Poetry-Thing Thursday: Weep-Wounding Fools

The ladies say it best,
when a’raw and un’dress’t,
that power’s a flaw,
of those filled with unrest.
In waves, and a-rising,
these ladies go sizing,
they speak from the breast,
the one that beats best,
“nature is nothing,
if not filled with unrest,”
but simple facts are,
We see, true, what you are,
you’re a vile and venom,
type of code-seven.

You’re the kind of creature,
that weeps only to wound,
a power you know,
can only consume.
But not quite how you think,
for you’d best be remiss,
when interfering with Wizards,
and Shaman’s-Breath mist.

For these are the things,
that know of true power.
Things only you,
seek to devour.
But you cannot
and will not,
for we stand firm before you.
There is nothing we did to deplore you.

It was you, my friends,
that dug such a grave.
You and your weep-wounding,
madness-parade.

But I’ve come from the desert,
you all claim to know,
and I can tell you now,
you’ve nothing to show.
Your vile and venom,
will do you no good,
to a creature formed,
of antidote-blood.

A little native boy,
came once to me.
I sat him down,
upon my knee.
“Why do you hate?”
he asked to me,
I do not,
my boy,
I’ve simply no joy.

“But can’t you just find it?”
he asked in reply,
I wished and I hoped,
and wanted to die.
But a miracle thing,
instead I did sigh,
I wept and I leaked,
meditatively, why,
I found deep within me,
that native boy’s rye.

Now I say madly,
to those onlooking, resigned,
be careful what you spark,
the whom and the why.
For these wonderful ladies,
my friends they’re so fly,
you’ve no idea the wonder,
hurry,
or why.

You know only your foolish,
ball-stenchly shroud.
Well at least I try to keep down,
that stinky ball-cloud.
It’s not always so proper,
not always so proud,
when your fetid manhood,
adds victimhood-crowd.

If you knew, only knew,
you stupidly fools,
what greatness you’ve squandered,
but set in motion,
your minds wouldn’t have already wandered,
from loving, devotion.
But they have and they will,
and that’s alright, too,
for these ladies are going,
to show the way through.

Guardians of Liberty: Part 18

18.

Cat and Mouse

N1T3 was running. Again. He’d probably lost somewhere on the order of 10 kilos in the last few days. He was also quite certain one of his arteries was beginning to clog, or had some structural weakness of a kind. It was hurting more with each run, like it was giving out.

His message had been as innocuous as possible– and Daniel Ozell responded exactly the over-blown way a taunted bully on a bad day might.

In the end, N1T3 knew, that’s all any of his kind were– the corporate types, their loyalists. Most simply used money in place of fists. Fists remained involved though. Especially for the decision-makers, the BoDs and Execs. Of course, it was easier to pay others to do the beatings than spend their own energy. Easier on the knuckles, too.

For puppeteers, those were important assets.

N1T3’s message said few words, but its subtext was obvious; “Cat and mouse now; Find me. Find you. Who draws first blood? You didn’t yet. Bravo.”

He left the message on the net, exposing its post-point blatantly, and started running.

Ozell needed something. Anything. If only to stall. No-one was ready yet. Even Ozell himself. If he’d been ready to do what was needed of him, he’d have killed $trydr and Dru. Among other things, it meant he hadn’t chosen sides. Not yet. His son was what mattered.

His son, and now finding the man that threatened him.

Good.

N1T3 left him a bread-crumb because he needed it. Ozell needed a win. Power. N1T3 had some, didn’t want it, saw an opportunity to disseminate it. Ozell wouldn’t see it that way yet, but N1T3 and the others did.

So, N1T3 was running. Fleeing. Somewhere behind him, Ozell was fuming, raging, sniffing out his scent to hunt him down. His system demanded it. Just as it had demanded everything else thus far. That same system Ozell fed and lived off, put the bullet in Anisa Blanc’s back, set fire to her corpse, then stayed Ozell’s hand against Dru and Riter. The same system currently hunting N1T3 on a death warrant.

Who wouldn’t be running?

