September 26, 2012
Purge

Jack-o-lantern clouds rumble spears of lightning. Stay close to the ground where the air is clear. Employ half-dead recitations to ward away the visions. The madmen are dancing like minstrels, clawed feet clacking on a bed of bones. Vaudeville terror takes the form of leprous figures retreating into shadow, moaning an imprint on your future nightmares. The graveyard teems with embodied dread, fangs snapping at the autumn-dry air. The undead are out tonight. It’s an anniversary of the flesh, the twenty-thousandth appearance of the year. Here’s the underbelly of the carnival, where illicit sex acts are traded for odes to secrecy.  

12:45am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yU62eot
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn creative creative writing fiction horror my fiction my poem my poetry my prose my writing nightmares poem poetry prose prose poem prose poetry writing no wave new pagan inframantic the inframantics inframantics 
September 5, 2012
Cast Light

Dregs of incense slither through 60 watts of light.
She passes the roach so he can scorch his diaphragm.
Quasi-fictional flashbacks take arachnid forms,
confessions swimming in smoke …
Let’s fuck in the park she says.
It’s too cold he says.
Sacramental figures adorn the wall,
wraiths in waning white hue  …
It’s time to change the light bulb but she likes being frightened.
Paradise lost in chronic self-glory,
threads of smoke that drift above the sin.
Intercourse deflates his pupils.
I’m sorry God he thinks as she extends the lighter.
Here come on try it—it makes you feel alive she says.
All he wants is to write the novel
but only poems will come.

3:30pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511ySqVpDe
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn poem poetry my poem my poetry prose poem prose poetry the inframantics inframantic writing my writing love drugs dreams dream nightmares fiction my fiction 
August 1, 2012
Abomination

The light of conflict glowing through the blinds. Cubby stirring in bed, eyeing the white slats that pierced his sleep. He retreats from the plot, too afraid to read his own doom as amateur prose. / Fuck, there are some disturbances I can handle. Everybody can, right. You know, a guy’s walking home one day, right. He sees a dead baby in the dumpster. He sees its little body all red and frosty in a KFC bucket. He pukes and he cries and he tells his wife and maybe he can’t sleep for a year. Maybe he never sleeps again. Who knows. But the guy handles it, and do you know why. I’ll tell you why. He handles it because he has to. He handles it because it happened. This is different. I mean, there are some aberrations I can stomach. I really mean that. But I can’t rationalize what I saw that night.—Tell me about it.—I can’t. You don’t understand. A man can’t see these things. A man can’t feel what I felt.—What did you feel.—Stop. You won’t get anywhere.—I’m here to help you.—Yeah, yeah, I know all that bullshit. I know you’re a professional and you took this in school and maybe you missed out on some really great dates because you wanted to pass those final exams. I know all that bullshit. But no matter how many of those fucking Scantron tests have met your pencil stroke, no matter how many fucking desks have holstered your fat ass, you will never understand this.—Why not.—Because you weren’t there. There are some things a man can’t. Some things a man won’t. Oh, forget it.—Why. Tell me why. / Movement in the hallway. The Plague as a prowling object. The grey flesh of an alien violating your body. The demonic white face hovering over your place of worship. You can hear Cubby howling inhuman noises. Shredding the bedsheets with yellow teeth, horror-sickened eyes lolling in the blackness. The Stenographer maps the route of death: subject diverges into the void. Vagueness shaves the boundary. The subject slips your reach. The plotline pulls apart. The denouement evaporates into episodic mayhem. / There are some things a man just can’t.

12:19am  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yQWXy88
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn poem poetry my poem my poetry my writing writing prose prose poem my prose prose poetry fiction nightmares death horror creative Inframantics Inframantic no wave 
July 27, 2012
15th Ave Funeral

Here come the dope-fogged morning sounds—
the wrong RPM setting for
living room finger traps:
scratched records, butter-slimed dishes,
pot resin and foil bags.
Watch eusociality as a mural in motion—
six biramous legs bicycling air,
antennae and mandibles
pecking at the exoskeleton.
You exit with a shudder.
You buy some Advil.
You rub your eyes and frame the event with acronyms.

