Sunday, 27 November 2016
Stop the clock,
Reset the clock,
Watch it go back
A monstrous beast,
On us will feast,
Till it saddens
And we rise again
From egg to hen,
Like the phoenix
And the ash.
A hoy and hey,
What a beautiful day!
Oh, how the negative diction floweth,
With the pretentious verbosity of its poet:
Revealing a shattered wheel of time,
Enmeshed in a dark, downwards climb.
And so this endless poem repeats itself,
With richness of words, wealth on wealth.
And so with richness of words, wealth on wealth,
This endless poem repeats itself.
And richness extends to imagery,
With paintings of the visual brilliancy.
Crafting his work in black gold,
A contrived darkness terrible to behold.
And so we reach the end,
A poem we have studied in dividends:
Till we spin in our aforementioned
Again and agains.
But the question is ambiguous:
Good or bad, Beast slow or viscuous?
And the Messiah, or the Marxiah?What an inimitable pariah.
Saturday, 26 November 2016
Our story starts on a dark, spooky back road, on a foggy night (as all such stories must). A station wagon drives slowly down the road, the young couple and their son completely oblivious to the sacrificial role they will undoubtedly play. The couple is talking in a quiet voice, hoping not to disturb their sleeping toddler, when they hit something squishy. Bump! The husband curses, stopping the car, sure he has hit a small, fluffy animal. As he climbs out (rather unwisely; clearly he’s new to the authorial business) he motions for his wife to find a flashlight, before going out to check. As his wife leaves the car, triumphant in her epic search for the flashlight, she hears a gasp. “Honey?” she calls. No answer. She turns on the flashlight to check just as his corpse comes flying into her.
Sergeant Felix D’Esterly of the constabulary stared at the gruesome scene without batting an eye, apparently unperturbed by the scene before him. Then he turned around and vomited. “What the bloody heck did this?” he cursed, straightening up. One of the junior officers raced to answer him; “Well sir, it wasn’t an animal, it’s too neat. Our guess is some kind of cult, because of the symbols, the violence, and the similarity to the other one.” Sergeant D’Esterly looked back at the sight, an expression of disgust plastered onto his face. He surveyed the road. The car had been bashed to pieces, its wheels popped. What was once a happy, unsuspecting couple, was now a smear of blood and organs on the ground. A few odd, stomach wrenching symbols have been drawn in the blood. “And what of the child?” he asks. There were only a few bones in the back seat. “Consumption.” The sergeant almost disgorged his lunch for a second time. He wishes he hadn’t had the spicy meatballs and beans for lunch. “Lovely. Fair enough, let’s call in a detective who specializes in these cases. This sounds like a job for Joe Andronicus, the best paranormal investigator in Canada!” The unfortunate officer winced. “This corpse is Joe, sir.” Felix groaned. He’s having a bad day. “In that case, call Murphy Ottern, the second-best paranormal investigator in Canada!” And with that, sergeant D’Esterly’s poor stomach gave in, and he became culpable of the crime of destroying evidence in a police investigation.
When the second-best paranormal investigator in Canada (or best, because Joe’s sent the bucket flying?) arrived in his usual reticent manner, he created little stir. In fact, no one even noticed him till he was examining the corpses, and even then he looked so right in this setting that no one cared until he started taking photos with his camera (none of this phone crap; horrible pictures, shaky as heck). Sergeant Felix hurried over. “G’Afternoon, Murphy. Any thoughts?” Ottern looked at him then, his drowsy gaze murkily concealing whatever he happened to be thinking. He glanced up. “Yes, yes it is.” And with that, he pulled on a pair of navy gloves and began poking around the car wreckage. Felix cleared his throat nervously, flustered, then said “So, I suppose you’re wondering why we’d call you for a murder like this, when the police could easily handle it…” “Not really.” Murphy interjected, drawing Felix’s ire. The detective plucked a piece of jagged metal from the road, studied it, then placed it into one of the voluminous pockets of his trench coat. “Hmm… Osmium. Interesting. But to answer your unspoken question, sergeant D’Esterly, I am aware of why you’d hire me because of reasonable conclusions. Joe Andronicus was no lightweight when it came to his investigations, and if this car carried his son then it would have been particularly well defended. And as you and I can see, it’s torn apart. And after his mother last week… An easy case of reasonable conclusions, I’m afraid.” Ottern knelt down to examine a destroyed car door. “Oh, and by the way, I also know for a fact that this case can not be ‘easily handled’ by the police. No fingerprints, no weapon- just these claw marks- extensive neatness, symbols, magical burns throughout most of the car, and the fact that Andronicus removed all your cults several months ago… No, it would have been a lot of trouble for you to even identify a group, nevermind catch them. That’s why I was called in.” Felix looked ready to burst, but something made him pause. “Hold on… No weapon? You mean this wasn’t the work of a large blast weapon? I’d have thought the magical burns would support that theory.” Ottern looked up at this, a brief expression of amusement flickering across his bland face. “Just why I was called in.” Then he stood up, remarked his goodbyes and left. The sergeant tried to interject, confused over his cryptic response, but it was too late. Ottern was gone. Felix sighed, before looking down at the car door. He observed the rents in the sides, almost like claws instead of burnt shrapnel, and shivered. He realized just why Ottern had laughed at him.
