Do you feel the colors?
You should.
Are you numb to the sensations of the suns?
Bound and in binds to the bends and boroughs,
waves and wounds wound within the confines
of your minds?
Electric erected eclectic images:
that's all we are.
Photos of demented dimensions, dead by extension,
flowing and glowing
through vain veins and rolling rays,
like a star slithering through sand,
the seduction of reduction is
cataclysmic and anti-climatic.
Within and without you,
all you found
is the illusion of round sound.
There's something thrilling about apathy.
Yes, I know what they said to you
about Jack and shit and repentance.
Now, waste a cartridge and feel
the thoughts collapse to irrelevance.
Powerful, right? Power was what you wanted
but you have to care to have it.
It's too much work for me.
If you want to go back to the electric
magnetic molestation of your mind,
you're free to transcend the conclusion,
illustrate your illusions,
be a pain in the ass but be perfectly
fine,
if fine is what you really want.
With a needle protruding from your vein,
you turn to me and ask what type of game
I am playing.
None. Now, let's begin again
until you wond
Cosmetics Salesman's Cheat Sheat by Wolffhowl, literature
Literature
Cosmetics Salesman's Cheat Sheat
Of course your outwardly expressed emotions
are yours, organic,
anything but implanted,
as natural as this shampoo named,
"Long Term, Monogamous Relationship."
You're as real as L'oreal,
as intense as Intenza.
Its cause?
May be you're lean
or may be re-born,
destined to bathe in Maybelline,
so perfectly picturesque
like these preview pictures we posted.
You don't need that man
but you still dream that he noticed.
Of course you don't do it for others,
just for yourself. You like getting up early
to hide your scars, so revel on in Revelon.
You lose your phallus
when all your CoverGirl is gone.
Capitalism is A Big Men's Restroom by Wolffhowl, literature
Literature
Capitalism is A Big Men's Restroom
Hey.
Look over there.
Forward.
See that?
It's a wall.
Well, THE wall. There's only one.
Your life force is wrapped around the isolation.
The essence of silence is the fabric of creation.
Eyes are made of lava.
Stare into them and you go blind,
ignored with disdain
and hated with prejudice
and run out of ink
at the table of the armistice
for existence
and peace
because the eyes are lava
but the gaze is a spear.
Cleanse your soul in fat
and get the fuck out of here.
I'm not very good at suicide.
Never took a class on handling cyanide.
Can't tie rope for jack nor shit.
Which way do I cut for the right slit?
Horizontal or vertical?
Move away from the glass to avoid detection,
humiliation in front of my own reflection.
I'd drown myself if I was less of a coward
and I've no friends who'll help me
still both of my lids
and I don't own a gun
but if I did,
I still have no idea how to apply it to my mission.
I don't know which plants are poisonous by ingestion
or who to make mad and put me out of commission.
I've held the blade to my chest a few times
and it always moves itself to the floor.
I have contr
The truth is that I have no heart.
There. You heard it first hand.
No middle man, no alternative plan,
no narrative scam about places and things
of which I am ashamed,
walking around telling my friends that I'm alright,
gaming an honest game.
I'd pretend to present that I have a soul,
but how much redundancy is acceptable to the moldy men
or the common kid?
My head is nothing but an apparatus for language,
empty hazel eyes and haphazardly eccentric sighs
and the lowest love and the most lovable lies.
If my hair was red,
I would joke that I was both dying
and dyeing.
And you would laugh. Because it's funny.
And I wouldn't blame you.
Because
Review: Three Days Grace's Human 2015 by Wolffhowl, literature
Literature
Review: Three Days Grace's Human 2015
Three Days Grace
“Human”
Ontario’s teen angst power chord group returns after 3 years without an album, the familiar voice of Adam Gonteir absent due to “health reasons.” I always viewed him as the band’s redeeming feature and so did you. The vocal presence he brought to the group – its grunge and passion were the only presence the band had to begin with – couldn’t undue the lazy harmonies or ridiculously boring bass lines, but his emotion was palpable and one could comprehend why a 15 year old emo might connect to his raw anguish. That said, when band members leave and new ones replace t
I Love Him More Than Old Bread by Wolffhowl, literature
Literature
I Love Him More Than Old Bread
one mirror is a chair in my mind
death is something to sit on
like hunger or sadness
or shades of red or meaningless monopolies
blank faces on broadway at 2 am
hunching their soldier shoulders
so you can't see how beautiful their anguish is
or the light cascading from your windows
when you realize you're all alone
and somebody taught us all to hate ourselves
like echoes shadowed by thunder
like thousands of isolated islands far away enough
that even your heart hesitates
geographic recluses
alone for their own uses
a mirror is a chair in my mind
like shooting stars that need wishes themselves
like dusty glasses on a play ground
or sounds the
Do you feel the colors?
