Comments Posted By MorganLovell

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The heavy hands pounded relentlessly upon the taut flesh of the rune-worked skin. THRUM. THRUM. THRUM. THRUM. The monotonous tone banged into her ears like the ringing song of her own blood, her own body the dance that moved in sync to the drummers’ powerful sound.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.06.2016 @ 4:11 pm


The upswing of my spirits, the archetypal swing of my soul skywards as I read this like a Rorschach Blot

» Posted By MorganLovell On 10.28.2016 @ 7:55 pm


And thus it stares, waiting forever on the line between then and now. It seeks the East, it longs for the West, it ever waits for another glass of whiskey to clearly define it’s shape. It lingers in the line of there and then, it taps it’s one golden finger, paitent and long along the edge of the Earth, sipping time in an Ocean glass of simmering, insipient patience…

» Posted By MorganLovell On 02.02.2015 @ 8:34 pm


And in this manner we communicate, or we both attempt to. Your indigance flares like a siren, lights flashing red and blue eyes like streetlights blasting, and my own stare is weary and dull, like an old bulb fading.
I try to explain what happened, and in interlocution your hands cut intersections like stale tupperware waving sadly.
I guess we didn’t win.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.24.2014 @ 8:16 pm


You know I go down these trails that constantly lead to thoughts of you.. so close yet so far because you are invincible, untouchable, unable to find a pathway to you

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.19.2014 @ 9:55 pm


With these steps, I do. We light fires without them ever catching flame upon us. You sit beside me, glowing, and my embers ash into nothing but cold coals. I know this is true, I know it must be. But still, I stumble, I falter, I make blind motions without knowing, that they always seem to lead me to a seat or place beside you.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 10.16.2014 @ 7:04 pm


And this is where you left us
Building up outside of the wire-screen door
Like the sand piles of ants
Ready to revel in the fire of Wednesday nights.
We came to bid you hello
But now it seems we bid you farewell
As we raise our glass of Jim Beam
and spit the remnants into your dusty footprints beside the garden,
Giving thanks for all you gave us.
Our cheers ring like engines in the wake of your embers,
Whose laughter shoots out like arrows drunkenly misplaced.
The motors hum softly in the distance
Serenading your eternal brigade.

Always a man, a machine, a menace to society.

To My Godfather, Edward Eric Wondoloski, my other father, my otre’ pere’, my Other Guy. All is well, I know my friend, and I send you blessings and a peace sign to the midst of where you are, be that here or there, anywhere, I know you will always be laughing. Cheers, Squggs.
~Your Munchkin

» Posted By MorganLovell On 05.08.2014 @ 10:43 pm


Be it a person, place or thing, it is that near-unreachable something that always escapes you by just a whisper or a wink, something so subtle as to elude you barely, but completely.
In a riddle it lies tucked into soundlessness, quietness, a softness of body and bones at rest.
It is not, though. It cannot be.
Everything is always moving.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 04.23.2014 @ 7:19 pm


Compete. The thing to place individuals against one another, struggling against that other word, companionship.
How we race, churn, fight, and burn.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 03.14.2014 @ 8:23 pm


Revenue; such a word of seemingly mundane proportions, overly boring daily bills, costs, fiances, yadda yadda…
Such seemingly droning things that support our socioeconomic world. The cause for love to rift and arguments to take hold of sweet words stopped in the mouths of men and women without enough…

» Posted By MorganLovell On 01.05.2014 @ 3:26 pm


Like the thin thread of our daily lives, it weaves along slowly, waving in the wind like spiders’ hands, so fragile that it hardly matters, but matter it is, made of hopes and aspirations, solid breath dangling in patterns woven into quilts of comfort during sleepless nights

» Posted By MorganLovell On 04.01.2013 @ 4:56 pm


Ars longa, vida briefa. I have indeed forgotten the proper Latin translation of that quote, but it is indeed true. I would like a cigarette and some whiskey to keep writing

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.13.2012 @ 8:40 pm


Windmills, whipporwhills, Don Quixote chasing spiraling hearts sifting grain in the skies. I shed kernels of sorrow and termpermental seeds gone sour, rotten soil spilling into the wind like the foul breath of jealousy’s mane

» Posted By MorganLovell On 07.09.2012 @ 8:01 pm


I stir the corn starch and charcoal with water, creating a gray soup, half matter half invention. I only want to create something destructive, ugly and beautiful and perfectly gelatinous like my feelings. I am a stew of simmering anger, and the swirling gray lumps of coal that refuse to dissolve perfectly represent my sins

» Posted By MorganLovell On 06.25.2012 @ 8:59 pm


She;s my Babylon, halfhearted labyrinth of misfigured sensation, causing more than complications to this maze that we call life. When courtship falls into walls of evergreen sorrow, despairing that the fulfillment will be premature, seeking sanctity in the window laving- stones thrown in absent minded folly of adversity, Make sure she is worthy, make sure you know a way out…

