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From poetry anthology "a quill of midnight oil" - parts one through four. I recorded it all in one take, so it's a bit scuffed.
the clock. the clock is ticking. the clock makes a mockery of my wrinkling, disheveled form and i am driven mad by the sound of metal hands turning pushing me forward forward forward.
the fountain drips water - life - essence as rotten and pure as all things must be, and are, and will become. it burns my ears. it screeches my thoughts to a running halt; a rushing oxymoron as i am transposed onto stark white paper jettisoned out from the squeal of ink cartridges. no color feels enough. i am monochrome, monotone, dull, lifeless --- it is a mockery of it, all the same.
i am alone in the house. i am by myself. they could get me. they could take me they could ruin me but i have been ruined, so i fear i should not be afraid. the racing racing screeching whine of a rusty hamster wheel is the only sound that reaches my ears from the cottoning fuzz of my frenzied brain. i am alone. i am by myself. no one to haunt me. no one to listen. none to protect, none to hold. i am but a man at the dining room table storming on keys as if they are the ones who had wronged me but i know better; but, i am not better.
there is no clock. i hear no sound. why did i hear the ticking? where did the ticking come from? why did my ears feel the ticking if nothing is here to tick? what am i doing here, alone, in the panic of a self-imposed 2 AM graveyard shift, with nothing but my most intrusive thoughts for comfort? it's a comfort as effective as a brick to the head for a pillow, but a comfort nonetheless in its painful familiarity.
sometimes i want to cry, knowing that i can prove myself to no one. i could be accused of every wrong in the world and find myself unable to seek counsel, denied the opportunity to self-defend, stripped of all that renders me less-than-whole-but-more-than-empty. it is a pervasive fear, as most of mine are. the kind of dread one cannot escape short of dismantling the system in which they fail to thrive but are at least surviving -- perhaps, it is a kind of learned helplessness.
nothing aches more than the pain of knowing that i will never know if you are out to get me until you are already here. who are you? have you seen these words before? but how, would you have seen them before, when i am writing them on this blank page in this frenzied mania as a farce of self-soothing rocking myself back and forth in the chair as my mind will not quiet my soul will not listen my brain will not still my hands are starting to shake. it's cold i am cold my fingers feel wet with the chill of twilight air i take a breath. i still don't know the answer.
has someone else typed my words, been blessed with this same twisted divine revelation of miserable proportions? when i say i write as a man possessed perhaps there is another prophet such as i who does the same, and we are simply carrying out the same fated phrases.
to know that my words are my own and yet not to fear that what i create is what i must be, and am, and will become to imagine the ticking of that damned clock all the longer as i am pushed towards an uncertain future i did not ask for and may never receive:
who is out to get me, tonight?
in this world there is a price you must pay - the fee of convenience. it is an insidious thing; all-knowing, pervasive; it is what has ruled us for generations and what will rule us for ages to come. but how far will you go, for the fee of convenience? how much will you sacrifice, for the easy way out? at what times are you left with no choice at all, knowing despite all efforts that the easy way out is the only way through?
in this world, we have commodified the concept of ability in and of itself. have we not spared a thought for those lacking? those who are not the same as us, yet the same nonetheless. those who are still human; still deserving even if they cannot afford the toll. to live is enough. to suffer is enough. to be present is enough. to feel is enough. we are all enough. have we not given a chance to those who are in the most desperate of straits? have we not offered a glance to those who are obscured by the gauzelike curtain of this commercialized display? is it too late? are there too many?
for whom does this bell toll? for whom does this toll collect? for what use is a gambler to an empty hall of figureheads, counting coins and dealing in change that dissipates as suddenly as smoke in the wind?
do not pay the toll; do not fear the struggle; do not deny the truth.
to what ends will profit drive us apart, behind empty lines? for how long will the fees we scrounge through our sweat, blood, tears, hardship, and struggle be exchanged for the currencies running a circus of oppression; dead coins dropping in a puppeteer's hands, devalued, as their worth plummets and the toll rises in steep, sharp inflation all the more?
there is another thing, in this world, worth being afraid of. the futility of complacency.
i fear growing stronger; for that i may lose all that i have - all that they have afforded me -- all that i have stowed away like molded breadcrumbs on a sinking ship, in the name of the debtors who have stripped me of worth until i am but a rat chained to the shackles of their standards. a ruler of the ruling class. an ode to senseless pain. i fear growing stronger, knowing that it is their goal.
do not pay the toll; do not be complacent; do not listen without ears or know without knowing. do not deny this truth: you are worth beyond measure.
break their rulers. seize the means of collection and exploitation. do not give in; do not give up - for it is what they are aiming for.
