| I'm trying to think of ways to improve the weekly prompts.... |
| I'm trying to think of ways to improve the weekly prompts.... |

wanderlusti was all sex and stitcheswanderlust by ~tubefed
with every color on a TV screen;
(and between me and you)
your teeth, your tongue,
your ferret-hands and knowledgeable mind--
they scared me.
the foreign worlds beneath your skin:
the contortions of your spine and
organs;
you wanted to conquer; to claim
and plant a flag--
and i--i wanted cancer

we will never grow old togetherwe will never grow oldwe will never grow old together by ~tubefed
muscles loose
beneath holy jeans
divine and baptised a thousand
times
when did the nerves
grow soft?
rain fallen on the hair
of cleopatra &
tennyson
i didn't think about it
with ears pressed to the trees
the universe expanding
& pulling my life
in every direction
that 103 and dying
on my birthday
sounded so romantic
but less than
32 promised an eternity

living in sinchurch is no place to discoverliving in sin by ~tubefed
you're a lesbian:
like a cat in heat
trapped under those pews
i shut my eyes
and realize the brakes are shot
and all that's left
is a sex chromosome
and society

The Art ThiefAt sixteen she was brilliant and adoredThe Art Thief by ~sickicks
I do believe, although I know she lies
For knock-kneed march in desperate glory
The world is too much without us
She says--
But let no chartiable hope confuse her
For the story of replacement
Or some ill-formed offspring of feeble brain
She is not of pure ablution
But a fish half-dead from flopping
Beating poems with hoses
Surrounded, detached between finger and thumb
Humped and bloody where Enola Gay
Dropped but an atom upon Japan
And four-foot boxes
Are stopped with periods of ink
And since she is not the one dead
She thinks she knows enough of hate
And in the end she's nothing more
Than the woman

Fiction : Chapter 1Chapter 1
Youth has a kingdom waiting for it. Everyone is born a king, and most people die in exile.
--Oscar Wilde
The sweet taste of laudanum still lingered on Daniel’s tongue. Even long after he had consumed the tincture he could taste it. As he sat up, his vision wavered in and out of shaky, dreamlike images. It took a few moments for everything to become clear again.
His eyes burned in the newfound light welcoming him back to reality. In his ears the melody of the ticking clock still rung from his hallucinatory dreams, mimicked by the golden pocket watch that lay open on his desk. He watched as the hands slipped past the hour,

Murders at WhitechapelIt was when the papers spoke of a second victim that Lawrence Caldwell decided to get on the case. It had been only about a week since the last attack by the Whitechapel Murderer, and the district papers couldn't stop talking about it. Amongst the graphic details of how Miss Chapman was brutally murdered were more assumptions of who the mysterious killer could be. Perhaps an Irish immigrant? Jew? "Pervert"? All were simply more targets of minorities to feed the imagination of gossip around Whitechapel. At least, that's how Lawrence saw it.
Adjusting the brim of his hat, Lawrence tucked the paper under his arm before heading down Wentworth St



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