Submissions by jasonedwarddias (Jason Dias)
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
10th Jun 2016 1:24pm
10th Jun 2016 1:24pm
One wall
864 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
4th Jun 2016 00:54am
4th Jun 2016 00:54am
Hearts
636 reads
3 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
2nd Jun 2016 11:50pm
2nd Jun 2016 11:50pm
Call
Dark.
The lights in the room are off,
The sun not yet risen,
Even the city lights muted: poised
For a new day.
The road outside is quiet,
Birds still-aroost
Cars and buses still parked in
Garages and silent lots.
What noise is this?
A muffled conversation?
A phone or a computer booting up?
Low and querulous, the noise
Creeps in from the window,
Steals over the unlit space.
Music.
A threnody? A question? An invitation?
A demand?
Before the music has concluded,
Another tone joins in –
A second call.
Lower than...
The lights in the room are off,
The sun not yet risen,
Even the city lights muted: poised
For a new day.
The road outside is quiet,
Birds still-aroost
Cars and buses still parked in
Garages and silent lots.
What noise is this?
A muffled conversation?
A phone or a computer booting up?
Low and querulous, the noise
Creeps in from the window,
Steals over the unlit space.
Music.
A threnody? A question? An invitation?
A demand?
Before the music has concluded,
Another tone joins in –
A second call.
Lower than...
549 reads
1 Comment
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
2nd Jun 2016 11:46am
2nd Jun 2016 11:46am
Big
For the first time today, I am not in a privileged body.
The clothes here are too small,
Or I am too big,
Or something.
I have a tiny Ganesha in my pocket.
He isn’t helping.
Some of my friends are black.
Their bodies mark them out
Possibly for violence
Often for being left roadside
By cabs or even buses that won’t stop for them.
In a million ways, in most venues
They aren’t in privileged bodies.
Most of my friends are women.
They can’t go up to the temple because
Their clothing is not modest enough
But my male friends are...
The clothes here are too small,
Or I am too big,
Or something.
I have a tiny Ganesha in my pocket.
He isn’t helping.
Some of my friends are black.
Their bodies mark them out
Possibly for violence
Often for being left roadside
By cabs or even buses that won’t stop for them.
In a million ways, in most venues
They aren’t in privileged bodies.
Most of my friends are women.
They can’t go up to the temple because
Their clothing is not modest enough
But my male friends are...
585 reads
2 Comments
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
2nd Jun 2016 00:22am
2nd Jun 2016 00:22am
Away
The food is spicy.
It sits nicely in the stomach,
Warming a body already
Wet with sweat.
Sweet, hot, and lonely.
Thirty-six vendors under
A canvas awning
And not one of them can
Make me any taste of home.
Twenty-two million
Unfamiliar faces,
Trees I can’t name,
Waterways going from
Places I don’t know to
Places I don’t know.
The smell of curry evokes London
Of all places
Reminding me that even when I get home
That too is only where I live.
It sits nicely in the stomach,
Warming a body already
Wet with sweat.
Sweet, hot, and lonely.
Thirty-six vendors under
A canvas awning
And not one of them can
Make me any taste of home.
Twenty-two million
Unfamiliar faces,
Trees I can’t name,
Waterways going from
Places I don’t know to
Places I don’t know.
The smell of curry evokes London
Of all places
Reminding me that even when I get home
That too is only where I live.
548 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
29th May 2016 00:05am
29th May 2016 00:05am
Pavement prayers
Each step a benediction:
I am lost, help me find my way
I am blind, uncover my eyes
I am weary, give me strength for
One more step, and another.
Each step a plea:
Carry me farther from home
Only do carry me.
Show me the way, that there is a way.
Under freeway
Up stairs cut into hillsides
Between people who sweat and
Stare in suspicious dark:
He’s not one of us.
He doesn’t belong here.
Each step a devotion:
Take this sweat
Take this pain
Take this time
Each...
I am lost, help me find my way
I am blind, uncover my eyes
I am weary, give me strength for
One more step, and another.
Each step a plea:
Carry me farther from home
Only do carry me.
Show me the way, that there is a way.
Under freeway
Up stairs cut into hillsides
Between people who sweat and
Stare in suspicious dark:
He’s not one of us.
He doesn’t belong here.
Each step a devotion:
Take this sweat
Take this pain
Take this time
Each...
577 reads
2 Comments
OBSERVATIONAL POEM
Published
28th May 2016 00:56am
28th May 2016 00:56am
Toppled
My clients had built this pedestal under me and it was so high
I was getting nosebleeds.
I had to fall.
It was inevitable.
I fell.
It was magnificent.
The air rushing past my face,
the impact inevitable but still imminent.
They were magnificent.
They pushed me,
watched me flounder,
saw that I had no safety line,
recoiled in horror when they realized
I'm just a person after all.
We have to kill our parents.
We have to realize we're
all the same.
Faulty.
Sweaty, toilet-using apes,
howler monkeys with...
I was getting nosebleeds.
I had to fall.
It was inevitable.
I fell.
It was magnificent.
The air rushing past my face,
the impact inevitable but still imminent.
They were magnificent.
They pushed me,
watched me flounder,
saw that I had no safety line,
recoiled in horror when they realized
I'm just a person after all.
