r/EyesOnlyWriting

Break the wake.
I'm called
Liquid lost
across concrete.
Spill the drink, tossed
Chain.

Clouds

clouds, are on the comedown.
Drown in the rain's paint.
See the smile through
the waterfall, melt
in gray.
Look too long,
it breaks. The boot
sank.

Release the chain,
let it sway
and aimlessly skim.
Stay within
endless weight
Then pierce, and
Swim.

(i was gonna take a long break from reddit but turns out my vpn issue was really easy to fix, so I'm back! lol)

Hunger strikes again, slipped in borrowed names,
Mirage-like rivalries, glazed paths unknown,
as we dance our rites on haggard remains.

Ticker pulse quickens, thriving on the flame.
Cables run like strings from fortified drones.
Hunger strikes again, slipped in borrowed names,

Market, spice, guns: the profit finds new frames.
Oil runs in rage through our marrow and bones,
as we dance our rites on haggard remains.

Screens set the price before first shot is aimed.
Contracts get signed as bodies feel the stones.
Hunger strikes in stealth, slipped in borrowed names.

A nation mortgaged twice funds the same game.
Restless red rivers reach the rusty throne,
as we dance our rites on haggard remains.

Dawn wakes to towers of ashes and shame.
The past reloads its arms for age alone.
Hunger strikes again, slipped in borrowed names,
as we dance our rites on haggard remains.

-Existential

there's always things you want to say when people aren't in your life anymore. i'm making a knitting pattern that my ex's mom also made, technically to replace the finished object she gifted me that i returned after the breakup because anything tied to him made me sick at the time. i wish i could show her how wonderful the colors are and how perfect it looks. i wonder if my old best friend would have spotted something in my ex before i did. i wonder what she would think of my current situation. i wonder so many things. doesn't everyone wonder forever?

"Billingsgate"

What I'm trying to say is:
If you're only going to sniff
My poems' flaps won't open
And she definitely won't purr
You have to really get in there
If it takes you second look for it to be relevant
Perhaps you're the one not deep enough?
(Move on buddy, find yourself a different hole/cock)
Have you ever considered the possibility
That what you have is a clit?
I advise you to start scissoring
Or be really good with your fingers and tongue
I'm doing community service
(In the case you haven't noticed)
Picking trash out with my tongs
Putting you back where you belong
A waste of air and lungs
Delete your comments, hit and run
Take a second, glance at the sun
Know what is right from wrong
I follow the beating of my own drum
And beat you down like I'm your mom
If this is the gutters, you're a drunk
And a hoodlum if it's the slums
Call me hollow, I call you dumb
Call me bitter, I turn you to chewing gum wink wink
I'm tired of every punk and bum
Licking my shoe as they fight over the last drop of cum
One moment here; the second gone
If you do have something to say
Make it worth my time and stick to your guns
Or, obviously, as I(/you) prefer
I make a (shit) show out of your crumbs
This is a place of discussion
(It says that, doesn't it?)
Can we, please, have some?
crickets chirping
Perhaps if you did ask some questions
I may not call you a cunt?
Lo and behold, the gate is calling
You had a key all along
.

keying a piece of art

Ahem That is vandalism and a felony...
I suggest you use the key in a more productive manner
Or I'm going to have to take you to the train station
Where the bad cow(boys/girls) go

Peeling out the Wheels
Let her (as in 400) Rip

Note: This is an excerpt from Monologues from the Blackbook, a society set in the future.

The scene is a dimly lit room, illuminated only by the blue glow of a monitor. Prince Marcus Sol sits hunched, vibrating with a frantic, suppressed energy. The room is pitch black, save for the violent glare of the terminal screen bouncing off his sweat-sheened face. He is sitting perfectly rigid, his posture artificially straight; regal, almost, before he begins to tremble.

He reads aloud, voice dripping with venom.

"Didn’t notice at first…” He slams his hand on the desk. “Thunder clap! A fucking thunder clap for what?! An absence of light? A doodle in the margins of a diary nobody asked to read? It’s nothing. It’s a void. It is the absolute, unadulterated sound of one hand clapping in a padded room.

He leans closer to the screen, squinting. 

