Poem: This Is My Dead Song
Author: Harper Kingsley (Did I write this one? How weird)

There are times when I wonder what love tastes like,
thick and salty like life blood or watery like weak tea
slurped out of saucers like some old-fashioned coffee guru,
sure that I’m a trendsetter and destined to be adored.
I walk through a waking dream of voiceless strangers all clamoring for my attention
faceless masks that I look through and ignore, inconsequential to my task
my living dying dream.
What is real? Do I start where I begin or am I racing toward the end?
Who knows. Who cares.
I live alone amongst crowds of people,
all breathing and sucking down the air I need, polluting it with the halitosis of their doubt in me.
I am a loser born and bred, dreams crushed under other peoples’ boots until I cease to share.
I’ve clammed shut with only the ridges in my shell to show
while I hide in the deepest water I can stand
wondering when I’ll begin to drown.
Lilting melodies of sunshine and hope have long since quelled themselves,
leaving only hopeless durges behind,
ringing out into my lonely silence, bell-like and broken, monoliths to the lost ideas of love.
I sleep alone in shadowed panoply, dreaming of gold while grasping at dust,
sure that no one can see me even in the most packed of rooms.
I fade to motes and echoes as expression washes off my face,
leaving a seamless mask behind.

Poem: Issues
Author: Harper Kingsley

I get outraged and up in arms about various matters of the world
even as I grow annoyed by people trying to force their issues and concerns onto me.
Regurgitated shit is still shit, only perfumed by the vomitous source it came from
and I do not want it and I don’t care
concerned as I am by the things that matter to me.
You can try to change my mind, rewrite the person that I am and should want to be
but your efforts are fruitless, as all your yammering does is make my stubborn heart grow cold to you
and my brain shuts its doors and refuses to accept anything you say, no matter how inconsequential.
The more you say I should care, the less I do, about the things you press on me and you as well.
I look at you with empty eyes and closed ears, letting your experienced words wash away
you’ve lost me and you don’t know, caught up as you are in your news reports and casual bigotry.
The world is more than the tiny corner of it you let yourself see,
and I am not an echo of you or a continuation of you or anything to do with you, you, you,
not everything is about you, or about me, or about anyone at all.
Sometimes the world just is, with generations left gaping apart,
wallowing in different wants, needs, and fears.
You cannot change my mind, I’ll try not to change yours,
you can be you and together we’ll be the way we were, pretending at being happy,
as long as you know that I am not you. I am me.

3 comments on "RAW: “Doggy Style,” by Sol Crafter – (NSFW) Chapter 03"

Title: Doggy Style
Author: Sol Crafter
Genre: mm, supernatural romance, urban fantasy, magical realism
Rating: Mature
Warning: Raw Feed
Summary: One minute Zack was uncrating the new shipment. The next minute he’s a dog. At least Sean seems to be a dog person. Now he just has to get Sean to be a a Zack person.
*
CHAPTER THREE

Being a dog was oddly peaceful. All of the tough human decisions had been taken out of his hands and he was free to enjoy the moment.

It seemed perfectly natural to him that he would climb on Sean’s bed and curl up near the bottom. He could feel the lumps of Sean’s feet under the blanket and they made him feel strangely safe. Or maybe it was Sean that made him feel safe.

Any way that he looked at it, one minute he was comfortably slumbering at the foot of the bed, and the next there was a strange, liquidy gliding sensation.

It didn’t hurt. It was just incredibly odd. It felt as though someone had grabbed him by the skin and pulled. His skin peeled off somehow and suddenly he had hands and feet instead of paws and he came to the realization that he was displaying a whole lot of pale pink skin.

The bedroom was dark and Sean was softly snoring. Zack had to slide off the bed. He felt quietly panicked, a litany of “Oh crap, oh crap” running through his head.

Sean may have admitted privately that he had a crush on him, but Zack wasn’t going to bank on that keeping him out of jail. He was in the guy’s house uninvited in the middle of the night and naked. The situation was more than awkward. It was downright disastrous.

Zack crept across the … Read the rest “RAW: “Doggy Style,” by Sol Crafter – (NSFW) Chapter 03”

Octavia remembered the way they’d looked at her pile of blankets. Half a dozen scraps of cloth in various fabric types. “Those synthetic fabrics don’t breathe” they would cry, as though she was committing some great sin.

They didn’t understand that that was the point. They didn’t breathe.

Blankets, towels, heaps of fabric–they may have been something to keep her warm and dry back during the old days, but they developed hundreds of uses after the end of the world.

She could wave a white towel to show she gave up. She could clog a drain with a microbial, moisture wicking blanket lining.

She could hold onto the soft comfort of the velour blanket someone had gifted to her. She couldn’t even remember his name, just the fact that he’d been a truly nice guy and not a predator in drag (Kang-soo*, that dirtbag). Blanket-guy had bought her the camel colored blanket while they were at some outside venue. He’d gotten her a coffee too, and the way he’d looked at her had made her start thinking that he was falling in love with her.

She couldn’t remember his name and his face was a blur, but his kindness had remained with her for all the years after the end of the world. He’d become one of her sweetest memories of her life before.

She wondered what he would be like now if he had survived. The thought had entered her mind with a Terminator fanfic, one where Clair Dane’s character from the original timeline never ended up locked in a bunker with John Connor.

She ended up falling in love with him because she didn’t meet him again until after the end of her world. She’d met him at the lowest point of her life and he’d … Read the rest “Don’t forget to bring a towel to the end of the world”

Haunted by the ghost of you,
the things you said,
and made me do;
the darkness that called out to me,
pulled me in,
set me free.
I lie here in my bed at night,
dream of you,
our Maybe Life,
regret the choices that we made,
the love you took into the grave.