Category Archives: Words

I’ll Make My Bed and Sleep in it Alone

I’m out on the veranda
Smoking my last cigarette
Watching the smoke curl around the moon
Being “thankful” that we met

Since you’re coming home
The liquor’s going down the sink
Gotta say goodbye to my old friends
Say goodbye to the drink

Life was going great for me
Now I guess I’ll be just fine
Since you talked with Ma and Pa
They tell me you’re so kind

Why do you
Make me feel so blue
Why do I feel so sad
I should be flying to the moon
‘Cause someone actually came back

Sunday will come, Sunday class
You’ll twirl me around like a ball
I’ll smile, I’ll wave, I won’t misbehave
I’ll be too damn done to fight being a doll

You’re gonna burn all my books
You’re gonna toss out my wires
You’ll kiss my forehead
Your “love” will take me higher

Old friends’ll reach out
“He’s not good for your health!”
Oh, but you’ll dust me off, pretty me up
And set me on a shelf

But why do you
Make me feel blue
Why am I so fucking sad
No one’s ever forgiven me
After I was so bitter and mad
And I’m supposed to feel better
You’re gonna make me so glad
But why am I just looking to escape
Run and try to erase those faces
You show me in private places and chase…
That ache out of me that
Loves that you came back

But why did it have to be you that came back?

I take to the kitchen
Smoking a damn cigarette
Watching the smoke curl around the room
I pour a shot of Jack
You can bet
I don’t want you

You’re an ass

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DTP 11: The Phone-less Phonebooth

There’s a glassy membrane over them, the circle members. Like the shell of a translucent egg waiting to be split open. “Ask us our secrets and we may tell,” they seem to promise behind their perfectly manicured faces, their dilated eyes, their shining hair, their debonair smiles… 

Caerawyn knows her curiosity is born out of her revulsion–a paradox of fascination overlaying the very real horror of her circumstances. She is dancing and drinking and mingling with these members of the circle. She even likes their lusty glances and their open infatuation with her and how they think she thinks.

The only two human beings in the stadium ballroom are Caera and Balen, surely. 

Balen seems to be the only one in the room who has a problem with this fact, but he’s not keen to voice such opinions until he and Caerwyn are firmly squished into the hotel phonebooth (which is not surprisingly missing its phone) away from wandering eyes and idle ears.

“This is crazy,” he hisses, sounding almost like a member. “What in the hell are we doing here?! We need to get out. You can’t be so… You know they just want to eat you, right?”

Caerwyn’s eyes blink rapidly in annoyance. “Please.” She sighs then to cut him off. “Balen, of course they want to eat us. We look amazing,” she says airily, then her expression darkens. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to stop them…”

Her cohort, sharing breath, squished into her, feeling both uncomfortable with their situation and their situation, resigns himself with a groan of utter loathing and affection. “Dammit… Yeah, I do, but how the hell are we gonna go about it now? We didn’t plan on so many.”

Caerwyn smiles. “Dance, Balen,” she says with a purr, slipping past him, sashaying back toward the siren’s call of house music.

The synthetic jazz seems to whisper, “Come and see…”

Caera turns slightly to look over her shoulder and that’s when Balen belatedly decides his other half is probably drunk and cleaning up after her future social misfires is the least of his worries. (The paramount worry pacing through his head is that Caerwyn will die at the hands of some rather insidious circle members and he will be left in a state of catatonic shock for the rest of his life. He entertains the image before swallowing it with the same unease one would exhibit imbibing a cyanide capsule.)

His platinum beauty, his companion, his… Gone? Never.

She grins at him, almost admonishing, and the hallway disappears for just a moment. Hers is a face that will haunt him before it even has a ghost to haunt him with. “Balen,” she chides, “there’s one thing I’m beginning to understand about these creeps… They’re basically children.”

Before he can dissect this comparison–rather, before he can poke holes in it–his partner chuckles.

“And kids… Kids always play with their food first. Let’s make it worth their while.”

“You’re like a pyro with matches,” is all he can say in return.

Caerwyn shrugs. “‘Least we’re both aware fire burns.”

“Pretty sure that makes us idiots,” Balen says, but he’s already agreed with her and she knows it. Despite his denial, he has it too–that paradoxical sickness–that fascination with the macabre–that itch that needs to be scratched. But he also knows such wayward investigators rarely live beyond their first encounter with the unnatural. “Curiosity killed the cat…”

“But satisfaction brought it back,” Caera snaps back with a wicked smirk.

“Downside to your plan: We two do not have nine lives, even between the two of us.”

Caerwyn, white dress, icy complexion, warm smile, sunny disposition, steadfast, bullheaded, and sad… links an arm through his and winks. “Guess we’ll have to improvise.”

