell and departed.
But the face of a cat stopped me before the night fell.
A cheshire smile of one who knows all, but might never tell.
In dusklight we stood, not saying a word, nor making a sound.
And as day turned to night, he faded away into the background.
One thing he did say,
As he faded away:
"My grin may be wide, but yours will be doubled,
Once you remove your mask of the troubled."
I knew what he meant, but I pushed it away,
The thought was all that kept the light at bay.
And as I recalled the light,
Gazing at the moon
The Wind is Blowing/ The Lion's WakeDream a dream of simple lies,
And weave a web of sly deceit.
Play your part, create your ties,
And pretend you can't be beat.
For in the end, your feeble flame,
Will be oust'd by the roaring wind.
Because the day will come the same,
When you shall pay for all you've sin'd.
Do what you will to best prepare,
Because the waking beast has started.
You can't deny, nor lie, that you're aware:
That you have stirred the Lion-hearted.
And so I stalk and hunt my prey,
I will tear him, like a wind-borne flurry.
The trickster Fox, both old and grey,
Prepare yourself for the Lion's fury!
Project "Ad Infinitum"An individual who shall remain anonymous recently asked me:
"What brought about the existence of the clones who are featured throughout your series?"
Read on, to learn the origins of the DUSC Replicas!
Our tale begins in another plane of existence entirely; in a world called Demoa. In its long history, Demoa has never been at rest from the savage nature of war. Countries rose and fell, sometimes in less than a decade, and the political systems were always in a state of upheaval. Of the multitudinous struggles, one group of people began to distinguish themselves from the rest: "Infusers."
With the ability to command the very elements of nature itself, these warriors quickly became the mainstay of military force. A country with more infusers to back its ranks could turn the tides of war in their favor, no matter the number of their enemy. But there was a problem: infusion was not a common occurrence, and those who knew its secrets often died before they could ever pass on their knowledge
What's InfusionA term I've been throwing around a lot is infusion. But what is it, exactly?
Infusion is the manifestation of one's mental psyche. Similar to chi, or auras, our mental psyche is an ever-present thing that leaves us only in death. Everything that lives is possessed of it. "Mental psyche" is our state-of-mind; our willpower and resolve, if you will. And just as chi and auras may be harnessed by those select few who are sensitive to it, so may one's mental psyche be employed. Among the many different planes of existence that span throughout space, infusion is possible in only a select few, making infusers (those able to harness their mental psyche) all the more rare.
When manifest, one's mental psyche takes on a form based upon an individual's "elemental bond." An elemental bond, as its name suggests, is a particular affinity an individual has for one of the many elements of nature. Someone who likes water, for instance, would probably have an elemental bond with water. This is not always
Secrets Revealed: Project DuskGENESIS ORGANIZATION:
Organization devoted to the scientific study of genetic copies and their uses. Contains many different sub-groups each dealing with different aspects of cloning, or other genetics-related material.
The DUSK CLONING GROUP:
A military division of the Genesis Org. dealing with the mass production of clones, their interactions within groups of "pure-breds" (normal people) and their aplications as potential combat operatives. Also, recently developed methods for producing half-bred semiclones, as well as made new advances on the theory of "gene splicing."
A small-scale cloning project that is being carried out by the Washington branch of the Dusk Group. DNA samples of three individuals were taken and cloned to create five clones of each individual and mark differences between behavior, as well as develop new methods of gene research.
Abnormality Factor XI:
One of the DNA samples used for the production of five clones was submitted by an individual who's a
"TH1RTE3N": Revised 1-4"One story. Three lives. This is
CH.1: Perspective Overview:
Jay heard it, the sound of rain pounding against the window. He turned his head away from his work and looked out of the window. He could see the gray of the sky, looking ominously dark; the clouds were thick; not a single ray of light penetrated them. He got up from his workbench and walked closer to the windowhoping to see a flooded stairway. Sure enough, the ground outside near the steps was soaked and about an inch of water flowing off of them. Its a good day, he said to himself, smirking.
Weekends when it rained were always the best for Jay. April rain during a weekend meant it was time for the annual camping trip. The same each year, after the first storm of April it was time to go camping. It was a curious ritual, but the beauty of a gray sky always enhanced the trip, that is why it had to be raining. Colors seemed more vivid, grass was like a comfortable pillow for the fee
eight ways you've made me small1. I wish
this was for you.
2. my journal pages - the
brown one with all our monologues -
were jarred with hollow vows of
last poems of
letting you slip into a coma
of bad memories, watching you
fall to your death off
a cascading cliff of disease
and dis ease.
it was never
easy for me
3. there's a reason I ask
whether you're grey
(dark white, elusively black, in between)
or blue (behind the clouds, under wave-foam,
whateverthefuck runs through the back of my
palms); I'd rather have
than the arms
that once held you half-
heartedly. you had always been
my harmony and I
would have killed
to have been yours.
4. it could never have been just me, the way
it could never have been just
5. disasters are not beautiful,
but how is it that you
managed to make my inner linings
converge into bows
and explode into wings the very
night you decided to rebuild your walls
to a lower height?
