Submissions by doreenheimer (Aether)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
"sleep I have not needed, for my wake is a dream of the distant stars." _A.
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
19th Apr 2025 5:20pm
19th Apr 2025 5:20pm
Entry 3
I’ve seen friends go mad trying to fight these beasts.
I’ve seen comrades tear gas-blind, screaming at riot shields.
I’ve seen friends vanish into the psych wards and come back stitched together wrong.
I’ve seen kids in drag beaten by priests.
I’ve seen anarchists arrested for throwing a single rock,
while fascist militias march in broad daylight with iron crosses and icons held high.
At some point, you stop asking questions like
"Is it getting better?"
or
"Will voting change it?"
And you start asking...
I’ve seen comrades tear gas-blind, screaming at riot shields.
I’ve seen friends vanish into the psych wards and come back stitched together wrong.
I’ve seen kids in drag beaten by priests.
I’ve seen anarchists arrested for throwing a single rock,
while fascist militias march in broad daylight with iron crosses and icons held high.
At some point, you stop asking questions like
"Is it getting better?"
or
"Will voting change it?"
And you start asking...
#memories
#myself
#narrative
#nonfiction
#prose
34 reads
0 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
19th Apr 2025 5:16pm
19th Apr 2025 5:16pm
Entry 2
There are things I still don’t know how to write about.
Not because I don’t remember them—but because memory feels too small for what they carry.
I was only a child in 2008, but I remember the sounds.
The deep, mechanical thunder of tanks rolling through Gori hills.
Russian ones, crawling like steel insects across the land, dragging fear behind them like smoke.
Mother told me not to look, but I did anyway.
I had to.
Some part of me, only being nine years old, already knew—I needed to remember what war looked like if I was going to survive in the shadow...
Not because I don’t remember them—but because memory feels too small for what they carry.
I was only a child in 2008, but I remember the sounds.
The deep, mechanical thunder of tanks rolling through Gori hills.
Russian ones, crawling like steel insects across the land, dragging fear behind them like smoke.
Mother told me not to look, but I did anyway.
I had to.
Some part of me, only being nine years old, already knew—I needed to remember what war looked like if I was going to survive in the shadow...
#memories
#myself
#narrative
#nonfiction
#prose
34 reads
0 Comments
NON-FICTION PROSE
Published
18th Apr 2025 12:12pm
18th Apr 2025 12:12pm
Entry 1
I never quite know how to start these things.
For all the hours I've spent alone with notebooks and loose scraps of thought, non-fiction—if that’s even what this counts as—has never been my strength.
This isn’t a memoir. It’s not an autobiography. And it sure as hell isn’t a diary. But I digress.
I’m just some punk in my late twenties, born and raised in Georgia, right by the seaside banks of Batumi.
Living in what I often call a post-Soviet dystopia, something I’ve repeated many times to my comrade Marsy—more about them soon.
Like any proper Anarchist,...
For all the hours I've spent alone with notebooks and loose scraps of thought, non-fiction—if that’s even what this counts as—has never been my strength.
This isn’t a memoir. It’s not an autobiography. And it sure as hell isn’t a diary. But I digress.
I’m just some punk in my late twenties, born and raised in Georgia, right by the seaside banks of Batumi.
Living in what I often call a post-Soviet dystopia, something I’ve repeated many times to my comrade Marsy—more about them soon.
Like any proper Anarchist,...
#memories
#myself
#narrative
#nonfiction
#prose
56 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
18th Apr 2025 2:30am
18th Apr 2025 2:30am
cathecisms of the streetlight choir
Breathe deep, apostate.
The night is gospel.
We raise our voices in alleys
where halos flicker in sodium glow
and faith is forged in footfalls.
No pews. No pulpit.
Just pavement and panic.
We kneel only to tie laces tighter—
ready to run,
ready to rise.
Our verses are chants in riot cadence.
We speak in spray paint
and whisper revolutions
through torn masks and stolen megaphones.
Beneath every flickering bulb,
a prophet waits
with boots caked in dust and defiance,
ready to sing truth off-key
and loud as...
The night is gospel.
We raise our voices in alleys
where halos flicker in sodium glow
and faith is forged in footfalls.
No pews. No pulpit.
Just pavement and panic.
We kneel only to tie laces tighter—
ready to run,
ready to rise.
Our verses are chants in riot cadence.
We speak in spray paint
and whisper revolutions
through torn masks and stolen megaphones.
Beneath every flickering bulb,
a prophet waits
with boots caked in dust and defiance,
ready to sing truth off-key
and loud as...
#CallToAction
#rebellion
48 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
17th Apr 2025 4:21pm
17th Apr 2025 4:21pm
requiem for the clocktower
Smash the hands, insurrectionist.
The hour is over.
We gather at the feet of the clocktower—
not to tell time,
but to end it.
No more ticking.
No more schedules like shackles.
We bury calendars in rubble
and measure moments
in footsteps,
in shattered glass,
in the pause before the charge.
Time belongs to tyrants.
To the ones who punch in,
lock out,
wind down their souls
until they forget the sound
of stillness.