» Posted By MorganLovell On 02.12.2012 @ 6:54 pm


It is the ascension of an epitome, the icon of an era and the eminence of an age.
It is something that culminates the fantastic, and makes worthy the title of ‘outrageous’.
It is grandiose, magnanimous, gargantuan.
It is a fight with a lover gone sour, where words are spread like warm butter upon stale bread, and the insults seep in as if the toast were burnt like verbal wounds.
It is an accomplishment shared with family and friends, where your smile pierces like scarred retinas searing an image of ‘Pride’ upon inner eyes.
It is a mountain of impossibility, where some saga ensues at the base of Olympus, overcoming Gods and Men alike in achieving immortality through slaying children and the unwanted.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 02.02.2012 @ 10:23 pm


Hivernating, a swarm of saffron stings all swinging about the cylinder like small octaves f sound reverberating in hums of a lyrical dance. Counting the stamens on flowers stems streaming with dew, praying with tiny black feet and seeking nothing with glassy black obsidian eyes, shining like dead wet rocks

» Posted By MorganLovell On 01.25.2012 @ 8:52 pm


I think of stars, first of all, twinkling and blinking likes so many eyes cast upon a moon-lit gem, illuminated in the night like some sort of miraculous eye. I think of grains of sand caught unawares in the glimpse of a hot summer sun, fractured into millions by disillusioned sight on a blacktop, a beach, a back road winding south.
I think of seashells and other beautiful, solid things, each representing glimmers of magic shaped to the peripherals of peoples’ pupils when they think they may have mistaken but are truly truthful in their sightings of Beings breached in beatitude and magnificence.
What wonders are held in palms bleached white and wrinkled by water? What wisdom is weaned from a moon waning into waif-like worth from crown to crest?
It shows in sparkling images of insanity, when we are least aware of assumptions painted silver by starlight; we must make it new.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 01.11.2012 @ 9:42 pm


A dime a dozen is what most people say.. but what does that mean? Does it mean we are special, “worth it”? What does worth really mean?
Does it imply significance? A chance at something meaningful or complete?
My room mates are having beautiful love in the ext room, and I find that worth at the very least 12 pennies to bide their time in explaining the love they have fore one another and how they express it.
I feel that any love I have in recent years will be worth the price of a dozen marks, a dozen glances, a carton of eggs spent breaking and heating on a Sunday morning, asking me how I like them when I am a vegetarian and do not eat such things, settling for coffee and the pancakes he makes by the Dozen.
How do I stack up, Oneword? How do I measure? Is Aunt Jemimima not acceptable for you and your short framed reference of being?
I do love syrup best served hot; perhaps she will be stirred into a batter if Being this fine new Saturday when Jack Johonson makes Banana Pancackes and wonders at her bubbly toes.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 01.06.2012 @ 10:23 pm


Avocado. A word sounding so ancient in the syllables that round, harden, open and close. They are parellels to the mouth moving, carving out consonants as I spoon feed the slivers of green flesh into my wine-warmed mouth. How sensual is it to curve something into a mouth, to smooth a C into soft flesh of ripe juicy tenderness, to sip wine afterward to ease the blending of complementary colors, green then red, a wheel spinning in the frame of the body where art is created through sensuality.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 12.26.2011 @ 2:27 pm


In such as this I run to my words like a time traveler, rushing to get to the rabbit hole. I speak volumes through my fingers flying across a new lined notebook page, seeking more and more and more in the spines of books lying by and in the wood of my desk as of yet uncarved. I feel a mad rush, a fleeting touch of something temporal and am immediately insane with a fury to hurry hurry and fill it with something, anything, to make myself feel like I’ve left a mark and made sense and made a difference in any aspect of life

» Posted By MorganLovell On 12.23.2011 @ 12:27 am


Ah, this time, this place of half-eaten fruit where the sun is ripe and prepared to be plucked into night darkness by the clouds fringing on black by the fingers of stars reaching so boldly. It is a transient world of illuminated things, objects and silhouettes outlined in black-framed bodies of in-between being, where anything is possible by deformation of shape in the shadows.
I watched a leaf fall from a bridge above me, to land beside me this night, and I wondered at the temporal quality of it’s shape. Who else would know when it had fallen?
Is love so akin to such small things? Who can say where and when things truly occur than those half-lit witnesses seeing in such dim and obvious foreground where moving bodies seem to slow, to pause in time, to make sense to such a fragment of life?
A time of magic, of happening, of circumstance chanced by peripheral vision. I hear the sounds of creatures awakening at their dawn of my dusk, at their greeting of my goodbye, and see eyes opening as mine blink ever the more slowly at a soft acknowledgment of opportunity, of reflections seen in a briefly shining puddle in passing.
I seek solace in these moments, and send gratitude to the Gods that I am awake or dreaming to notice such things.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 12.20.2011 @ 9:17 pm


