Poetry: “Inhuman Love” By E. Lightborn

 Inhuman Love

I’ve become part of the Black Star



My heart turned to steel



Made immortal by these twisting gears



No more pain in life



One more reason why



This is the last bright light



The last night to be true



From here we’re all robots



No love for anyone



Medicine and drool, all you get from here



Feelings broke my perfect routine



A virus that had to get out of me



Something quick replaced with fantasy number two



Blink right out of this world



Come right at me, nothing at all



She loved a machine, a static frame



I loved a dream, a sound of memory



See the part that’s mine



Broken mirrors and binary lines



The shade is covered in blood, these moving moons



Forever broken by, my android mind



Humanity sacrficed in the name of life



Walking in shadows with you



Made to destroy all of humanity



Maybe you should let me in anyway



Death can be my queen, a slave to a routine


 

My Life Right In This Very Moment

public-domain-books

That damn thing happened again. This uncontrollable entertainer slash wannabe author has exploded inside me again the moment I started the life hacking away from the catering, home repairs and yards — odds and ends bullshit — and back toward my old way of being a hardcore nine to fiver giving up every day off I could to squeeze every drop of green out of the whole deal. It’s a problem. In one mindset it is key at this job app’d up point to go do the face-time thing anywhere where it’s not just a “blah, whatever” type resume submission.

But instead I’m in the process of opening a Patreon centered on my writing and just finally bought a web-cam of merit to adhere to the “best practices” guidelines they provide. Probably a new YouTube channel before long too. The thinking here is that, as I have whined about before here into the blogs, there really isn’t any good reason for me to online-publish things like pieces of upcoming fictional works and poetry anthologies. Don’t get me wrong, I love doing this style of free-flowing Web content and this style of post would always show up on this blog.

However, when I look over my hard drive there is a lot of pieces on here that are better suited for a Patreon feed than just sheer live blogging potential future IPs so third-parties can just come in and give zero credit to the author while using a level of ads that is obviously excessive. People should get paid for their best work and art is work like any other. If I were to guess the objections some raise about this style of crowd-funding it’s that they don’t see writing, music, and art in general as something valid to pour money into unless it comes pre-packaged by the existing industry involved.

old_typewriter

What I think many are unaware of in this matter is that in the “old days” a writer of merit would receive an investment in the form of a large lump sum directly from the publisher then given a deadline to produce. This investment was expressly for living expenses, research materials, leisure time, and anything else that might enhance the final product. No going back from the Digital Era, obviously, so e-publishing is just a beast all serious writers have to tackle to ground or be eaten alive when you try and call yourself that in public. But there are many projects going on here and no time at all to finish all of them unless I do that thing where the heady stuff and the final draft prose is paying for itself.

Enough about that. My neighborhood was popping off a second ago. Live music from up the hill and little kids singing some pop song I don’t recognize from over the fence. Out here in the backyard after running around town a bit. This is Santa Cruz, CA by the way or “Surf City USA” or as I want to be known as the birthplace of NHS and Santa Cruz (Brand) Skateboards & Clothing. No I don’t work for them it’s more that you might have seen those stickers around and those are referring to my little surf / skate town here.

Think I liked San Francisco more but the housing costs are just stupid high so that’s off the table unless I could network that shit. Oh what else? All this poetry explosion going on in my head is probably because I’m in love again, which is nice but complicated when these new feelings are for a long time close friend who is keeping at a distance most days. Always been a fool for love but thanks to serious bumps in the road in my youth I can speak very openly and directly about these topics if people are comfortable enough with me to do so. Often the things left unsaid in romance can be sexier than spilling your guts twenty-four seven but oh doggies do things get complicated sometimes and the need for honest communication shifts into the foreground so strongly that it’s almost slapping you in the face.

Okay, that was a “rant” they call them in this box of digital expression that is linked to other boxes that occasionally do this creating unique ideas stuff. Peace, love and chicken grease.

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Eric Lightborn / Eruptide@YouTube out.

Repost: 3 Poems

Not A Love Poem

I don’t write love poems, because I don’t fall in love.

I don’t feel anything beating within, driving me crazy.

I don’t feel anything echoing around, stirring my soul.

There is no lion chasing me, I am running for fun.

I have no desire to find another, I am seeking a solitary life.

I cannot be herded into a pen of passion, I am too wild a creature.

I cannot be tamed to serving compassion, I am too vicious a beast.

I will not be bent into a blade of grass, I was molded of iron.

I will not be twisted into a spiral, I am more rigid than a diamond.

There is no wolf chasing me, I am running for sport.

I have not the will to chase this light, I am a man of simple thoughts.

I have not the will to fight this fight, I am a man of simple design.

These words don’t write themselves, these feelings don’t die.


Twenty-Six


Twenty-six years alive.

Nine years since I fell for her.

Nearly three years since she threw me out.

All that pain nearly twisted me back into a demon.

But I found something, something odd.