in the glass house of convenience, are we not all hypocrites? do you presume yourself to be free of sin?
the clock. the clock is ticking. the clock makes a mockery of my wrinkling, disheveled form and i am driven mad by the sound of metal hands turning pushing me forward forward forward.
the fountain drips water - life - essence as rotten and pure as all things must be, and are, and will become. it burns my ears. it screeches my thoughts to a running halt; a rushing oxymoron as i am transposed onto stark white paper jettisoned out from the squeal of ink cartridges. no color feels enough. i am monochrome, monotone, dull, lifeless --- it is a mockery of it, all the same.
i am alone in the house. i am by myself. they could get me. they could take me they could ruin me but i have been ruined, so i fear i should not be afraid. the racing racing screeching whine of a rusty hamster wheel is the only sound that reaches my ears from the cottoning fuzz of my frenzied brain. i am alone. i am by myself. no one to haunt me. no one to listen. none to protect, none to hold. i am but a man at the dining room table storming on keys as if they are the ones who had wronged me but i know better; but, i am not better.
there is no clock. i hear no sound. why did i hear the ticking? where did the ticking come from? why did my ears feel the ticking if nothing is here to tick? what am i doing here, alone, in the panic of a self-imposed 2 AM graveyard shift, with nothing but my most intrusive thoughts for comfort? it's a comfort as effective as a brick to the head for a pillow, but a comfort nonetheless in its painful familiarity.
sometimes i want to cry, knowing that i can prove myself to no one. i could be accused of every wrong in the world and find myself unable to seek counsel, denied the opportunity to self-defend, stripped of all that renders me less-than-whole-but-more-than-empty. it is a pervasive fear, as most of mine are. the kind of dread one cannot escape short of dismantling the system in which they fail to thrive but are at least surviving -- perhaps, it is a kind of learned helplessness.
nothing aches more than the pain of knowing that i will never know if you are out to get me until you are already here. who are you? have you seen these words before? but how, would you have seen them before, when i am writing them on this blank page in this frenzied mania as a farce of self-soothing rocking myself back and forth in the chair as my mind will not quiet my soul will not listen my brain will not still my hands are starting to shake. it's cold i am cold my fingers feel wet with the chill of twilight air i take a breath. i still don't know the answer.
has someone else typed my words, been blessed with this same twisted divine revelation of miserable proportions? when i say i write as a man possessed perhaps there is another prophet such as i who does the same, and we are simply carrying out the same fated phrases.
to know that my words are my own and yet not to fear that what i create is what i must be, and am, and will become to imagine the ticking of that damned clock all the longer as i am pushed towards an uncertain future i did not ask for and may never receive:
who is out to get me, tonight?
in this world there is a price you must pay - the fee of convenience. it is an insidious thing; all-knowing, pervasive; it is what has ruled us for generations and what will rule us for ages to come. but how far will you go, for the fee of convenience? how much will you sacrifice, for the easy way out? at what times are you left with no choice at all, knowing despite all efforts that the easy way out is the only way through?
in this world, we have commodified the concept of ability in and of itself. have we not spared a thought for those lacking? those who are not the same as us, yet the same nonetheless. those who are still human; still deserving even if they cannot afford the toll. to live is enough. to suffer is enough. to be present is enough. to feel is enough. we are all enough. have we not given a chance to those who are in the most desperate of straits? have we not offered a glance to those who are obscured by the gauzelike curtain of this commercialized display? is it too late? are there too many?
for whom does this bell toll? for whom does this toll collect? for what use is a gambler to an empty hall of figureheads, counting coins and dealing in change that dissipates as suddenly as smoke in the wind?
do not pay the toll; do not fear the struggle; do not deny the truth.
to what ends will profit drive us apart, behind empty lines? for how long will the fees we scrounge through our sweat, blood, tears, hardship, and struggle be exchanged for the currencies running a circus of oppression; dead coins dropping in a puppeteer's hands, devalued, as their worth plummets and the toll rises in steep, sharp inflation all the more?
there is another thing, in this world, worth being afraid of. the futility of complacency.
i fear growing stronger; for that i may lose all that i have - all that they have afforded me -- all that i have stowed away like molded breadcrumbs on a sinking ship, in the name of the debtors who have stripped me of worth until i am but a rat chained to the shackles of their standards. a ruler of the ruling class. an ode to senseless pain. i fear growing stronger, knowing that it is their goal.
do not pay the toll; do not be complacent; do not listen without ears or know without knowing. do not deny this truth: you are worth beyond measure.
break their rulers. seize the means of collection and exploitation. do not give in; do not give up - for it is what they are aiming for.
in the glass house of convenience, are we not all hypocrites? do you presume yourself to be free of sin?
