Simon Finds A Mysterious Tent Simon had been stranded in the moors for eighteen hours when he spotted the tent. It stood like a house-shaped bon bon amid the dead trees and bracken - a fluorescent pink poof at its peak knocking in the breeze.Simon Finds A Mysterious Tent by ~Aladdin-Sane
'Oh thank God' - said Simon.
Not 48 hours prior Simon's blonde locks had shimmered in the sunlight as though he were the poster child for a shampoo commercial. His blue jeans had been creased and his sneakers all but blindingly white. He had embarked on an afternoon stroll in the fields at the back of his office - hoped to get a breath of fresh air before getting stuck into another set of spreadsheets.
Now though matted hair plast
Raskolnikov's Letter Letter from Rodion Raskolnikov to Sonya MarmeladovaRaskolnikov's Letter by ~Aladdin-Sane
13th January, 1867
Siberia
Dearest Sonya,
There resides through the window of my prison cell a mud track, often taken by the peasants. They traverse by this route, in their horses and carts, the distance separating their landowner's estate from their farms. I'm not certain what it is they freight back and forth - their barrows are covered by those coarse blankets such people favour – and it's not something with which I'm concerned.
What is of greater interest to me than the peasants themselves is the highway by which they travel.
It is the product not of new technologies
Abiogenesis Monads—if you can imagine them—Abiogenesis by ~cogongrass
glittering, speckled out of the boredom,
a saintly embryo in each of them, a pit
of the tuber, blue or rose or golden (whichever,
this is not our knowledge), vibrating,
adamantly, each along its other;
and from this: miasma: small under-Matters:
darlings: gods, I guess,
all with a hot breath for (against, maybe)
a landscape made of them, stolen from them
by Atomies with thunder and axes,
glinting, gleaning their carnage,
titans over a Zero, fire over a nebula, and a war
to bring home (as with honor)
however many manacles, however many
theories of balance—and congeal them there,
for a time
Rooibos If under mulch she sang a rottenRooibos by ~saturninesweetness
wood-like note with quiver
Nostalgic for her days alive
Surely they could forgive her
Most days it's quiet (these days it's cold)
Her bones observe the soil
But Spring is pulsing warm and gold
Teasing memories to boil
Like heated milk the liquid smell
of evening drips in branches
A honeybee who suffocates
falls near her musing ashes
"Is it wine or light strawberry?"
She asks him of the sky
Though his dead ears don't hear her query
The answer is "Like dye"
Just under mulch I hear a rotten
wood-like note with quiver
Flushing young in days alive
Of course I can f
Happy Birthday! 
Sta.sh