N1T3’s next safehouse he knew equally well as the first. It wasn’t much. Just a hovel out of the way. A former apartment, on a derelict corner, in one more rundown, abandoned area. Once more river-side, though not as secluded, yet obscured by emptiness.

Riter’s diversion had taught him an important thing; London was nowhere near flat. Storm-sewers ran everywhere, interconnected not only with rivers and one-another, but also linked to the suburbs– like city-states, but smaller, more-guarded. At least, for a flat-landers’ entrance by air or land.

But N1T3 had sewers.

Problem was, useful as that intel was, he couldn’t use it yet. He needed to get hidden, stop moving. If Ozell caught him in the sewers, he’d be gunned down before the time was ripe. What needed to would never take place.

N1T3 focused elsewhere to block out pain in his legs and chest, follow his gut toward his destination. He was glad to have squandered most of his sense of smell on youthful excess. The air had grown thicker, and though he couldn’t smell it, he tasted rotting water in gritty air on his tongue.

He focused on “home;” the place was stocked. Good. It would take time for the cat to sniff him out. Nothing could be done about it but wait, run if needed.

His feet splattered mixes of Human and Earthen refuse, a backwash of civilization spilling in little-by-little on floodwaters into its own bowels. N1T3 was immune to the sound, the distant squeals of rats, rumbling roads and piping– encroaching civilization that said he was getting closer.
The roads themselves were still used. Most of the mains, anyway. His new digs would be a pair of blocks up and over; by his estimate, five or six more manholes forward and one or two down the mainline.

He slowed, maneuvering his way through darkness with echolocation and footfalls. His wet shoes plodded shallow streams that felt more homely the longer her traversed them. Ozell would’ve called him “a rat in its natural habitat.”

He smiled.

He wasn’t a rat, of course, but baiting a cat into chasing another cat was too risky. Too different an approach was required for the subtlety of predatorial-hunts. Ozell himself might’ve been acting on predator-predator instincts, but his system was forcing him to act on predator-prey instincts. Even he knew discrepancy of such kind was pointless. If he hadn’t, he’d have long ago abandoned the mantle of corp-sec for more promising ventures.

What kept him around wasn’t hope for fulfillment, it was obligation. Likely, to honor those closest to him through it. N1T3 knew that of Ozell, as he knew it of all, postdigital children.

Like Society, whether Ozell accepted himself as part of Humanity or not, didn’t matter. It was immutable. The damage being done was harming itself as much as its victims. Accepting or not, it was happening.

Those were the stakes. N1T3 knew it. As everyone else did. Even Ozell’s masters. Even if buried so deeply it resembled the ancient skeletons of their first dead, it remained as immutable as the law it represented. The problem wasn’t the people though, it was what the system did to them.

But systems could be changed. Ozell needed to learn that first hand. He needed to know the game was rigged from the start, because the system was controlled by its own, self-made rules. Ones written by long-dead men and wanton cheats, never exposed to the concepts of technology, instant and global communication, or mass-dissemination of information.

Ozell knew that, or had the capacity to. N1T3 had seen it in his eyes: in that cold moment of deadened panic before reflex took over. That instant of deer in the headlights before turning master manipulator, the flit from prey to apex-predator.

Ozell knew how things stood and obligation told him not to care. Obligation alone.

That was the essence of the postdigital struggle. Every hacker knew it, on some level or another. Some just weren’t programmers. They couldn’t see the inherent programmability in organization, its structure. The subject or method of organization didn’t matter– Stage IV civilizations might stabilize entropy, after all. Nothing wasn’t off the table if Tech, Science, and Humanity progressed far enough together.

Knowing for certain wasn’t possible yet, but getting to that point of knowing was.

100,000s of years of potential Human progress ahead, and yet even the tech available to N1T3 could lead to immortality given a slight synthesis with the Human body. What was the harm if that body’s life-span rose astronomically or disappeared altogether to become universal, eternal?

N1T3 saw none. In fact, he was so certain of the post-human certainty, he’d ensured he’d go to his death having done his part to speed the process. If not for himself, then those he cared for– and all like him that would come later.