This is incredible. Amazing writing, and just- aghhhh such a worth it read. Totally didn't just sit here for three hours to read it.. Def check it out, but beware of triggers for gore, angst, and disabilities. (It ends on a good note though 👍)
glass turtles
verse: 2003 rating: t words: 24k
x
Donnie tears off his makeshift gloves with a wet sounding pop, all the air once stuffed in his lungs rushing out of him at like a deflated balloon when he announces to the room in a raspy, tremulous voice,
“I’m done. I’ve done all that I can do.”
Raphael, who’s been standing by his side for the last four and a half hours, has paled, all the green spilling from his skin like a pen that’d long since ran out of ink, his hands shaking like the beginnings of a seizure creeping up on him; Donnie worries for a moment as he watches him carefully, afraid that he might work himself into actually passing out on the floor.
Instead he’s stealing himself, a white knuckled grip on the edge of the steel table in front of them both, wearing a grim smile that doesn’t even make it halfway across his face before he’s soundlessly making his way towards the office chair in the corner and dropping into it with a heavy, shaky breath that sounds like it’s one he’s been holding onto for some time.
“You did good, Don,” comes Leo’s scratchy, raw voice. A chance glance upwards and Donnie would note that his brother's eyes, normally so stoic and sharp and alert were now brimmed with a hue of purple rings, like fresh bruises, tumid from the weighty toll of his newfound grief.
His face is gaunt like he’d dropped about ten pounds of weight in the space of just one night. There’s still pink blood stains smeared sticky across his plastron, crawling up his arms and his neck, drying in three fingered swipes that makes his stomach roll with a sudden queasiness.
He doubts his brother is even aware of it being there, painted across him like that.
“I. Uh. Yeah, thanks,” is all Donnie is able to say in response. He feels void of any possible remaining energy he possesses still. His bones feel heavy like lead, causing his body to bow like a weak, old branch. His eyes tiredly skate across the room. They fall heavy on the cot bed that holds his other remaining brother.
“You need to eat,” Leo says suddenly, appearing at his side in an instant. Or maybe Donnie had just been staring so long that he hadn’t heard him moving towards him, he can’t be sure. His throat is tight and each breath that squeezes past the lump there comes and goes with a tremendous effort.
“M’not hungry,” is Donnie’s quick knee jerk reaction response. He needs to stay. He needs to monitor his brother. Just a few hours ago he had his hands holding together his skull. His brain seeping between his fingers like unset jello. His heart had— his heart had stopped. Over and over again. Donnie couldn’t leave now.
The mere thought of food makes his stomach roll. He can’t eat. He doesn’t think he’ll ever eat again. He’s already made peace with that.
“Don?” Comes Raph’s voice from across the room, tentative and slow. It draws his attention towards him, watching where he’s slumped over in his chair like he’d just woken from a long, restless nap.
“Don, c’mon. Rest. Please.” His eyes are wet with fresh tears, his face already stained from the previous. His hands are still shaking, the tremor working its way through every nerve beneath his skin. Donnie briefly wonders why he isn’t shaking too.
Had he gone completely numb?
He doesn’t get a chance to vocalize his protest a second time, this time hands are moving across his shoulders, making him flinch before he feels the pad of Leo’s thumb work itself in small circles across his scales. He’s guiding him out of the lab before he can try and fight him on it, steered right towards the couch where Raph has already beat them to it with a pillow and a blanket.
“We’ll take turns checking on him,” Leo assures him as he practically pushes him back to sit. “You need to rest, Don. You don’t even need to sleep, just lie flat and close your eyes for a bit, okay?”
As soon as his shell hits the soft plush of their couch, Raph is dragging the old moth bitten blanket up over him, stopping short at his chin. Up close, both brothers have a thick coppery smell about them, and Don supposes he’s probably got the same stink on him too, having failed to wash it off from himself at all.
He doesn’t have the heart to tell them both, though. They’ve been through enough tonight.
“I’ll wake you if we need you,” comes Leo’s empty promise. Don doubts that he will, knowing his older brothers they’ll sit virtue in that lab without him for the sake of letting him rest, but Donnie also doubts he’ll be able to find sleep so easily after tonight, so it will only be a matter of time before he’s joining them.
He simply hums as if to pacify them both.
Raph flips the switch for the main light, blanketing the room in darkness, but with his finely tuned ninja skill, he’s able to watch the shape of his brothers as they shift out of the room, hushed voices only heard with a strained, precise ear.
“What do we do now, Leo?” Comes Raphael’s voice, laced with unbridled fear. It forces Donnie’s gut into a hard, unmoving knot.
“I have no idea, Raph,” comes Leo’s wavering response. “We just wait. Together.”
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