6. I wish
Change this lifeHiding in the shadows
Resisting in secrecy
Trying to find a way
To change this life of misery
The future is unknown
The past is to forget
The present is dull and boring
Is this what life has to offer?
I want to change
And I keep trying
Only to fail miserabily
Every single time
diaryi thinned recall,
strangled memory until she screamed black
or blue, strung her source of voice along
the willowed incline of vein to wrist and down
let the curl thirstily imply
just how cut it is to pain in numbers:
one scar for extravagant wine dates, three
for the number of times we fucked crying,
eight for forgotten promises of ever after
i heard a sordid song in your tallied matchstick
bones, victorian in beauty & proper repression
of the bloody details like a bruise we push beneath
our hollow skin with dirty fingernails
see, the past is not a headless infant with knives for
playful fingers, though it is not to say
that cribs or birdcages hold anything more than
what we leave them to engulf
i swallowed you whole, ocean— basked by the enchantments
of soft-spoken life, bathed by neurotic erosion.
they taught me that the cleansing of your body now
fades the transient you of yesteryear, speak in familiar tongue:
bathroom stall mirages of rounds, clocks, convey
Whenever I hurt myselfI have a feeling
Someone is watching
So I look around
But there's no one to be found
ExpirationWith you I always feel like I’m
to break in the wrong size of shoes.
Sometimes I sit and stew
over how you’re seventeen and
you think I’m a princess
the trapped-in-a-tower kind
and how you wear suits and talk about politics
and think you know the world.
My throat interrupts with an affronted gurgling sound
sometimes when I think about you,
you deal out advice where it just isn’t called for
you quote science-fiction to justify war
and you’re seventeen years old and you think I’m a princess
and you just have no blooming idea.
Darling, one of these days I will tell you my mind
But until then we’ll never fit
I’m afraid –
that even after that day
you’ll still be trimmed hedges and
Makers Of The Cage. Holders Of The Key.Our eyes are the closest thing we have to freedom.
We see endless blue sky, and the stars beyond.
We see the beauty of the world.
We see our reflection in the mirror;
the reality, and the fantasy.
Our eyes see far and great.
But the rest of us cannot follow.
Our hands probe the steel bars around us.
Fumbling in the dark.
Cut by the sharp edges.
The bleeding never stops.
Our feet shuffle around.
Trying to go places.
But we walk in circles.
Our emotions go from red to blue;
orange to green;
yellow to purple,
mixing in a haze.
Our mind goes to dark places,
and only wanders deeper.
Oblivious to the place right next door.
It knows the freedom,
it knows the pit.
There are endless paths to take.
There's a cage we need to break.
There is a key ourselves create.
In our hands, it's never too late.
a cherry pit dog heart.she holds a cherry pit dog heart in her hand, arrhythmic
beats like children playing pots and pans in kitchens
mother builds from scratch, black bean soup prepared
for dinner by a creased artist; wisps of white
upon a grandfather's head remind his daughter's child
of winter as he talks of horses in cuba who scratch
their backs on wooden posts; the first time she eats
ox tail is at an uncle's funeral, sitting in the basement,
surrounded by her surname, wondering why everyone
seems so happy; her grandmother keeps having
that dream where she's cooking and pours hot oil
on the animal in the kitchen, singeing his skin—
she cries out at midnight, sobbing for her daughter;
black eyes watch as her child keeps growing,
inspecting her process for future improvements,
while she takes pride in getting her sleeve caught
on twigs as she runs through the forest; motherhood
enters her every so often, at times uninvited, but
never for her prince in white, the bundle curled up
on her bed, floating
on bradbury and table dancingYou are not a wordsmith
whatever you might like to think. ('Smith'
indicates precision and coldness and fire:
words are softer than that unless you mold them strong.)
It's a difficult road to follow, and not many
make it past the fork. Choose a path,
Janus says, whirligig keys spinning on his shoulders:
I am a wordworker, with my tools too crude, forming
rough-edged carvings painted with pretty imagery.
Notebooks scattered across the landscape
of a child's room, to be stumbled across,
read, red-penned, in the thick and choking breath of night.
When the bough breaks
a hanged man laughs. He carries typewriters
in his pockets, and cigarettes in the soles of his shoes.
I will never be a word mistress,
whoring myself to the speech of people I do not know and will never know me.
The oven is set to Fahrenheit 452, but the words were already aflame
before they ever took shape under your tongue.
You love everything they've ever written, and carry
unabashed loathing for every syllabl
Broken Glass/The Void Between HeartsWe are possessed of the tools which might guarantee we are never alone, yet we all lament in silence. Our solitude comes when we are at our weakest, while our friends embrace us only when we are at our best. We are all fragile and afraid of being broken like some small porcelain doll. And so we lock ourselves behind glass, that none might ever lay a finger on that most precious possession so central to our lives. It is safe, without pain, but also filled with suffering, because that glass separates us from those we care most for. It is only an act, that we falsely claim to be happy, because behind that glass, there is nothing. Only ourselves and the inevitable darkness and fear that reside in the heart of a hermit. Loneliness is not mitigated with age, it is amplified, so that one day it may drive us mad. And in our frenzied state, we shatter the glass cage we meticulously built around ourselves and run headlong into the world, driven by fear, madness, desire, and the all-powerful real
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More