tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-60651612024-02-28T11:42:30.158-05:00FeedbackReturning to leaveMatthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-7444086341578607972010-11-23T20:09:00.002-05:002010-11-23T20:13:35.406-05:00Excerpt: Second WorldName: Paul WatsonCINumber: 3699259.Age: 12 Paul Wilson is an aspiring basketball player. It is an one of the First World games, invented by a mathematician back in the twentieth century. His father taught him about it as a child and he has loved it ever since. “It is speed, trajectory, and the magic of flight, my son...” Paul was born with a quickness rating of 933. This is well above Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-3112592531011508252009-12-17T08:52:00.002-05:002009-12-17T09:15:18.196-05:00'The Starbuck'Location: Some locally-owned Coffee ShopCharacters (All regulars at the shop):Jeroh: Male. Athlete at a local sports team. Good looking. Insecure of Morgan’s occasional homosexual nature.Vikki: Female. Slightly plump, down to earth Hair Stylist. Wears glasses. Has a crush on Jeroh.Samantha: Party Girl/Barista. A better artist than her boyfriend.Morgan: Barista. Flamboyant, open sexuality which heMatthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-26251072905868433752009-12-08T17:49:00.001-05:002010-01-15T00:09:29.036-05:00The StainOutside? Well it’s blue skies. Inside, I see a couch... and that is vomit beside my mouth. That rhymes, but it’s all over the cushions, and the carpet. Fuck, definitely getting up---another one. How novel, but this has already soaked in. My brain tries to rush into some sort of gear, like a kid too lazy to get off the bike and fix the chain. I stand up. I need... things to clean with---I need aMatthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-33279922975135557392009-10-18T22:51:00.002-04:002009-10-18T23:23:59.293-04:00The Origin of DanceHow can we know the dancer from the dance? ~William Butler Yeats River was only a young girl when she lead her wandering people to the river by which they now dwell. A child not searching for her name like most, but instead walking its first steps towards the familiar, the self-determined. She wears her name with comfort, like one should. Consistently more clever and generous than the rest,Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-91443119684222132882009-10-03T09:00:00.002-04:002009-10-03T09:03:22.936-04:00Kay's DinerIt was right there in her diner,None soon from heart and the undone, Now a knot it's tight, With a smile, it's like: To touch her mouth when it is moving.Laugh, and drink some teaLonely but, how you see meI'll mark this time And then rewindOh how it felt so forward gracefulStudious essential: glasses perchPlayful jab, a coyful smirkTo her dismay I sit awayThis isn't bubble hubrisShe maybe likes Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-58071122432135652592009-06-10T13:30:00.006-04:002009-06-15T10:56:38.012-04:00Soul HarvestBrian lays beside his wife trying to match his breathing to hers. He is tempted to wake her up, just to bask in her presence. He does not want to deal with the pointed insomnia, clicking between his nightwardly thoughts. The husband and father turns over and over next to his wife. Trying to give up into his pillow, failing each time.He hears something, underneath. The slight vibrations and Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-36922058367024457312009-06-08T21:36:00.001-04:002009-06-08T22:24:44.229-04:00BowlingBowling is a game that takes place in frames, added together. When you get a strike you want to capitalize on the next frame. It has that compounding element to it. A strike is the best there is. Total perfection. It is the moment when you realize that all matter is in motion, and every waking second is the messy collision of forces, but in that prolonged moment is the essence of art and sport Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-34732799089443840582009-06-02T23:00:00.001-04:002009-06-02T23:00:31.331-04:00AnimusThen the body hit the floor. Sophia’s frame stings with the heat of love. What an inferno it can create. She would scream but there is no one in the house that will do anything. This is not new, and there is nothing but the floor. Likewise Frank doesn’t say a word, he’s always been the quiet type. It’s just the sounds. A constant reminder for both. This external world. Sophia was born a very Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-54785050566954865692009-05-26T06:41:00.001-04:002009-05-26T06:41:21.287-04:00KentvilleKent is a