And Valentina... "Bitter invective." You file me away, don’t you, sweetheart? Into the 'naughty boy' drawer. "He’s having a tantrum." I'm not having a tantrum! I am conducting a surgical dissection of the void. I am the only one with a scalpel sharp enough to lance the abscess of this... this pretentiousness!

He jumps up, pacing the small room, gesticulating wildly.

They're all nodding. All of them. Swaying like cultists at the altar of the unknown. "The seen and the seer." Please. It’s the seen and the sycophant. It’s the emperor’s new silhouette. I'm the child in the crowd, screaming that the Emperor is naked, and they’re busy writing three stanzas about his... his "unmapped geography."

He stops pacing, staring at a corner of the room. His composure snaps, leaving only a sharp, suffocating sob of pure, paralysed resentment.

That’s what he does. That’s the trick. He drapes himself in shadows so thick you can’t see the pathetic man beneath the capes. A thousand names. A new one for every horizon. It’s not poetry, it’s an eviction notice. He’s running from himself, and we’re supposed to applaud the dust trail.

He walks back to the computer, his voice dropping to a desperate, pleading whisper.

Why? Why is that art? Why is a man erasing his own face worshipped, while I... I am bleeding my entire soul onto this screen every hour of every day, and nobody... nobody stops to file me under "thunder clap."

He spits the name like a curse, his fingers twitching over the keys.

Victor. Always Victor. The absolute heir, right? Crowned in the static of a shifting sky while the rest of us pull the gears in the mud. Look at them lining up to hand him the horizon. They lock the coordinates for him. They read the dark for him. They treat his arrival like a cosmic alignment, a birthright, a solar accession, while I am left standing here in the hallway, holding a bag of stale cookies and a handful of disposable aliases. He didn't earn the shadow. He didn't fight the warfare. He just stepped into the frame and let the world bleed for him.

His voice splinters, the sound collapsing into a ragged, helpless choke of fury.

I am... I am a ghost in the machinery. I am the shadow of a shadow, screaming in a language nobody speaks. I am the "heir apparent" to nothing but my own bile. And I hate it. I hate it so much I want to burn it all down and sow salt in the ashes.

He stares at the black screen, his breathing ragged. 

Block me. Go on. Block me. At least then I’d exist. At least then I’d be part of your little narrative. You talk about war. You have no idea what war is. The war is here. Right here. In the gap between the match and the flame. And I am losing.

He collapses into the chair, defeated, whispering.

Quite the thunder clap. My god. It’s just static. Just static, and I’m the only one listening. 

A sharp, manic whisper.

NEIN. NEIN. Dismissed.” 

A heavy, suffocating silence fills the room. Marcus Sol sits frozen, staring into the blank screen, his breathing shallow. Suddenly, a clean, high-pitched electronic chime cuts through the dark. A small notification box blinks in the corner of his monitor.

He flinches. Slowly, his hand trembles as he moves the mouse. He clicks it. He reads the text aloud, his voice flat, stripped entirely of its theatrical venom, completely unmoored.

It is from Valentina: "Hi Marcus Sol. Yes, I've received your letters of apology. Yes, I'd like to make amends. I hope you've been well! Let’s find a time to talk soon. — Valentina."

He stares at the words. The grand, cosmic warfare evaporates. The sovereign facade shatters, leaving no trace of the commander or his imaginary battlefield. In the cool light of the terminal, his face catches a sudden, luminous grace. An attempt to find words to answer the silence of the room goes nowhere; instead, the sheer relief of being pulled out of the dark catches in the throat. A long, shaky breath held, it feels, for months, slowly releases. Fingers rest loosely on the desk as the quiet truth of her words settles into the room. 

He opens his mouth to say something, to the room, to anyone, but no sound comes out; he slowly closes his laptop, plunging the room into absolute, pitch-black silence.

Well it's been a good run yall

i'll leave you with this:

keep writing ❤️
stay alive,
count your sheep;
earn your keep by typing.

keep sighing,
always whine,
complain today,
and tomorrow night.

I'm leaving,
don't ask why;
you probably know,
it's alright.

I'm on your snow globe,
don't ask why;
you take care
and we'll be alright.

"Mortimer Kisses"

I drain you dry!

That's what she said

No, that's what Strygwyr says

Quagmire? Giggity?

Bloodseeker...