Above all, he did it not from obligation, but love, kinship, and hope.

N1T3 pushed his way up from a manhole into darkness. Nearby enough could be heard the sounds of life, but its distance made it impossible to see. At that, it was mostly auto-cars, the last of the courier drivers of manuals.

Soon enough, they’d be outlawing that, too.

N1T3 took a deep breath and fought the cover back in place. He made mental note of its weight, how long it might take to lift if fleeing. The leverage from beneath was easier than above. If he had to run, it could trap him.

Seconds. Breaths. Heartbeats. These were the tempos of life and death now.

He’d have to find a better entrance. The place was never ideal, that’s what the pier was for, and his shack atop the office-building. Even as he made his way up the few steps to the rundown doorway, he was double-checking the area, listening carefully. He waited until certain he was alone, then pushed the door open.

The converted building exactly as left; a large, bi-level home, divided well into four flats. From outside, it looked twenty-years abandoned. Then again, it’d looked that way for somewhere on the order of 30 years now.

It wasn’t eye-catching or well-known. Rather, it was obscure, innocently placed. A place of history and mystery N1T3 had felt attracted to since first seeing it as a child. The sort of attraction that told one of a place, moment, or person of importance, like the first meeting of an old-friend-to-be.

He slipped in. The place remained stocked, undisturbed. The flat he’d secured, near the upper-rear, was sectioned off and reinforced. Its windows were entirely blacked out, its power expertly spliced and hidden.

It was the best, last hope of remaining safely hidden. Regardless of how long that lasted, it needed to be up to snuff.

The light dimmed as he stepped in and flipped it on, stabbing his gut with the sign of things to come.

His servers were pulling more power than usual. Bad voltage. A shorted line, probably. Or a converter or conditioner. That meant a special supply run…

But getting to Ket would be impossible. She’d be next on Ozell’s shit-list. He might even survive it– if he wasn’t stupid enough to fuck with her. If not, well… she had connections, and the need to make examples. Above all, she was untouchable.

Even Ozell would be forced to bow.

If Riter and Dru had been mail-armored; Ket was layered in force-fields and body armor so futuristic it made Ozell’s State-of-the-Art Corp-Sec ceramics look like boys playing war in cardboard.

Fucking with her, fucked him.

*

Ozell lingered at the door, forced to wait. He needed a different touch here. Corp-sec’s castration at Riter’s had been enough to check their ego. They didn’t want this one broadcast. Not this one. They didn’t want it known what was happening now: that an off-the-books black-market dealer with fingers in every industries pies, and some of her own, was their last best hope.

They didn’t want people knowing Martin Black was being chased, hunted, that he had sympathizers, allies, and was continually evading them.

Most of all, they didn’t want the war being waged to be known yet.

As ridiculous as it felt, Ozell could do nothing. Not yet. He needed more before he could dick the Corps or Black that much. He had power but not enough. Not yet. N1T3 and his allies were exposing every weakness the corps had left to any and all onlookers. And as deftly and swiftly as possible. Seemingly, for no other reason than to show they could.

Corp-sec couldn’t put them down yet. Not with Anisa Blanc’s images still fresh in mind. They had to know what the hell was going on too. Blanc’s charred corpse. Ozell’s .40 caliber slug. Its wounds.

A flash of memory. A squeeze. Blanc crumpling forward. Slow-motion fall of shock from overloaded nerves. Still-fleeting terror in her face trembling over those last, rasping gasps.

The door opened. He fanned his men out around the perimeter. He wasn’t stupid. He knew Se’Ket. She’d long been on the tongue of every corp-sec commander. She was a Sphinx. A walking riddle, enigmatic in every sense.

And an absolute bombshell.

She stood like some Egyptian Goddess of her namesake’s land. Her chestnut hair streamed down the shoulders of her thin, flowing clothing like fine-drapery. Full-bodied shapes hinted themselves in the edges of her clothing, accenting perfect hips and breasts but hiding everything else as a come-hither for all to see but none to achieve.