12:29pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yQCph5C
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: my writing writing fiction poem poetry my poem my poetry Mike Thorn inframantics the inframantics spilled ink creative nightmare nightmares drugs insects 
July 9, 2012
Beyond Measure

“They sacrificed to demons … to deities they had never known …” –Deuteronomy 32:17

Ray glides like a wraith. Silent. Unchallenged. Gun arm navigating through the crowds.

The bodies split for him, forming a strobe lit tunnel. They reassemble as he passes, hot organisms unbalanced by treble. Wet, vapid, contorting. Gyrating in the dark. Seductive. Vaginal.

“Where the fuck is he?” Ray asks. A question for deities, muted by bacchanalian mayhem. Lurid benediction.

The disc jockey sermonizes infidelity, headphones coiling his neck.Tongues moisten the blackness. MDMA fills the room like vapour.

Ray makes his way to the back door. Kicks it open and steps into the night, Colt first. Trained ears prick to catch the sound of cheap leather clopping asphalt.

Ray focuses on the Target. Sprints down the sidewalk, quickly gaining speed. Car speakers demonstrate the Doppler effect. Women exclaim from moving vehicles, imploring him like Argonautican sirens.

He ignores the sounds. The insanity. The chaos. His gun is ready. He is closing in. Catching up with the Target. This fucking deadbeat will need a headstone tomorrow.

His prey is taking form. The variables are falling into place. The outcome is clear.

Ray pursues the Target through traffic, his hands bumping headlights. Car horns assault his senses. An unwelcome choir.

He corners his game at last.

The familiar invocation: No. Please. Don’t. Stop. Listen. Etc, etc.

Ray lowers his Colt and prepares to fire, but the ritual changes direction. Fate has other plans.

The pleas stop. The Target is smiling. The body is bent, hissing and snarling. The face is darkening, features reassembling in shadow.

“What the fuck?” Ray says.

The Target rises to fix red eyes on him. Lips recede into a horrible smile, sharp teeth glinting dully.

All training is forgotten. Ray panics. Fires all his ammo. Head shots, chest shots, abdominal shots. The Target absorbs the bullets, still smiling.

Ray struggles to speak. To protest. To remove himself from the nightmare. No words will come. He stares in terrified awe, the gun slipping from his limp fingers.

The Target approaches. Ray closes his eyes. He braces himself and submits. The Target descends on him, all fangs and malice. Blood courses from Ray’s body and rains on cement. He is dead in seconds.

This ceremony is timeless, more ancient than the city itself. More ancient than every building. More ancient than every body inside those buildings. More ancient than the beliefs and morals that feign vitality inside every one of those bodies, guiding non-events in isolation.

11:42pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yP2FnzC
(Notes: 4)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn poem poetry prose poem prose prose poetry my poem my poetry my writing writing urban dreams drugs nightmares violence demons demon 
July 1, 2012
Batch Hit

“It’s infinite—
right here—
under the dome.”
He coughs a digital halo,
surveys the assembly of
vehicles, streetlights,
uniforms pawning corn syrup.
“Like a fucking snowglobe.”
This is infinite—
an effort to pierce the dome,
eradicate the barrier,
cancel the void.
“Ad infinitum…
this is what I’m saying.”
He swerves in time,
hisses profanity,
concrete blurring the past.
“Write a number repeatedly,
from the moment you’re born
‘til the moment you die.”
Eyes burst crimson,
words stick to his mouth like cotton.
“Just keep adding
and adding and adding
until you’re fucking dead.”
He flicks the turn signal,
lowers the music,
dominates the night’s vibrations.
“You can try to be the one,
but a computer will just
calculate the total.”
He takes another hit
as towers mimic deities,
probing at the sky.

