Archive for fragments


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , on February 17, 2017 by beautifulimposter

Skyline punctured by silhouettes
Tiny holes of nothing wheeling, diving
Carving strange and wonderful curves
Patches of night in bird shapes
Defying the rising sun
Left behind are the weight of thought or memory
Wingtips trailing feathery clouds
Inky fingering postscripts along the horizon
Treatises upon the marvel and freedom
Of bodies suspended upon oceans of clear air.


Vatican Gift Shop

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on September 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I feel so very raw
Skin rubbed and scraped
Steel wool ragged
Every surface open
Bloody, layer after layer removed
Exposed muscle
Nerves connected to wires
Current turned up
Rigid, epileptic
Twitching, never ending spasm
Fish flopping on desert rock
Drowning in the bright shimmering air
Hallucinating oceans
Superimposed over smooth, slippery dust
Gasping, perfect last kiss lips
Parched, dry as bone
Dry as tears from decades ago
Just as impotent
Just as barren
Ribs open to the sky
A scuttled ship thrusting upwards
Jagged reminders pushing up
Through mold and grassy tussocks
Fragments to be stored
In blackened silver reliquary
All the tiny pieces reverently gathered
Buried in the deeper silence
Body become mineral
Spread out over a thousand velvet cushions
Perhaps clutched to a bosom
In hope or succor
That I could never provide
Whilst I was meat, just little better
Than carrion
That held breath for far too long,
Better now a souvenir
Frozen under plastic
In the Vatican gift shop.

Cold Comfort

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 7, 2015 by beautifulimposter


Before you decide to open a vein tonight
Just bleed into me
I will take your pain away
One more stain on these hands
Won’t make that much difference
And for once, perhaps
I can turn these bloody instruments
To the sutures holding your ragged wounds closed.

Not So Big and Bad

This wolf
Is tired, hungry and cold
If he knocks at your door
Will you let him in?
Is there a place by your hearth
For a repentant villain?

Put to Rest

all my sunrises are open wounds
dripping, suppurated, raw
blue skies crisscrossed by scar tissue clouds
winds howling cold comfort
scouring flesh to ivory knob knuckled bone
carving fist from scrimshaw
scrabbling iron hard earth
to bury themselves
along with all the dreams
beneath six foot deep dirt blanket
unmarked under mounded coverlet
of winter withered grass.


Hard Currency

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , on October 29, 2014 by beautifulimposter

I’ve a pocket full of leaves
A series of dreams
Scribbled out along the creases
I’ll make a book of them someday
Stitch the pages with spider thread,
Put it under a child’s pillow
A gift of autumn and magic.

I caught your breath
Pulling the strands tangled
Between the grave cold fingered air
Twisting them up in smoking skein
I’ll put it in a merchant ivory box,
Hold it for you
Just in case you run out.

I’ve been gathering rain
In old china cups and mason jars
Holding on to the tired clink
Of busted wind chimes
My fingertips rub rust
On bicycle frames and wrought iron fences
My coat tails drip the dusty wings of moths.

The ghosts of train whistles,
Coal throated wheezing
Live beneath the clapboards
Of my chest
Piercing the nighthawk diner stillness
Mumbled boot heeled call
Conjuring gypsy rag folk
Up out of dust.

I am stranger alchemies
Formulas sewn into the seams
Built of coat hangers and sideshow canvas
I’ll tell your fortune for a nickle
Sell you forgotten words for a dime
Slow shoe shuffling,
“Step right this way folks”
I’ll be two counties away
Before you notice I took
All the good spoons.

Off on my heels
Vagabond trip tramping
Waking up grumpy trolls
Plucking shadows like apricots
I’m the one
Living in the corner of your eye
A twisted magpie hoarding
The pennies of thoughts
Small change,
But there’s no harder currency.


Two Short, One Long

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 8, 2014 by beautifulimposter


I spoke once
And all her clothes fell off
Arms open, she was naked
Even flesh translucent
A glass house
Vine’d over twisting arteries
A nest for the trembling small bird of her heart.

I didn’t notice
Her arms were as open
As the tides
An emblem of solace
Russian gilded icon of mercy
Laying on rumpled sheets
But I sat at my chair
Just kept talking.