Well that's just absurd
Lie down... have a cookie
Let the gaping begin

Speaking of draining people
When did writing subs start becoming places to post dick pics?
Do we join in or what?

No, it's aesthetics...

Right... can I edit my cock behind a some picture and just start posting? Is this how literary discussions are held among these intelligentsia? Is someone editing in some pussy next?

Perhaps...

Perhaps it's time to stop hanging around these parts..

Or perhaps it's time to start posting dick pics as visual art!
Let's start a riot: make dick pics art! Free the balls!

What next? Start a gloryhole assembly and call it poetry reading?
Gangbang sessions as story time?

Good suggestions. I say find the artist in residence and forward it!

Contribute in exchange for what? Titty pics?

Eyesonlywriting!
Hold on let me start writing poetry on my dick

Might need to start buying XXL Dragon and Horse dildoes (no knot is too thick) for the epics to fit...

Good idea! And start offering them to bitches in heat as artistic gifts!

I'm sure they'll absolutely love it

Of course they will

What I mean to say is... there is no brain action involved in this shit

Welcome to the cuntelligentsia pit

I am so making this 399...

I absolutely agree
But exam first, don't hump your pillows too soon
Or pinch your clit

I just hope people don't actually break out in the streets

See, dumpster fires!

That's only because there's so much trash everywhere
It's almost like the freelanders can't have enough landfills

By now you should know the drill
Oil up those baby cheeks and behold!
Plenty of cocks to be draped in maws
We're having an art exhibition
Come and have a tasteful/lick!

Commander... Unfinished objective..

You're commander, I'm going to sleep at least for one week

Aren't you forgetting something?

Like what?

Like packing because we have to move out tomorrow...

Oh for fuck sake

Also I feel the need to inform you that the dick art is no longer...

What the fuck artist? Are you cockblocking my writing? Do you not like my piece?
(Nope, it's reddit's fault for new policies regarding NSFW... excuse me, apologies)

Of meat?

S1...

Yes sir?

I think you might be a mind reader or you just like making a scene

Both sir!

Of writing you little freak

But I was about to make the joke anyway..

So S1.. are you cockblocking your commander?

No sir, I would never.. I just thought since we're on the same team

Right.. go on, we're done for today, until.. I would like to say next week, but that might not happen..

Give us a break commander, please...

If I can, I will
All the same, just so you are aware, the chances are bleak

What? Why? She's not even sucking your dick!

And when did I ever make decisions based on my dick you scoundrel?
Off you fuck soldier.

So you're just going to leave us with no answer...

We're in a war you've yet to comprehend. Dismissed.

Did you know.. in Arabic we ask: "have you no blood?"
To say: have you no shame? No morals?
Because (well, I'm making it up as I go) your blood should boil when you do disgraceful things, especially if you're a Cuntelligentsia..
If you're going to make art out of dicks.. at least put in the effort and do it properly. I get to shame no one, I'm a hopeless perverted freak.. but at least have the decency to find a suitable place for your perverted acts of cuntellect.. look around you, there are kids, retarded disabled kids... we wouldn't want them thinking art is all about sucking dick... (tho in its own way, it is an art... just not the whole pie, rather a small slice of cheesecake that is all too heavy and thick) it would gross those kiddos out; make them sick..
Just because you felt the need to share your first taste of a stick
Did you at least do it privately? Or out in the open.. down/up your (nearest) all(e)y/cree(k/p)?
Ignorant security/Arrogant serenity... falter on the scale when I weigh you
And I'm not sure if I should put you on the side of bitches/wolves, or sheep
These doubts bring me no desires; they only strengthen my resolve to cut deep
There it is, your American dream... go on, be free...

Commander... can you leave the futile matters until after we eat?

My bad S1, you do have a point for once!

Always happy to serve sir...

Don't get sarcastic with me little bitch

No, seriously.. but I would rather do it fed, the flesh has its needs

You're becoming worthy of respect

Thanks commander, so are we having a feast?

staring
A fist?

Okay.. okay.. no feast

Aborting 399... this doesn't seem worthy...

Who are you to determine what is worthy?

The one who made it?

Yeah sure buddy, fuck off, I'm doing this...
What's the worst that could happen?
Get blocked? Have more people sucking my dick?

It is what it is... so, anyone wants some cookies?

