MozartsNemesis

Jesse-Bear

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Sleepy Seedlings

My hometown holds a hallowed hub in the heroin hall of fame, between the memorial for Janis and the statue of Cobain and while everyone knows that abuse and addiction are shaking hands on shady deals most people treat trauma like corrupt politicians: As long as they don't have to see it, they can pretend it isn't real. I still remember the night I slept in that white oak tree and appreciated the irony in hanging from from the branches of an entity that has seen more winters turn to spring than I will ever know, because the tree understands that as long as it has sap running through it's limbs decay will always turn to growth. That is to say: That all those times the little pieces of me died it was only life burning my forest to the ground so the next seeds I sowed would grow in fertile soil, but I am tired of planting the corpses of people I once named friend; of watering their gravesites with tears and liquor knowing that pain is the only thing that will ever flourish there.

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Sleepy Seedlings

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Full Name: Orocrist Belek Atar

Full Name: Orocrist Belek Atar Nickname: Ory Age: 17 Gender: Male Height: Six foot two Weight: 180 lbs Hair color: Black Eye color: blue-green Weapon(s): Longbow, double hand-axes Birth town: Jerusalem, Israel Previous towns: Baltimore Maryland, Quantico Viginia Current town: San Diego California Languages: Arabic,English, Love Interest: None Sexual Orientation: Straight Race/Ethnicity: Caucasian History: Navy brat, spent twelve years in jerusalem before heading back to the states,lived on a couple of bases on the east coast before Dad was stationed in San Diego. Plans to attend San Diego State University next year. Personalit

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Sleepy Seedlings by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

Sleepy Seedlings

Man Found Having Tea Party With Mouse Again. by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

Man Found Having Tea Party With Mouse Again.

(A Random Headline Poem) The earl gray was cold by the time the Whitecoats put John A. Everyman in custody, wrapping his frame with duck cloth "for his protection." John doesn't really notice. He's thinking about the last conversation he had with Mr. Rodere, when the tea had been steaming and life was simpler. "I wish I was more like you, Mr. Rodere. You travel from place to place freely and never hunger or thirst. You don't have to watch politicians destroy your livelihood, or see friends and family divided, at each others throats simply for being a different brand of human. Your children won't be forced to fix the mistakes you've made, if they're even repairable. I'd give anything to have a life like yours." Mr. Rodere is quiet for a moment, and then, with a twitch of his graying whiskers, puts down his finger sandwich and speaks. "We are the same, my friend. Sure, the cheese they offer you is grander, and the trap more elaborate, but in the

Split Level by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

Split Level

We've all heard it said that a house set against itself cannot stand and I am growing ever-fearful because lately, it seems as if my flatmates are roping themselves off with every manner of cloth or cordon; Clawing chasms out of carpet until everyone stands at a precipice. One group is holding the bathroom hostage. Another has barricaded the steps, where they sit at the top and laugh and lob rotten fruit at the "Downies." I myself have retreated to my room and twice a week, I walk to my locked door and scream into the void, with the hope that someone will hear my echos. All the while, the masters of this house collect our rent money, with no intention of ever paying the mortgage.

Biding Time by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

Biding Time

It was drizzling and grey when I walked into this janky little gas station right off Highway 51. This is my store. I know all the cashiers by name. I shoot the breeze with the regulars on days when life is not pressing and they always have my smokes. The day was like any other in a deep south winter; hoodies and sweaters prevailed. I grabbed my daily Dew as I greeted Lashonda. She's my favorite, always singing hymns or gospel in a voice made for an audience and a smile wider than the Texan plains. As I got in line, I could see it would be a long wait. Three people ahead of me and the ladies at the counter arguing furiously over which scratch off tickets to buy. So I did what I do whenever I have to wait: I watched people. Directly in front of me was an ancient black man. His white hair stuck out from under his cap in all directions, like an over grown Azalea. He was rail-thin and walked with a cane but his head was held high and I could almost sense in him the endurance of

Dreams of a Younger Man by MozartsNemesis, literature

Ragnarok by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

Ragnarok

There is a room inside my brain that I retreat to on rainy nights and days when Thor is beating his anvil loud enough to send shockwaves through my soul; A room with a sky only I can see, where metaphors zoom by like comets but rarely make an impact because they lack the proper gravity. This is my personal Valhalla but lately I do not make merry, nor sup with star maidens, nor raise my cup to Brother Moon who, like me, is only a reflection. I am tired. I am tired and still a battle rages every night in the mead-halls of my mind: Doubt sneaks in with hidden daggers and hamstrings Ambition. Failure dual-wields axes and cuts down Confide

'87 Chevy by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

'87 Chevy

I have taken this earthen vessel, this highly-tuned flesh and blood impossibility and ran it ragged as a rental car. The gas pedal sticks to the floor, brake dangling uselessly underfoot because I have never known when to stop only how to bailout when it gets too fast, tuck and roll and hope to come up only bruised instead of broken. The clutch is worn out from all the times I've changed directions with no warning and some days I wish I could poke my head under the hood of my life, twist bolts that haven't met a wrench and come away with a better understanding of how my engine works. The only thing I've learned from taking things apa

Cycles by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

Cycles

I recently read an article that explained how an electron chooses what form to take only when it is observed. Thus we create what we observe. If this is true, then we are gods killing gods in alleys and I wonder if Zeus ever survived a drive-by and if so did he have the wherewithal to fire back with lightning or bullets and either way leave a body smoking? I wonder if Daedalus envisioned 'bangers rolling dice in the corners of his labyrinth while poor families starved a couple of blocks over but can't be seen because the walls are too high. A place where everyone worships a neon Minotaur, heads bowed, never noticing how they walk in ci

Waste Management by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

Waste Management

Lately, I am more garbage man than gunslinger, digging through discarded similes and putrid prompts on the way to this literary landfill in my mind; Lost, and looking for a way to recycle these ruined rhymes, Rembrandt of Rot Da Vinci drawing dreamscapes in detritus and dross. When the day is done I sit back, sip upon the six-pack of solitude, and reminisce of simpler times when inspiration came in sudden bursts: hot lead and hailstorms, ideas striking brainsoil like gunshots, bloody and breathless. I have taken to staging seances of the sub-conscious seeking spirits of subdued songs that I have slaughtered in the search for sanctity,

This is Irony by MozartsNemesis, literature

Literature

This is Irony

I count the passing of days in ashtray soldiers, and stillness in the words of dead poets. We write our secrets on the inside of our lungs and hide truths on the inside of our stanzas, because it’s acceptable to wear hatred on your arms, but vulnerability is a mark of weakness. I have choked down everything: pain and shame and arsenic tranquility, to spew forth such paltry words and call it poetry. A waltz away from thirty eight caliber oblivion we press back, back because death isn’t as romantic as we hoped, and poison is quieter than a gunshot.

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