native to these lands. He is nomadic, but this region alone is his home. Here we find the finished limb of a ancient growth: the evolution of man. Kent stands beneath a long-rooted tree, his kind a key affinity to the mother giant. She has rejected a persistent stone, by the looks of him, from the thick jungle brush. He is scarred, and resilient -- unnecessary for the harmonized. He Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-15063700703074252712009-05-26T06:36:00.003-04:002009-07-23T20:47:27.666-04:00The Ebon EncounterThe humans know him as Ebon. A simple enough name, easy to pronounce. He stands at the front of the classroom, behind him is a nano-particle board --as requested-- which he controls by telekinesis. Mathematical formulas, general diagrams, detailed pictures. A nano-particle board is the bare minimum with a species that is largely non-telepathic. Ebon, of course, doesn’t speak. This isn’t the arts,Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-40117851247066927322009-05-08T06:03:00.000-04:002009-05-08T06:04:03.092-04:00MutingOne of these houses is the sameOne of these songs is the cane,One of these rules in my brainLooking to cement what’s mine...my mindOne of these days it will endAnd all of these times that I pretendTrying to care, to sew, to mendThe dreams inside me muteJust whispers of the coming failMy sail is limp, this boatThis liquid fucking bucket pailClouds of a blackened sunBegunMatthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-5125854334778906052009-03-12T19:29:00.001-04:002009-05-01T21:18:20.103-04:00OphiuchisBy Matt Jones I think if you remember back far enough, you will find a heavenly time. For me it was a long time ago when I was a spoiled kid. I had everything, including an atmosphere which would let me get away with it. There is something about being young where anything goes because children are closer to where we all want to be: sitting in the sun up on that island. God is my head and there isMatthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-80870695365258213952009-03-11T12:04:00.001-04:002009-03-11T12:04:24.640-04:00AsleepIn another world a whiteout is what they call it when unbelievable phantasms spray, blanketing the sky completely. They appeared to have sprayed all throughout the night. Waking up I could see the outline of the sun trying to beat through the putrid chemical haze that our handlers have gassed over the cornfield.It's 12pm and I am already tired and stressed for reasons known. By whom? Is this Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-87770819483079740812009-03-02T19:00:00.001-05:002009-03-02T19:00:34.149-05:00LiquidThe way to be interesting is to just dive into something. In the deep end, of course. If you make a bold statement without justification it can either sink or swim. If you’re still reading this, then butterfly, baby, we’re swimming here. Keep a rhythm. Kick with action and consistent imagery. The stories that drown, a flailing waste of time are either too calm, or carrying too much subcurrent. Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-30001641933687982212009-02-18T17:48:00.000-05:002009-02-18T17:49:45.496-05:00Sign“Essentially the distinction is thus: a sign gives reference to that which is known, whereas a symbol points to the muted unfamiliar.” -- Carl Jung. Francis Bacon adjusts his cumbersome black hat slightly, watching the man seated across from him at the large library table as he flips through one of his many books with earnest. The book in question is purple: one of three the man keeps on his Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com85tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-7359023754767399142009-02-14T02:10:00.004-05:002009-02-14T02:53:21.031-05:00Love BombFebruary 10th. Holidays are many things; most people either seem to enjoy them immensely, or dislike them for the reasons that the majority do. We at the Eros Group side with the minority in that many holidays are simply consumerist whore outs, but as our name implies we represent the love which is found among us all, the real love, not some socialist catch phrase. We stand here on Valentine’s Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-63530732430815526162009-01-21T09:45:00.002-05:002009-08-19T09:57:38.320-04:00Obama: Cryptic Rock StarThe 44th President of the United States of America is the first in a number of ways. Besides being black, President Obama is the first President ever to give his inauguration address entirely in musical form. The twenty (out of twenty-four) minute guitar