None but Black. How he’d done it, Ozell’d never know. Married or not, and affiliations aside, he’d have pinned her to a bed and never stopped given half a chance. Or, if she were so inclined, allowed her the same. He knew too, he’d have loved every second of it.

That’s how she was; modern day legend. Mythical. Damn-near perfect.

She was also one of the most well-known, wanted criminals alive. No-one had proof of course, but no-one needed it. If something was going on somewhere, Se’Ket knew about it. If someone needed something, so long as the price was met, they got it. At some point, all of those transactions went through her.

Yet she was so much more.

Any pursuit for her was a facade. Everyone knew it. Ozell’d never met her before, but he knew her well enough by reputation. He also knew how to cut through bullshit. In her case, it didn’t leave much behind, but was enough for a vague image.

Ket was the same age as her former lover, Martin Black. They’d met in school, fallen madly in love, then aggressively out again. Ever since, she’d been floating from one mate to another, searching. For what, Ozell doubted she knew.

In the course of that floating, she met people. Using her nature and flagrant sexuality to cultivate connections. By 20, she was running drugs, guns, goods, anything. White, gray, black didn’t matter either. Money was the object.

Ozell admired her for that alone.

He knew what she was, why; as all predators knew their willing prey. Or would-be willing, he noticed as the door opened and she appraised him.

“We will speak privately or not at all.”

He eyed his nearest man– a woman named Michelle; all the same in armor, and nodded.

Ket led him in, to the fountain in the front room now stretched out like an accordion dressing wall with its surroundings decorated for a boudoir showing. The theme was something of ancient nature and sex meeting modern technology. Hints of granite and marble inflected themselves in shadow; lime and sandstone in the neutral warmth. Added to and reinvigorated by the sprightly ivy and verdant plant-life otherwise hung about, the fountain was everything N1T3 could have dreamed.

In that moment, Ozell knew everything and nothing.

Foremost, he knew all of the rumors about her were true. Somehow each was true, no matter their contradictions. He knew it in a heart-beat. It could be no other way with a creature so unbound. He knew, too, she was one of the unparalleled beauties. Even in her ruthlessness, she had the art of subtlety; in the gore of the kill, she had predatory grace.

Beyond everything else though, he knew being part of corp-sec meant one day putting a bullet in her. Trying to. Challenging this force of nature… a force he’d be have to extinguish or bottle. At least, attempting to.

It was impossible. He knew it even now. One could no more extinguish a force of nature than pull a star from the sky. He wasn’t sure which Ket was, but he felt her pull. He needed to know what she knew. Needed her. If only for a moment. And if only for a hint of understanding, of proper stimulation.

He never expected to walk away a changed man, but such was her power.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Rise!

I look out,
only to see,
so many people,
fighting to be free.

Whether of chains,
or labels,
the shackles are real,
invisible.

I look up,
only to find,
all the unfortunate,
are all the same kind.

Suppressed and oppressed,
by wealthy elite,
those of power,
whether you believe it or not,
accept it.

Only then,
may it change.
Only then,
may we stop the rain.
Then,
and only then,
may we bring an end
to the pain.

For all those who’ve come,
and those yet to still–
The ones this world,
truly belongs to.

So if you do nothing else,
do at least this:
Rise!

Short Story: Rhythms

To the opiated masses, power was still another fanciful thing only rich folks and electronics had. Humanity had passed the point where it was new or noteworthy, but had not reached the point where it was usual, mundane. Not on a grand scale. They were in the in-between times of yet another thing. No longer miraculous, but not commonplace enough, power was both a thing but not a thing. It was leashed by egghead scientists or courted by overzealous millionaires and billionaires. Or, if one worked their entire life, perhaps a layperson here or there.

It was via that mentality that power was disregarded by Earth’s general population, in both metaphorical and literal senses. Some ruralites even claimed its existence a conspiracy. Those creatures said humans never had, and never would have, power. Not in the grandest senses. Ironically, they were most often responsible for shortages of power.