Downtown Platinum (c)2017 Karin Mayville 
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DTP 10: My Dear Humanity, I Knew Her Well

Heart, pumping in my hands–
What were you before?
Did you leave a happy life?
Did you always strive for more?
Did you yearn and did you pull
If something really caught your eye?
Did you sacrifice with good intentions?
Did you rightly vilify?
Did you rend and did you tear?
Did you bend? Did you bear?
Did you wake in the middle of the night,
Blind, sweating, filled with utmost care?
Did you weep?
Did you creep?
Did you seap?
Did you sleep?
I guess it doesn’t matter, you–
Heart, pumping in my hands–
You pour, you leak, and you spatter.
Time won’t heal wounds wrought by these hands–
Not anymore.
I said:
“It doesn’t matter.”

Downtown Platinum (c)2017 Karin Mayville 
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DTP 9: Beneath an Endless Duet

“Once more into the fray.”

They spoke in unison, their voices harmonizing as they moved simultaneously. Two blades, one dark and one pale, moved like two parallel shards of utter nothingness and pure starlight respectively, rising, falling, and twisting on twilit air.

The feminine one looked to their masculine counterpart. “Jinx,” the dark one said.

The pale one rolled eyes heavenward. “I was just about to say that,” the masculine one grumbled with a small smile.

The rattle and growl of the gray legion that circled them enveloped the feminine one’s answering quip, drowning word and thought as the opposition spoke with one voice as well. The issued command vibrated the fabric of reality and sent body-aching tremors through the pair: “JOIN. JOIN. JOIN.”

“No,” Pale said simply.

“Better to be at war than to feel nothing,” Dark added.

“ALONE. ALONE. ALONE.” The rally cry of the legion. The observation of their host.

Dark looked to their partner and the masculine one nodded gravely.

“We are not alone,” they said.

“DIE. DIE. DIE,” the gray ones said and, bearing tooth and claw, they swarmed together like the aperture of a camera, swallowing the two in a photograph to last the ages. Dark and Pale were back-to-back, sweat trickling down their faces, their hair whipped by currents controlled by their most hated adversary: the loss of individuality.

Teeth gnashed. Battle cries clashed. Shards flashed.

Love does not really exist, the gray ones taught.

Love does not really exist to you lot, the mirror preached.

To the end, Love, in either respect, would not be respected by either party in the end.

Forged in war, the partners would not last past the settling of the smoke. Their love would not survive past the final drop of blood. Dark and Pale sought ultimate refuge away from the routine and lack of complexity found in the Masse of the Gray, but they had already found that sanctuary in each other. Perhaps they simply refused to acknowledge it, secretly knowing that the admittance of their folly would destroy the fragile dream they had imagined together.

The truth was, peace would never be had between them unless they were at war, and there would be no more war after the legion was destroyed. Their last adversaries would fall to their defiance of the twilit natural order, and the two of them would turn on each other, knowing no other way to exist; no other way to live; and no other way to love…

That is the true pity of it all.

Downtown Platinum (c)2017 Karin Mayville 
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DTP 8: Locke Weeps for Circles

Freedom:
Financial independence.
Warranted doubt, worry
Giving way to boredom–
Boredom giving way to curiosity–
Curiosity morphing into cruel, risky fascination…
Such is how it goes
When power corrupts discreetly
And renders one
Completely, irrevocably
Free.

Downtown Platinum (c)2017 Karin Mayville 
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DTP 7: Jin, Circle Cannibal

Hello Heroes, dearly lauded.
Your narrow escapes should be applauded.
I know what this must look like
But I have the best intentions in mind
If you’ll permit me in kind…
“Caerwyn Jethro Adams”, my oh my–
Your name was too hard to come by.
Oh, but don’t look so surprised–
Killer The Gossip as much surmised,
And both of you are too easily recognised.
A dazzlingly dashing, disenfranchised beau
Balen Russell–or is it “Dante Castiago”?
And the factual, frank, feminine mystery
Caera Adams with, my… What a history.
How in the world did you two meet?
Both coveted, both unaware, both so…
Tantalizingly sweet.
Candidly, I have a proposition
To rectify your decidedly awkward position.
You join me, you’ll avoid any future fight.
Ha! That look of mistrust! Not to worry, loves.
I promise I won’t bite.

Downtown Platinum (c)2017 Karin Mayville 
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DTP 6: Promises

Angels are ugly, kind creatures as
Demons are beautiful, cunning things.
Eyes glinting, windows tinted
Your bronze skin, golden hair–
You weren’t so damned misleading

My hand closed around your quarry’s
And we shot out the bar like, well
The bullet that splashed indescribable
Textures onto my sanctuary’s walls–
I was never under your spell

Collapsing into some kind of vacuum
We debated about your existence.
“What in the actual fuck?”
Was the decided ultimate question–
We settled on action: only resistance.

Killer J, is it pride or is it boredom?
You’ve all the privilege in the world
But you waste your precious time
Chasing bartenders and dead celebrities–
Huddled, crouched, hearts nearly cored.

Who will really have the last word?
If you think you can just corner me, re-think.
You won’t be sleeping sweetly.
You may think you have some claim–
But I don’t bite and tear and rip apart gently.

Downtown Platinum (c)2017 Karin Mayville 
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