Did you put any baby batter in these?

shocked
No!! What the fuck? That's food (for thought), respect what you eat
And keep your eyes/cunts peeled and open
Look out for falling spit!
.

Ah finally! I know what the perfect (guten) tag(?) is.

Satire?

NEIN NEIN!

https://preview.redd.it/yuwjdiu32t9h1.png?width=212&format=png&auto=webp&s=96ffddbf6acb958edcc5a7cfebbf2c5a5e5100ae

Fatima and I find ourselves in an accounting firm in Havorok City, one so old, its archival records stretch back tens of thousands of years. This complicates matters as the chief accountant wants us to investigate a historical crime.

"The books have been cooked to hide an asset," Mr Tom O'Mahoney says. "A trophy object has been declared, then withdrawn, all references redacted and stamped as classified."

"And how long ago did you say it was?" I ask.

"One millennium ago," he says.

"So why should it matter now?" Fatima asks.

"Because an agent of the Ahriman Conglomerate has been pressuring me to find the whereabouts of that trophy object, whatever it is," he replies.

Fatima and I exchange glances.

"Can we access the archives on your mainframe computer?" I ask. "The Roghutov government may have classified an alien object from another galaxy, especially if it shows technological advancement beyond what we are capable."

"Like crystal skulls and the crashed ship at Roswell on Earth," Fatima says.

Mr O'Mahoney leads us to a wall-high screen in the vast office cluttered with cubicles and busy accountants. I sit at an operating terminal with touch keyboard, while he reaches over and punches a sequence of keys.

The file called up on-screen lists a declared asset by a plutocrat, Augustanos, but the name of the object and its description is replaced by [Redacted]. Its location is given as "classified" by the Roghutov Ministry of Forbidden Antiquities. The only way forward is to penetrate that Ministry.

I call Largren, our A.I. Director of Law Enforcement, on my cellphone and ask, "Can we get a special pass into the Ministry of Forbidden Antiquities?"

"There is no such thing as the Ministry of Forbidden Antiquities," Largren replies.

"We've reached a dead end, but if the object ever passed through this premises, the trail may not be cold," I say.

"We have an old storeroom in the basement, if you care to look," Mister O'Mahoney says. "Receipts of tendered objects may still be there among crates."

We follow him to the lifts and down into the basement. There must be hundreds of stacked crates in this vast storeroom. A printout of an ancient inventory is available at a press of a button on a wall panel.

Two hundred and thirty five objects are listed in the flowing sheet in my hands, but each valuable object has passed through inspection and valuation, leaving the crates here empty, except for a single helmet appraised as having no more than ordinary commercial value.

"Let's see this helmet," I say.

At the wall panel, Mr O'Mahoney sends forklift arms set in the wall to retrieve a box from the tallest stack of crates. The box delivered to my hands contains a red chrome motorcycle helmet.

I press my hand against the padding inside the helmet and feel circuitry beneath, but the helmet contains no socket and that is telling.

"If there are no sockets, this helmet must be an energy sieve able to leech energy from any nearby power source," I say, "and it will function the moment someone puts it on."

"Elias! Don't put that damned thing on!" Fatima says.

Which, of course, is the very thing I do. My consciousness dissolves to a pinpoint, and I am no longer aware of standing in a storeroom.

A data stream appearing as a river of blue quanta pours past me. I am a point of consciousness travelling into the data streams of the Galactic Web, down infinite rabbitholes of fibreoptic and wireless launch points. I don't know where this is leading me, but it must be somewhere important.

I am inside a decrypted data vault of the Ministry of Forbidden Antiquities, siphoning all its secrets into the neural mesh of my higher cortex.

I wake up as the helmet is wrenched off my head by Fatima.

"Are you okay?" she asks.

"More than okay," I reply. "The helmet is an alien artefact from a far off galaxy. It belongs to an alien civilisation so advanced, they can feed their consciousness into data streams. They are the Vamskarl and they are among us as the secret masters of the Ahriman Conglomerate. They are so advanced, they can surpass death by mishap. For example, you may have blown Alladin's brain with your rifle, but he is still alive!"

"How do you know that?" Fatima asks.

"What is the name of the Ahriman agent pressing you for the whereabouts of this trophy object?" I ask Mr O'Mahoney.

"Alladin," he replies.