For the rest and vast majority, power was just a thing beyond grasping. Most especially, great power. It was out of reach, financially or socially, or both. There was no point in dreaming about it because so many other, competing dreams were higher priorities.

Of course, what prospective home-owner didn’t want free, limitless power? What conscious mind didn’t wish it to help them “slip the surly bonds of Earth,” bypass the smog and madness between it and space? They all did, but it wasn’t meant to be. Not yet.

Not until a man lacking both gained them for all.

Thirty years later, Brandon Keller still wasn’t sure how he’d done it. He remembered the night it began though; remembered his dead-eyed stare at the half-dead television flickering from age and water damage. He remembered the mildew mingling with lighter-fluid and spray-varnish. A dangerous and favorite combination. He remembered the sound of the paper-bag over the percussive metal ever-thumping in the background. Most of all, he remembered the utter desolation.

Inside. Outside. Perpetual.

His innards were dank, dark. Even danker and darker than the walls of the abandoned junk-shack tenement he and others like him were forced to inhabit. The walls wept every time it rained. The sound of fucking, fighting, and metal or rap ragers echoed ceaselessly along the floors. Dilapidated, paper-thin walls crumbed between rooms, apartments forming windows into private lives no-one cared to view, their inhabitants least of all– seen one junkie….

They were all junkies. That was why the called it the junk shack. Brandon too, then at least. The place he’d been in wasn’t the best, wasn’t the worst. It did smell. Mold and Mildew. His huffing bag took care of that, but anytime the wind kicked up through broken windows or drafty walls, cat-piss stink from the rotting crack-lab in the next room smothered the varnish-lighter-fluid cocktail.

Something long ago had told him he’d been destined to wallow and rot like so much of the junk-shack before a moment of clarity intervened and the miraculous was found anew in him, through him. Thirty-years later, on the penthouse level of the Keller Power Consortium building, he would flex his bionic hand and feel it a small price to pay for all that was changed.

He’d been bored. High as a kite. Lost at what to do with himself– or why he’d suddenly developed an itch for doing something. He wasn’t aware of a lot in those days. He was, however, beginning to see patterns. Kaleidoscopic. Fractal. Like Fibonacci sequences, but in the repetition of the news and the other bullshit the television spewed at him.

There was a mathematical pattern to reality; an eternal cascading and bumping that seemed on micro-scales to be ever-random, but on macro-scales, its patterns were fairly obvious. He’d watched them for months, completely unaware of them. Then all at once, they were there. Sensory overload. Months of patterned reality crashed down. He couldn’t take it.

He didn’t know any of that yet. It took him months to figure out the particulars. By then, he was recuperating in a hospital, arm missing. He’d somehow managed to avoid the need for skin-grafts. Something about the trajectory of the explosion, angle of the fire. He didn’t much care to know those details. The others though…

When it happened, he was too busy detoxing, relearning there was a world existing outside the junk shack. Likewise, when his head was finally straight, he was too preoccupied with an image that had taken it over. It was more an idea really, but it had a mentally visual component. Two. One of macro-scale. One of micro.

Micro-scale was something like two nuclei, just before collision. All around them were out of focus collisions already occurring, exploding. Then, the Macro-Scale, there he was bionically armed and standing before a chemistry set that made the cat-piss crack-lab’s look like a catheter.

No-one understood it. Not even Brandon. It didn’t matter. Most of human progress was made only to be understood later on. It was yet another of the micro-macro rhythms; a duality of science and reality. There were things seen and things unseen. Both were useful. Both were necessary. Both could be harnessed.

So Brandon harnessed them. Through a frothing concoction of natural elements, the amateur-chemist turned energy-mogul found a formula for cold-fusion. Chemical cold fusion. Free, unlimited power. He stood in the shadow of creatures like Faraday and Tesla, Nobel and the Curies, then stepped beside into their light. There, he found the solution to a problem ages old and eternally important.