Pain is the only teacher that works on the stubborn.

With everything reaching it’s apex, crushing point upon me I have found the final degree.

Everyone we know is more precious than we ever thought but we are no more than what we can do for each other.

Love is not enough.

If we are to survive, at all, we must see what we can do for ourselves and for the world.

It is true vanity to desire to change the world.

It is true humility to wish to change yourself.

No matter what direction any of those we love takes our changing them only pushes them harder out the door.

The young hold all the answers and all the right questions.

This world twists too much on these simple human minds, we are but electrical firings in our deepest thought.

As we enter the world we are able to see it, undiluted.

Then we become faded and lost to this almost as quick as we gained it, to exchange the extreme identity we find appropriate.

Above all else, a child is prone to love.

This is what we lose as become more aware of all that is.

An open heart is punished by all in the mature world.

Yet that is the only nature of existence by which any life form should ever exist.

A pure force of good will and lacking the knowledge required to do serious harm to another’s heart and soul.

If those who draw blood around the world could feel, not the righteous screams from the lost, but an endless love coming from a sworn enemy.

They would place all weapons aside and leave the war making for the next.

Above all the nature of grace within innocence is what all that is true and real is composed of.


If these words were writ in snow, the sun would melt them in a glance.


If these words were writ in a riverbank, the water would rise to wash them as the earth churned.


If these words were cast to the sky, the air would smolder then burn.


If these words were carved to stone, the land would swallow itself whole.


If these words were made to flesh, a soul would cross the divide as the first breath came to be.


These words cast unto me. Forever shall be the same, forever within me.

Things I Didn’t Want To Show You

Release

My heart should be pounding out of my chest, my knees should be shaking, my mind should be racing, but I feel kind of … peaceful … up here. Pigeons flutter out into the wind between these giants of steel, concrete, and glass. My feet inch closer to the edge. The wind should be up enough for kite flying in the park … that shouldn’t matter to me now … I’ll be falling soon.


I stand on the small granite lip before a two-hundred story plunge atop the tallest building I could find without fences or locked doors blocking off the roof. The cars below look like the small toys I once had, the people like specks of paint moving across a gray canvas of sidewalk. I can feel the wind doing what I want it to … pulling me closer toward the edge. My fingers are wrapped around a metal pipe just below the short granite wall running the parameter of the rooftop. With each slow second that passes I can feel my grip loosening.


Voices, probably police, are behind me but I can’t hear them. I can’t hear anything but the rushing of wind between the skyscrapers and the birds cooing and flapping their wings at both sides of my feet. The time, I hadn’t noticed before, the time up here is slowed. Like time itself is attempting to run underwater, to swim upstream. Every second an hour, every hour a day. I could have been on this ledge for a year, or a decade, by now. I could stay another decade or two for all the wondrous peace I’ve found.


Like the crack of a whip my reasons return. Not a soul in the god-forsaken city cares about me more than they care about a stray cat, or these filthy birds at my feet. I have no one close, not the way I want … not the way I need. Sure I have a mom and a dad and all that; it doesn’t matter now though. Everybody tells you you’re doing good if you got that but I think everybody has something more, something they hide from me, and they say all that crap to make people like me feel better. What good is someone if you can’t really talk to them? What good is life if you get nothing from it? … The quiet up here is really, peaceful. Not even the birds can make a sound anymore, every single sound muted except for the wind howling, and pulling.


Some are sure to say I was living in my fantasy of not having what I needed of this world. Some are sure to say I’m selfish and blind what the world holds for me. Some people are worth even less than I. There isn’t anyone in this life who wants to hear the infinite melancholies and ever-resilient droning; but I spared as much for the worst of them. There isn’t anyone not bound to love who did so for very long. They could say they love me when I’m gone but do they? People who love one another – even a little in the only way that matters – give all they have, every effort, every pain, every single word, to see those they love be complete and at peace in even the smallest way. She wouldn’t do that for me and I’ve done it for everyone I could ever have hoped to … everyone … so drained of anything that was ever whole.


These reasons mean nothing, I mean nothing, this day is nothing, this instant is nothing. The process of birth to death is nothing, nothing. I let some tension out of my fingers and lean out to look over the edge … only the tips of each of my fingers remain clutching that cold metal pipe. I can see each ray of sunlight bounce off the windows below, I can feel each singular beat of wings against the air as every bird takes flight at once – enveloping me in feathers, a bed of feathers – as a the pure taste of cold wind forces it’s way into my mouth. I spread my arms into the sky as a forceful gust pushes my chest and face back from the edge and then let my weight pull me over.

Untold

If these words were writ in snow, the sun would melt them in a glance.


If these words were writ in a riverbank, the water would rise to wash them as the earth churned.


If these words were cast to the sky, the air would smolder then burn.


If these words were carved to stone, the land would swallow itself whole.


If these words were made to flesh, a soul would cross the divide as the first breath came to be.


These words cast unto me. Forever shall be the same, forever within me.