7:31pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yOV-fV3
(Notes: 3)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn drugs nightmares dreams poem poetry my poem my poetry my writing fiction prose prose poetry prose poem new pagan no wave 
June 20, 2012
Old Year

you pry a strip of wood from the coffin:
this is where it happened.
N.L. wheezes, folds like a yoga instructor:
can we stop now?
you think you see a man in there,
a shadowy impression.
you squint, muffling white sunbeams:
you can stop any time you want.

2:56pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yNn2MAF
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: Mike Thorn poem poetry writing my writing new pagan dreams nightmares death my poem my poetry creative fiction prose prose poem prose poetry 
May 22, 2012
Detonation Wraith

Your vantage point is safe but you’re sick with regret. The guys are silent. A beer bottle hisses open and you hear the glug-glug of a first drink. / “This is going to be huge.”/ You feign indifference as the skyline erupts, cutting the illusion of peace with a mournful boom. / “Shit. We did it.” / You know what’s happening. You know that somewhere across the expanse of blackness a family is caught unguarded in the street, screaming a horribly dreamlike symphony as it feeds those crimson tongues. You can almost hear the implosion of automotive steel under the grip of flaming claws. You can almost smell your kitchen of childhood solace—dried herbs torched in a tumult of instant destruction. / “Goddamn. I told you it would be quick.”/ Distant inferno crackles in your pupils as you share a drink with the boys. A drink becomes three drinks, then five drinks, then you lose count. You’re drunk off your ass and the fire keeps burning. / “Goddamn. It was so quick.” / Someone turns to see your expression but you’re not going to look away. It’s your responsibility to keep watch.

12:48pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yLxgBvf
(Notes: 1)
  
Filed under: poem poetry prose fiction lit new pagan no wave new lit my writing my poetry my poem my prose mike thorn nightmares drugs violence alcohol 
March 22, 2012
The Blue Theatre x The Bleak Thought

1. Crucifixion on the road. 2. bleeding naysayers writhing in the sun. 3. “no more youth.” 4. the bodies will drop in a week. 5. no more text beyond the text/no more abstraction/no more ontological freewheelin/no more liberated sextalk 6. only empty backtalk/only mystery cuts, proof that last night happened/only sacrifice and denial and the demon singing you to sleep/only the future in nightmares 7. it’s talking over knowing/it’s secret psychology/theory without words 8. see hormone-pumpers smoking black tobacco—ass fucking androgynous shapes in the shadow of an institution 9. watch the demon stripping the page—

This is a response to Tomas Boudreau’s piece: “The Blue Theatre”. Read it here

1:22pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yIOP_W5
Filed under: dreams literature mike thorn new pagan nightmares no wave poem poetry prose sex tomas boudreau urban writing my writing fiction creative 
March 15, 2012
Brain Heat x B.H.

He translated dreams.
He translated dreams with theory and liberty.
He began losing sleep. Chewed valerian root. Took Valium.
He dreamed her dreams, saw ghosts probe her body with undead fingers.
He couldn’t sleep anymore. He got more exercise. He called the Caring Friend. Visited Doctors. Visited Palm Readers. Drank heavily.
Some days he illustrated nightmares in watercolor. Slugged beer and put phantoms on canvas. 
Some days he took unknown bus routes, hoping the motor could lull him to sleep. Tried to take comfort in nonspecific destinations. Tried to take comfort in the vacuous conversations of people headed to work/school/sex/lunch/appointment/A Better Life.
He translated dreams. He filmed the consultations and glanced self-consciously at the camera. Sometimes he took his patients to bed, fucked them, then laid awake while they dreamed for him.


This is a response to Tomas’s poem “Brain Heat”, which can be read here

12:07pm  |   URL: http://tmblr.co/ZY511yI19cDx
(Notes: 2)
  
Filed under: mike thorn poem poetry my writing writing creative prose fiction dreams nightmares urban new pagan 
Liked posts on Tumblr: More liked posts »