And thirty years later, he watched the last residential light flit on in what used to be the junk-shack. Free housing provided by the mogul. Like himself, the majority of people aided by his programs were former users, abusers, would-be burnouts. They weren’t just given the chance to get clean, they were given new leases on life. They were given new reasons to hope, to dream. New paths to achieving those hopes and dreams.

In his own way, Keller had universalized power and set off rhythms. One Macro, one micro. They mirrored themselves via an iteration even far older– as old as time, in fact; change.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Duty and Honor’s Calls

The words of saints,
are written on the walls,
of political prisons,
and private jail halls.

We rose as one,
against tyranny’s fist,
200 years ago,
but now we hesitate to list,

those we know oppress us,
because their money and greed rule.
Man.
Woman.
Child.
Society their collective fool.

When will it break,
for the willfully ignorant?
For I attempt to change it,
with words that are not arrogant.

Many do not see its worth,
to that I have no argument,
because I know the truth,
and I hear the oppressed lament.

Do not mistake my words,
for the ravings of the belligerent,
they are rather pleas,
that with hope I’ve sent,

so that in time,
we may act as one,
and come together,
for sake of Earth and Sun.

Unite and rebel,
against those whom wish you ill,
but do it cleverly with words
and others shall join–
or at least I will.

For the words of saints,
are written on political-prison walls,
but they belong in our hearts,
along with duty and honor’s calls.

Short story: Hungry

Lily-white skin glowed beneath blue-white LEDs. Chrome and black inflected their tints from fixtures, furniture, appliances. The soft pin of wrists against ceramic tile floor ensured she’d try to resist. She did. With the smallest force manageable. She tested her strength against his, back arching. It wasn’t enough to break the bind. Good. Strong– strong enough, anyway.

Half-shaved, platinum-blonde hair writhed against tile. Nails tensed at his shoulder. His face sank between milk-white breasts streaked green with veins like streams of fallen water. Pink nipples throbbed, hardened atop perfectly round areola: Olympus-Mons duplicates in pink and white on either breast. His face pushed past them at the behest of her slightest touch. Her wrists stayed pinned, slid along slender curves, and the dusting of white-blonde pubic hair. His face sank between warm pink.

Hips bucked. Pelvis twisted: Back. Forth. Back again. The rhythm repeated. The first gasp escaped. It had been trapped too long. In a tower. It’s vengeance was the simple act of existing. The first moan started with a purr. It growled from silence into the back of her throat. Another gasp. It slipped out: soft, light. Her hands tensed. Nails dug deeper. His tongue worked. Her mouth opened, shoulders twitched, hips rocked back. Back. Forth. Repeating. A breath came. Louder. The purring moan crept in. It grew. Shifted. Twisted. A deep groan.

Another slight touch. His body moved automatically. In a moment, he was inside her. He threw his head back. Sucked at the taste of her in his mouth. He pressed against her. A flinch. Resistance faltered. She writhed and twitched. The silken warmth was surpassed only by the ambrosia lingering on his tongue. He was drunk on it. Stupid. She was shuddering, body heaving pleasure.

He managed to open an eye: she was glowing. The lights made her look as he felt. The tile floor stole what it could but couldn’t take enough to remove it. He pumped in rhythm. Her hips guided him. Nothingness enveloped his closed eyes. His strength waned: wanting to cum, incapable of it. On the verge. Ready to. Unable. His breaths shortened. Body shuddered. Part of him wanted to scream joy. Another terror. Something was wrong.

He opened his eyes. Confusion. He was inside her. She was writhing. Cumming. She was warm silk, wet, inviting, making him throb. Beneath was pain. How? It was like surfing waves of euphoria. Cocaine-ecstasy sprays inhaled with each breath. She was glowing. He probably was too.

No. She was glowing. He saw it. It tore his mind apart to look. An eagle-eye view of their sex: She was glowing. He was translucent. Pain pulled at him. Pulled him into her. He screamed. She screamed louder. Hers engulfed his. Darkness ebbed in. His eyes were heavy. His gut light. His head spun. The moans grew. The glow brightened.