You should.
Are you numb to the sensations of the suns?
Bound and in binds to the bends and boroughs,
waves and wounds wound within the confines
of your minds?
Electric erected eclectic images:
that's all we are.
Photos of demented dimensions, dead by extension,
flowing and glowing
through vain veins and rolling rays,
like a star slithering through sand,
the seduction of reduction is
cataclysmic and anti-climatic.
Within and without you,
all you found
is the illusion of round sound.
There's something thrilling about apathy.
Yes, I know what they said to you
about Jack and shit and repentance.
Now, waste a cartridge and feel
the thoughts collapse to irrelevance.
Powerful, right? Power was what you wanted
but you have to care to have it.
It's too much work for me.
If you want to go back to the electric
magnetic molestation of your mind,
you're free to transcend the conclusion,
illustrate your illusions,
be a pain in the ass but be perfectly
fine,
if fine is what you really want.
With a needle protruding from your vein,
you turn to me and ask what type of game
I am playing.
None. Now, let's begin again
until you wond
Cosmetics Salesman's Cheat Sheat by Wolffhowl, literature
Literature
Cosmetics Salesman's Cheat Sheat
Of course your outwardly expressed emotions
are yours, organic,
anything but implanted,
as natural as this shampoo named,
"Long Term, Monogamous Relationship."
You're as real as L'oreal,
as intense as Intenza.
Its cause?
May be you're lean
or may be re-born,
destined to bathe in Maybelline,
so perfectly picturesque
like these preview pictures we posted.
You don't need that man
but you still dream that he noticed.
Of course you don't do it for others,
just for yourself. You like getting up early
to hide your scars, so revel on in Revelon.
You lose your phallus
when all your CoverGirl is gone.
Capitalism is A Big Men's Restroom by Wolffhowl, literature
Literature
Capitalism is A Big Men's Restroom
Hey.
Look over there.
Forward.
See that?
It's a wall.
Well, THE wall. There's only one.
Your life force is wrapped around the isolation.
The essence of silence is the fabric of creation.
Eyes are made of lava.
Stare into them and you go blind,
ignored with disdain
and hated with prejudice
and run out of ink
at the table of the armistice
for existence
and peace
because the eyes are lava
but the gaze is a spear.
Cleanse your soul in fat
and get the fuck out of here.
Needles of grass,
their never-ending rage;
a ghost fire, spreading
the slow burn
that licks at my calves,
that makes my toes seize
and my fingers buzz,
fighting the hollow
numbness that encroaches,
harbingers of the
saccharine drip,
crystallizing synapses.
Eroding the perception of
sight and thought that
drowns in a single depth.
The ebbing of low tide
on a beach of finest silt,
unable to support
anything heavier than the
sea salt that
weeps from my nostrils.
A cycle, a cyst;
moon phases
extolling their revelation.
A parasitic resolve reading a
muted fortune as seen through
facets of a diamond
that nev
The Hunter's Thought by picaroinfinity, literature
Literature
The Hunter's Thought
Time passes and the day shivers;
Not a sound in vicinity.
Pine needle in nude sleep quivers,
White cloak upturned, serenity.
The Hunter's feet are growing late,
His brow entrenched with frozen snow;
Yet, in ambush, he has to wait,
Till gleeful spring makes flowers grow.
He listens to the silence of
cold's espoused vale, in wilful wish:
Why not his talking, babbling world,
Perhaps be quite as quiet as this?
If only winter's stretching arm,
Could muffle tongues, and rumours sink,
And then would I, without alarm,
Finally, get to hear me think.