The wind came
In through the window
Blew her leaf like swirling
Out of my door
Leaving just a scrap of red dress
And a note I will never read,
Rustling about with all the others
Dancing about my feet
In rag tag exhausted limp waltzing
To the tune of my voice
Endlessly dropping poems
To the emptiness.


I am an old clay vessel
Glaze crackled
Weathered and stained
From holding much wine
Now empty of all
But memories of purpose
Forgotten on the back porch
Gathering rain
Reflecting passing clouds
In clear water
It is the empty moments
That we can then allow
Ourselves to be filled
With what is most important
Clouds, and the reflection of light.


will you come tonight
my love
you promised
a red hood and nothing else
you promised
and I am waiting
in the deep, in the dark
teeth sharp and white as the moon
hunger red and wet
will you come love
I am waiting
in the deep and the dark
for the promise
of tender lithe limbs
and cries beneath
the hunter’s moon.


Being the Short History of Oddr Last-Laugh

Posted in Fun stuff, Journal, Prose, Writing Process with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 4, 2014 by beautifulimposter

I haven’t written/posted anything creative in a long while, which has kind of been bringing me down. So I was fiddling with this program that generates characters for P&P RPG (it’s HeroLab for those who might be interested) and I wrote up this little background/character sketch. It’s not half bad and I like the character himself quite a bit. While this wasn’t necessarily intended for actual fiction I thought I’d post this up as just some new content as well as showing a little of how I develop the characters I end up using in my stories. I almost always do one of these little write ups either on paper or just in my head to get a grasp on who the character really is. Even if the background is never mentioned in whatever I’m writing I have it in mind to give me a handle on how they might react to a situation or feel about something. Just an insight about my process, for those interested.

Oddr earned the name “Last-laugh” for two reasons. The first was simply the fact that despite what cruelty and hardship life has presented him with he always maintained a good humor, taking the view that any day he was not dead was a good day, that there was always something worse and dwelling on the hand fate had dealt was as pointless as trying to charge the waves of the incoming tide. This outlook served him in good stead as the ships boy on a longship raiding up and down the northern coasts. His father was a drunk and a gambler and had fallen so deeply into debt he sold his only son into indentured servitude as wergild to a Viking captain.
Oddr spent his boyhood among hard men, performing back breaking labor, subjected to beatings and a world of violence and bloodshed. Despite this environment he managed to keep a sense of honor and what was right. It was this that lead to the second event that led to his epithet. On one particular raid the captain of Oddr’s ship was in an especially cruel and bloodthirsty mood and had decided that having slaughtered all of the coast town’s menfolk, taken most if the women as slaves and burning the town to the ground was not enough he also decided to butcher the town’s children just to add to his already fearsome reputation along the Varisian coast. Despite having participated in the raid, this act of senseless violence was too much for Oddr who stood between his captain and the children huddle on the beach between the longship and the roaring flames of their village behind them. He would not move and the captain took this as a challenge to his authority. A ring was formed around the two men and a brutal combat was fought. It really was one sided as the captain was a seasoned veteran, having survived more raids and duels than he could count and Oddr was repeatedly driven to his knees or laid out on his back, only to return to his feet with a grim, almost suicidal determination. Even the crew and captain began to look on with a certain respect as this boy stood swaying, bloody, barely able to raise his weapons but still willing to fight. Still, the captain could not brook this upstart’s challenge, so again and again they clashed until at last Oddr was on his knees, disarmed, barely conscious. Believing the battle won, the captain chose not to slay Oddr, feeling such as he would one day make a valuable warrior, but he also thought one more lesson was in order. Taking his dagger, the captain held Oddr by his hair and sliced his cheeks from the corner of the lip in a horrific grin. “Now you will always know that I have the last laugh little boy” the captain gloated, turning his back on Oddr to complete the slaughter he had set himself upon before he was interrupted by this pup who thought himself a man.
Oddr swayed on his knees, his vision blurred by blood, sweat, and pain watching the tall shadow of his captain walking with sword draw towards the helpless victims, the captain’s harsh laughter ringing in his ears. All of the pain, all of his helplessness, shame, anger, and hate drew into the pit of Oddr’s stomach, flaring into an intense, bright point of cold fire. New strength lifted Oddr to his feat with a bloody snarl and he charged. Hearing this, the captain turned, sword raised only to be faced not with his battered ships boy but a blood soaked hell wight bearing down on him. The one moment of shock was all Oddr needed, batting aside the advancing blade he crashed into the captain, his fists crashing again and again into ribs, face, the bones snapping like kindling. He drove the captain to the ground, continuing to drive his hands into the hated face until it was no more, just a gory, gaping ruin.
Long after the captain was a cold corpse, Oddr kept pummeling him until the rage passed and overcome with fatigue and loss of blood, he swooned, blacking out onto the cold sand. He awoke several days later in a crude shelter, bringing tended by one if the village women. He was told that after he had so savagely killed the captain, the remaining reavers had taken the spoils of the raid but had left the children and released the women to honor what they believed had been a heroic death. Even though he had been one of the men who had helped slay their husband’s and sons the women folk had taken pity on Oddr, still little more than a boy himself, who had struggled so hard to save their children. They stitched up his wounds and tended to his fever as he slowly recovered. The scars on his face did knit together, however his face will forever bear a horrible permanent grin. Once he was well enough, Oddr thanked his saviors, taking his leave to make his way in the world. From the stories of the villagers and his former shipmates that spread he had garnered some small note particularly in his homeland of the Linnorm Kings. Soon he was appended the name “Last-Laugh” as he travelled the lands, earning his way with sword and axe as a mercenary and enforcer, doing his best to live by his own code of right and honor in a hard, cruel world often bereft of both.



Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 8, 2014 by beautifulimposter

The imposter has struck again, swift, merciless, and deep. My pen was dripping sweet dark juices onto the page and I was gripped by that familiar rushing high I can only find in the narrow space between the page and the ink. But enough of this prosy horseshit, seriously, I have written something new and strange and it must be shared, put out into the world like a sackful of unwanted puppies or young fairytale sons to seek its fortune and place in life. There I go again getting all attempted witty again, bah, this introduction is running four legged away from me, but I shall catch it, slick salmon of the mind even though salmon have no legs whatsoever…there, I have taken my mess and they’re starting to kick in now. So, this piece is a little bit different, most notably in style, the line lengths I have chosen are shorter than I have been using and it seems almost breathless and tangled which I like and I hope works. I change my voice only reluctantly, so this is an experiment of sorts. The other difference to this piece is that rather than exploring a continued line of thought on melancholy and self vituperation/castigation, it explores another topic much on my own mind constantly which is that of identity. I have often been puzzled by this concept of who I am or who others are to ourselves or each other and how a concrete form is almost impossibly imposed on something that by it’s very nature seems constantly fluid. This is also an experiment as I haven’t played with this concept in a while and I hope I am doing some justice to a line of thought that takes up a great deal of my mind. In any event, at long last, here it is, brand new mind fucking from the one, the only, the insidious imposter. As always, I hope someone out there finds something within these words of some worth, enjoy all, cheers.

There is no me,
Perhaps there was once
Only the semblance now
Residual fleshly facade
Hollow as an old tree,
Overcoated scarecrow armature
Rag dressed and draped,
Mutable shifting sands
Gurgling tide voiced
Drift swirl rattle leaves
Homunculus clay moulded
Under grubby multitude of fingers
Print whorl’d slick skin
Mottled snake scales sloughing,
Stolen breath filling
Bellows leathern lungs
Machine wondrous strange
Steam billowing
Clink clank rattle gulp whirring
Calliope wheeze
Dancing in place
Old ballerina music box foot impaled
Splay limbed marionette akimbo
Dangling upon blue-red-violet thin vein strings
Bony fingertips twiggy twitching life
Made to move
To the beat of ravens wings or Leonard Cohen’s left foot tapping,
Tom Waits throat clearing chair slam bang
Jig tumbling, fumbling
Lost in labyrinthine reels
Of celluloid tape
Showing flicker flash silvered slivers
Of a life or lives
Spinning Rumplestiltskin
Gold out of dross plain nonsense
Mouthing profound gibberish
Pretentious front of the class little child mewling
Nightmare dream warp and weft
Creating vague nothings out of whole cloth,
Rube Golberg clanking grease construct
Of spare parts
An idol, an emblem
Sign of a sign of a sign which is not the thing itself but
A semblance, a seeming only
Standing overcoated in the rain
With an upturned umbrella catching the drip drops
Which may in fact be me
But is not because
There is no me.