Marred and scars upon some sort of substance, be it skin, spirit or an abundance of both. The markings of painful perspiration leaking holes into the surface area show should courage, not shame nor something to hide.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 12.16.2011 @ 9:41 pm


The sheen of pewter before it reaches a millenium age. The scent of a silver winter, where the world sleeps inside of a solid chrysalis of silence and reflection. The echoes of trees and solid things like earth and creatures slumber within this gilted precipice of cold and shining morning. The arms of old buildings reach for one another like lovers frozen in time, lost in the stagnancy of empty night roads, black and dripping with rain rather than snow to be slick as obsidian without the magma seed. I am a Platinum heart, a sharp resonance sounding in my hollow body like a mineral, a pyrite of metallic gray hue. I am half-full, half-dreaming, in a place where footsteps ring like bells sounding midnight but speak tomes of absence and discord in the single-celled sound of one lingering ripple. The wind slows, the rain patters like small hands tapping chords on the window pane, and I hear the song, but do not sing.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 12.07.2011 @ 7:13 pm


The city. It seeps through the night like a bleeding photograph, running windows into rivers into shadows on the sidewalks. It speaks through the sleep of women gone softly to bed, children dreaming heavily of silence and a noise less ordinary. It is a time of reflection, of men staying up late into the night sipping whiskey high balls dreaming of baseball, of women in tight pants hanging out on street corners calling for someone named, ‘Baby.’ It is the line of bars down the street illuminated by neon sides with arms open to embrace all of the lost, the fallen, the craving poor souls of those who need a fix, need the elixir of forgetting, of silent and sleep.
It is a skyline singing to the cold, black nights of a river humming serenity in numb paranoia, in a world where children shiver in the city shimmer, calling, “Why?”

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.29.2011 @ 9:37 pm


Ringing in trees, the humming of bees, the feeling of my body blushing between my eyes and circling my knees, I think of you and laugh.
I laugh in memory, I laugh in mirth. I laugh for the sake of feeling cool, damp earth
Between my feet like a child’s bed
I could think of sadness
But I choose laughter instead

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.22.2011 @ 10:32 am


Dazed and Confused plays while my heart strums the same. The erratically smooth chords sync in unison as my mind beats insane, the words hustling rhymes of ‘you’ and ‘true’ as I miss the feeling of your arms, the comfort of your poetry.
This night I think of nothing but you as the evening serenades your birth; the essence of rain fluid assertion of your soul, the darkness a reminder of the Labyrinth in which we trialed and prevailed. I see no Stars but know them to exist, for I see your constellation freckles in their clouded bane, where I count the chrysalis of moths bloomed in the nighttime silence, when they make a silent storm upon the wind, spelling, ‘Cancer’, ‘Centaur’, and ‘Orion’ in the chase for Immortality.
You, my Friend, will ever be known, as always you have been, in my soul.
Anam Cara, I will always wait, always hope, always seek you, in this time, this hour, the journay of Us.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.16.2011 @ 9:36 pm


Either a state of mind where elation, joy, and opportunity is present, or an absolute assertion, some kind of affirmation. A charge, a feeling, a sense of right and certainty.
When I think of fate, I think of coincidence being positively impossible. Everything happens for a reason, of this I am absolutely sure.
When I think of you, I am positively aware that things between us are not finished, nor will they ever be.
You and I are meant to know one another, always, as we have millenia before.
Although you believe you have wronged me, and I believe I have pained you, there is a resolution, a solution here.
It is hard now to speak, yes, to listen, certainly. It is gruesome to imagine a reemergence of our relationship as anything but strained, but I believe we will move on.
“This too shall pass”, says your Joshua. This too shall go on, says my soul.
You hear me, you know me. Believe, and do not be afraid. We will be here forever.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.10.2011 @ 10:31 pm


It is amazing to me, how such a beautiful child with such a pure soul, can be so hurt and helpless in this incredible world. There are flowers he loves to smell, colors he loves to name, people he loves to greet and smile at, with those missing front teeth. He is a light in the world, when it can be so cruel and dark, and whoever comes across this small boy, this miniature Buddah, is instantly affected with a striking love for this round-eyed stranger. I feel for him as I would my own future child. I fear for him, I pain for his pain, I long to bury him into my protection, to encase him in my ease, and allow him to be completely absorbed into my love like falling asleep. I want to care for him and save him from the world. This, is profound love.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 11.02.2011 @ 8:38 pm


Knife blades ring like echoes, feeble against solid block walls in the cellular divide of the city square. Flashes of stinted gray, too dull for gleaming silver, stunted tips like knobs rusted into eroded handprints.

» Posted By MorganLovell On 10.17.2011 @ 6:10 pm

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