She turned bright-white. Shining, like a beacon. It pulsed. Everything glowed. Tints inflected infinitesimally on it: Chrome. Black. Pink– slicked wet or swollen. He began to fade. Little-by-little, he disappeared. His screams were quieter. Hers weren’t. They remained level and loud, piercing the growing emptiness in him. He felt himself disintegrating, swallowed by them. Piece-by-piece, his mind shattered. His body flickered. Flash-bulb strobes emitted from her torso. Streams of light snaked from her mouth, throat, nipples, groin, feeding the glow in her torso.

It strobed. He flickered. Alternating blinks: he was gone. There. Gone. Then, gone for good. She still writhed. Her screams echoed along the walls. The whole kitchen breathed. Out, bowing. In, constricting. In its center, she was a beacon of agonized pleasure. He was gone. Dissolved inside her. It didn’t matter. Her hips thrust. Back arched. One last scream. Body rigid. Tense. It pressed up, out. Something inside the light shifted.

All at once the moment passed. Her body collapsed. Twitches fluttered through limp limbs. The light was gone too, her breath trembling. She inhaled sharply. The room breathed a last time, then settled. Then, nothing. All was still.

She came-to in the middle of the floor. Right where she’d been left. Right where she’d left herself. He was good. Strong. He’d had something of the Nords in him. Good, pure blood. It wasn’t enough. Already the hunger was returning. Soon enough, she’d need another. It was becoming as difficult to maintain her appetite as the deceptions. The bartenders all knew her. They’d all seen her leave with the men. The women before that. Soon enough, she’d have to leave again. Sell her place. Shred her identity. She’d done it before.

The next city would need to be far. She could turn to women again. The cravings would go away for a while. The hunger would be sated. For a while. She’d have to go back to men, eventually. Then, it would return; like always, she’ll have gone through all the women, brought on too much suspicion. She’ll have to resort to men again for a while, until they weren’t enough.

Men were easier: they didn’t think about their comrades disappearing with a beautiful woman then never reappearing again. Even if the woman reappeared, the man didn’t have to. He’d fulfilled his conquest. It was never really them conquering. Not when she was involved. Problem for her was, women were the real source: Love. Innocence. Praying off those was power. Even the other women knew it. But women tracked other women. They worried for them. Cared for them. Chasing the real power meant jumping from city to city, always moving. It was difficult.

Then again, maybe she’d finally set down somewhere for good. Plant roots. Find a way to become obscure enough not to stand out. Somewhere it wasn’t as obvious– where people were as much commodities as anything. Parasite-colonies. That’s what they were, what she needed. Places like Hong Kong, Tokyo, Chicago, Berlin, London. She loved them, but stood out too much.

Trends and fashions would change. One day. She’d become as much a background beauty as any could. Then, she’d make her move. Now, she was too in-style. Too noticeable. It would change. It always had. She’d made it through a thousand years of Human existence. Feeding. Fucking. One in the same for her, for all of them. There were worse ways to go, no doubt. Feeding something like her was an honor by comparison.

At least that’s what she’d convinced herself of. In the end all that mattered was her hunger. Hunger: for flesh. Blood. Heat. Already clawing at her. She pushed up off the floor to redress and head to the bar, hungry.

Poetry-Thing Thursday: Ain’t Life Grand?

Electric light.
Supersonic flight.
Pitch-black night.
Heart-attack fright.

Let ink flow.
Be in-the-know.
Take it fast or slow.
Leave room to grow.

Waste time on the mundane.
Be less the sane.
Walk with a gilded cane.
Make love, naked in rain.

Forget the present.
Live in the moment.
The past’s atonement,
assures future proponent.

Usher in good things.
Ensure your inner-darkness rings.
Learn what freedom brings,
Often spread your wings.

Pick your poison,
with some poise, son.
Turn the noise on,
and be the loud one.

Whatever you choose–
play to win or lose,
or to beat the blues,
just keep an eye off the news.

This world is ours.
We are its powers.
Making waves so history sours,
with our faces carved in marble towers–

Above the land.
Atop the sand.
Together we stand.
Ain’t life grand?