solo, played by President Obama, who opted to not wear a shirt during this process, caught some by surprise.Ronnie, a DC native, did not approveMatthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-45595685848919970792009-01-18T21:38:00.004-05:002009-01-18T21:55:49.102-05:00Villemont.Villemont is a small road; only through continued use does it keep its distinction from the approaching thorns and looming trees. If even at a slow rate, it is surely closing up behind them, as it should be. A net of shadows crawls up the marked white-and-blue police car as it crawls through what is, despite the street sign’s recent theft, still an official street. After all it’s their job to Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-75349174936387445772009-01-04T18:54:00.001-05:002009-01-04T18:54:15.800-05:00Dinner PartyThe decision to attend the dinner party was one I made in the pretext of unchoice: my ex girlfriend Katie. I have never been happier than with her, and love is never a choice, but an order you are happy to obey. Of course no one chooses to fall from grace, but the closer you get to someone the more graceful choices must be. The same goes for death. Till this day it amazes me that a connection so Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-85032250051485554182008-12-21T07:27:00.002-05:002008-12-21T07:44:47.543-05:00CryI don't know what to say I'm writing;That's the sound of my heart, right thenWhy do you whisper things so sweet?Right on through to where you used to be.I don't know where it could have gone;Think you know, but more you know his song,And maybe mine is too longTell me darlin do you hear that sound?World is dying, it's no longer round.(Or is it the brain?)I sometimes wish I could go again,So we Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-8735145953671699072008-12-09T15:07:00.000-05:002008-12-09T15:09:12.007-05:00Flight Cancelled.I amsad today.Surely I deserve love,as everyone does.How is it she can trade itfor security? What is that?I could feel it the moment it happenedAnd she made me suffer for days.Few understandThe literal power of thoughts. Now she is with him.He does not make her laugh.I see through her lies, I cannot be consoled.One day I will scratch out my eyes.I am a mirror; monster.I am so sad.... so all alone.Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-50921857258600282502008-11-29T16:28:00.000-05:002008-11-29T16:29:39.530-05:00A couple places, a couple styles.Coburg Rd. I have run up this street, part of a panting, sweatpanted pack of varsity athletes. I have all out sprinted down this street, all alone, with sweet dark rum pouring from my pours into natural puddles; the singles, the doubles. I have walked hand interlocked with admirations of my sports, of physical stock. Seen from the gym the street is straight, and the lure of the whistle, well thatMatthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-63032022960334221332008-11-24T22:13:00.002-05:002008-11-24T22:25:16.322-05:00I haven't said much today.Man of the sky; man in the boxThe one with the style, with the short locksAnd an open gazeClosed up passions... they fadeThey smash and renew Into the fashionable way he looks while not walking away; Click, everlasting.Or, while walking away from the best the earth has To offer: GlowOf the natural order. The one with the styleWoman of wonders; the secrets in warmth.Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-58941590451997553702008-11-13T15:35:00.001-05:002008-11-13T15:37:21.300-05:00Kanye SongI started a rhyme-scheme verse in my head while listening to this songhttp://ca.youtube.com/watch?v=-hotjeKvovgSo I decided to finish it off on paper. Only five years past I had so much soulI would play with my homieShe’s say ‘That joke’s so old’ I’d say ‘I’m really phony’ But, um, I said ‘hey phone me’But now, I feel so lonely--But she don’t wanna know Even though she wanna know me. So, the Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6065161.post-72485097099497661092008-11-12T19:28:00.003-05:002008-11-12T19:39:48.127-05:00HyperboleA particular girl named Claire sits beside some guy in their philosophy class. She is etching numbers and letters onto a piece of paper -- a game -- different values in a matrix of squares. The guy beside Claire does not know if the game has anything to do with the lecture, nor does he know this of Claire.Claire’s classes, the history of rational thought, are merely subplots of attention, easily Matthewhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10846605536992239098noreply@blogger.com0