But we remember.
We remember how to stretch a second
into...
The hour is over.
We gather at the feet of the clocktower—
not to tell time,
but to end it.
No more ticking.
No more schedules like shackles.
We bury calendars in rubble
and measure moments
in footsteps,
in shattered glass,
in the pause before the charge.
Time belongs to tyrants.
To the ones who punch in,
lock out,
wind down their souls
until they forget the sound
of stillness.
But we remember.
We remember how to stretch a second
into...
#CallToAction
#rebellion
29 reads
0 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
17th Apr 2025 3:55pm
17th Apr 2025 3:55pm
psalm of the barricade
Raise the wall, disciple.
The scripture is written in plywood
and spray paint—
verse by verse, brick by brick,
beneath a sky split by flashbang hallelujahs.
This is not a sanctuary.
This is a stand.
Every dumpster, every railing,
a chapter of resistance
stacked against the armored doctrine
of order.
We don’t sing hymns.
We scream them—
raw-throated and ragged,
set to the tempo
of heartbeat and hammerfall.
The holy water’s been tainted.
So we drink fire.
We anoint ourselves
in...
The scripture is written in plywood
and spray paint—
verse by verse, brick by brick,
beneath a sky split by flashbang hallelujahs.
This is not a sanctuary.
This is a stand.
Every dumpster, every railing,
a chapter of resistance
stacked against the armored doctrine
of order.
We don’t sing hymns.
We scream them—
raw-throated and ragged,
set to the tempo
of heartbeat and hammerfall.
The holy water’s been tainted.
So we drink fire.
We anoint ourselves
in...
#CallToAction
#rebellion
38 reads
0 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
25th Aug 2023 1:41am
25th Aug 2023 1:41am
TETSUO'S EGG-YOLK
Samhain's spoken proses heard :
Twas estranged sockets electric,
Which sparked the rod rusted on the edge inside of us, moss haze won't to never be moist again . . .
Mucked within a mörk, silver liquid through flames, around such venamun, spills the gas, across soot ridden decay of hard oak ground -
Wooden oldroot poise with the Stonemason's Citadel, Molten steel yet the cold weeping of mother's tears on top the said concrete.
The harshness of rock-solid branches, the misshapen drudge, protruded from my cuffs, but a visceral noise which may shackle me onto...
Twas estranged sockets electric,
Which sparked the rod rusted on the edge inside of us, moss haze won't to never be moist again . . .
Mucked within a mörk, silver liquid through flames, around such venamun, spills the gas, across soot ridden decay of hard oak ground -
Wooden oldroot poise with the Stonemason's Citadel, Molten steel yet the cold weeping of mother's tears on top the said concrete.
The harshness of rock-solid branches, the misshapen drudge, protruded from my cuffs, but a visceral noise which may shackle me onto...
#dark
#despair
#nightmares
#dystopian
#fear
221 reads
0 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
2nd Aug 2023 1:01am
2nd Aug 2023 1:01am
Nightmute
- Realization of the Wake of Existential Insomnia, the shade of me asks myself if I truly let my nature become a Gaff, the Dem of what I used to be . . .
- Across from the stars and pastoral Zion bodies in the Skies of Night, a mute Forest Village down mountain hill tops breed a blind Agnosia Farm.
* * *
- Postal Petals of Cherry Leave Clovers, gleem moonlight bright, decayed and perosed like raindrops on Mother Earth's soil ground.
- As to say, I am the Nightmute, the whom of eve's wind-blow an Aether Sound which maddens the Farm Flock.
- Echopraxia I heard of a...
- Across from the stars and pastoral Zion bodies in the Skies of Night, a mute Forest Village down mountain hill tops breed a blind Agnosia Farm.
* * *
- Postal Petals of Cherry Leave Clovers, gleem moonlight bright, decayed and perosed like raindrops on Mother Earth's soil ground.
- As to say, I am the Nightmute, the whom of eve's wind-blow an Aether Sound which maddens the Farm Flock.
- Echopraxia I heard of a...
#loneliness
#dark
#confusion
#despair
#emptiness
232 reads
2 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
2nd Aug 2023 00:51am
2nd Aug 2023 00:51am
Matrix of the Møther Tree
Inside our exoskeletons with brays of iron ribcage as our prison bars, we search for a lost key;
An indescribable sadness comes from the electric shocks which are a negative impact to our positive stances of energy,
In our Mech-Hearts and bionic souls, we are unwillingly motionless, willing a will to be free.
~
Coming to ends of all times existing, as and beyond existences of all things remembered are being slaughtered with glee.
As these butchers of memories, of ages of green lively nature, are the same cybernetically engineered...
An indescribable sadness comes from the electric shocks which are a negative impact to our positive stances of energy,
In our Mech-Hearts and bionic souls, we are unwillingly motionless, willing a will to be free.
~
Coming to ends of all times existing, as and beyond existences of all things remembered are being slaughtered with glee.
As these butchers of memories, of ages of green lively nature, are the same cybernetically engineered...
#sadness
#dark
#dreams
#inspirational
#scifi
265 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by doreenheimer (Aether)
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