We have to kill our parents.
We have to realize we're
all the same.
Faulty.
Sweaty, toilet-using apes,
howler monkeys with...
521 reads
1 Comment
MISCELLANEOUS POEM
Published
27th May 2016 00:54am
27th May 2016 00:54am
The BHC
The BHC
An old building rots
In Hong Kong’s humid heat.
Paint flakes off
IBeams rust
Dirty windows conceal broken blinds conceal
Some strange old secret.
All around, dense trees.
Life.
Succulent, green, wind-tossed riot.
Red and green
Bright, eye-striking yellow
And green
And brown and
Green.
Traffic flows past, just a few cars
In this part of town.
An old building rots
In Hong Kong’s humid heat.
Paint flakes off
IBeams rust
Dirty windows conceal broken blinds conceal
Some strange old secret.
All around, dense trees.
Life.
Succulent, green, wind-tossed riot.
Red and green
Bright, eye-striking yellow
And green
And brown and
Green.
Traffic flows past, just a few cars
In this part of town.
528 reads
1 Comment
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
22nd May 2016 1:40am
22nd May 2016 1:40am
The King of...
Tennessee, 2016.
The motorcycle cooled off outside. I could see it from my seat in the truck stop window. It was a basic greasy sort of place, about half-full with long-haulers and road warriors, bikers and a few families in the midst of their road trips.
The waitress stopped by to fill my coffee and take away my empty plate. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes, a decision I’d regret in a few more hours of highway wrangling. No matter. I was a middle-aged British man with a Harley Davidson Fat Boy and I was seeing America, one truck stop at a time.
“You want pie?” the waitress...
The motorcycle cooled off outside. I could see it from my seat in the truck stop window. It was a basic greasy sort of place, about half-full with long-haulers and road warriors, bikers and a few families in the midst of their road trips.
The waitress stopped by to fill my coffee and take away my empty plate. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes, a decision I’d regret in a few more hours of highway wrangling. No matter. I was a middle-aged British man with a Harley Davidson Fat Boy and I was seeing America, one truck stop at a time.
“You want pie?” the waitress...
616 reads
1 Comment
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
21st May 2016 00:17am
21st May 2016 00:17am
The end of us
Well," said George, "I suppose I am the last one, then." He put the rope around his neck, wondered briefly at how itchy it felt, and stepped off the chair. His neck snapped. He didn't die right away, but he stopped breathing, and there was no visible sign of life - not that there was anyone left to notice. After a few minutes, the last activity in his brain stopped, starved of oxygen.
Six months earlier, George had been just a regular guy driving to work on a Tuesday night. Something unusual was getting started though, far away, and George didn't seem very relevant to it.
...
Six months earlier, George had been just a regular guy driving to work on a Tuesday night. Something unusual was getting started though, far away, and George didn't seem very relevant to it.
...
644 reads
1 Comment
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
13th May 2016 9:04pm
13th May 2016 9:04pm
Excerpt from the latest project: To Bury Their Parents.
Erlo stood over the corpse, hand over his eyes, trying to hold in the grief.
“Damned sorry,” the man said. Erlo did not even know his name. One of the new ones, the ones who came after the battle. “He was your friend.”
“I know what he was,” Erlo said. His voice tasted like blood. “I could use a drink.” But he said that out of habit. He had not touched the horn for twenty days now. The first of those he had shaken, teeth chattering, skin itching. He had stank and his eyes had hurt. After four days his lodge-mates had tossed him in the lake. By the fifth, he could eat again, and after...
“Damned sorry,” the man said. Erlo did not even know his name. One of the new ones, the ones who came after the battle. “He was your friend.”
“I know what he was,” Erlo said. His voice tasted like blood. “I could use a drink.” But he said that out of habit. He had not touched the horn for twenty days now. The first of those he had shaken, teeth chattering, skin itching. He had stank and his eyes had hurt. After four days his lodge-mates had tossed him in the lake. By the fifth, he could eat again, and after...
617 reads
1 Comment
FICTIONAL PROSE
Published
2nd May 2016 4:23am
2nd May 2016 4:23am
Excerpt from the latest project: To Bury Their Parents.
Korina sat in the long hall. An ingot rested in front of her, and a heavy hammer. A girl sat on the edge of the hearth with her.
Fourteen. Tall, pretty, good teeth. She had big hands, which was a good sign.
“Take the hammer,” Korina said. “Use it to flatten out this bar.”
The girl picked up the hammer and pushed the ingot around into a position she liked. “Is it very hot in the forge?” she said.
“Very. And smoky. Loud. Lonely.”
The girl frowned, jabbed half-heartedly at the metal. The hammer clinked and bounced. The whole bar, not held in place, also bounced. It flipped...
Fourteen. Tall, pretty, good teeth. She had big hands, which was a good sign.
“Take the hammer,” Korina said. “Use it to flatten out this bar.”
The girl picked up the hammer and pushed the ingot around into a position she liked. “Is it very hot in the forge?” she said.
“Very. And smoky. Loud. Lonely.”
The girl frowned, jabbed half-heartedly at the metal. The hammer clinked and bounced. The whole bar, not held in place, also bounced. It flipped...
568 reads
2 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by jasonedwarddias (Jason Dias)