Delores sat beside the car, reading the newspaper. Murphy emerged by the side from the forest, and stood there for three minutes before she noticed him and suddenly put down her paper. “Well? Any good?” Murphy shrugged. “The cops in charge of this case are all imbeciles. They think they're dealing with some variety of mad bazooka wielding would-be sorcerers. Found some good evidence, though.” Delores climbed into the car, Murphy getting into the passenger seat. “So? Where to?” Murphy considered this for a few moments, then pulled out a small chunk of Osmium. Delores shivered, shocked at what Murphy held. “Powerful cult, then?” Murphy blinked in bemusement. “I’d hoped I’d trained you better than that. What group uses Osmium in this joint? No, none of them are powerful enough. What was the first lesson of paranormal investigating?” Delores sighed. “Always explore the layout of a town before you make your move. You never know what might be operating in it.” Murphy smiled. “Good. Glad to see you’ve learnt something. Head for the shadier bits of town. We’re looking for a small, unassuming but rotting building. Joe would have missed it; he liked his foes to be big and public.” Delores frowned as she drove round. “Hold on. Are you saying that the person who killed the great Andronicus wasn’t even a foe of his? What took place down that road, then?” Murphy grinned, showed her the Osmium again. “My guess? You’ll see.” Delores groaned, sure that another informative session on reason was coming. Unfortunately, it didn’t, and instead she drove in circles for nearly half an hour before Murphy suddenly stopped her. He pointed to a brown building with boarded up windows. Delores opened her mouth to ask a question, but Ottern shushed her. They snuck out of the car, none of the passersby giving them or the car any thought (as was usual in events concerning Murphy Ottern), and slithered along the wall. When they reached the front door, Murphy straightened up. “What? I thought we were supposed to remain silent and keep hidden?” Delores asked, irate. Murphy shook his head imperceptibly. “No, we didn’t have to. I just asked you to because every good detective story needs a scene where people sneak around.” “Huh?!” exclaimed Delores. But Murphy expounded no further. He went to the door and knocked loudly. Delores was very confused. “Why are we knocking now? Shouldn’t we sneak in, if we want a good… scene?” Detective Ottern shook his head. “Tell me, have you ever heard of the Yakarzın Kitap?” Delores nodded her head in confirmation. “Weren’t they a bunch a wackos who believed that we all lived in a story, or something like that?” Murphy breathed out, relieved. “Glad to see you recognize them, at least. The Yakarzın Kitap, or The Author’s Book, believe that life is some big book written by an author and think that they are some sort of major plot point in this story. Completely nuts, but they’re deadly players at any rate.” “Then why have we knocked on their door?” “Because you never beat the Yakarzın Kitap unless they want you to. Most people aren’t even aware they exist.” Delores stumbled backwards in shock. “Unless THEY want you to? Why would they lose intentionally? And how do you know it’s them?” At that point the door swung open, and Murphy marched inside confidently. He stood in the main hall alone, checked his pocket watch, and waited.
“So many questions. Good. I know it’s them because of reasonable conclusions. Their symbol had been printed in the ground thirteen times in blood, and no other group is suicidal enough to use that symbol. Don’t know why Joe didn’t guess it was them after the first case, actually. They’re the only people who provoke investigators of his status intentionally, after all. And they often lose intentionally. They claim it’s all part of the plot.” No one appeared down the hall, so Murphy began to walk down it, in the direction of a light source. Delores followed hesitantly. “So if they sometimes win, then why are we being so incautious? Shouldn’t we be more careful?” “Don’t be ludicrous. Everyone wins sometimes.” They emerged into a main room at this point. Thirteen people, dressed in stereotypical black cultist robes, stood around a stereotypical pentagram chanting the names of beings repetitively. Murphy walked right up to the edge of the circle, and no one noticed him. More confident at the sight of Murphy standing by them, Delores entered the room, forgetting that no one ever noticed Ottern. “Intruders!” One of the men in black screeched, and the call was taken up by others. Then their chant changed, and it was all the more terrifying. They began repetitively chanting “Soricidae! Soricidae!” over and over. Murphy stepped back for a moment, contemplation on his face (for once). Then he slowly opened his pocket, drawing out a police night stick. He motioned for Delores to draw her own club. She hurriedly did so, glad that Murphy had given her it. She never figured out where he’d gotten it, though. Murphy grinned once, then turned and bashed a man with his. The chanting abruptly stopped. The cultists stared at Murphy for a moment (except for the one on the floor, who was recovering his breath; despite appearances, Murphy had a strong arm) then one stepped forward. He removed his hood, staring intently at the meddlesome detectives. A female to the side suddenly rushed forward, and slit the man’s throat. He collapsed to the floor, symbols to the side glowing, as all of the Yakarzın Kitap fled through a back door, chanting the word “Soricidae”. Delores moved to chase them, but Murphy held her back. “No worry, I told a cop on my way out of the earlier scene that they’d be here. We have another problem.” He looked at the writhing cultist on the floor, who to Delores’ shock was beginning to shrink. Ottern noticed her shock. “What do you think killed all those people?” The man had stopped shrinking, he had grown fur, and bore a shrewlike look. “A Wereshrew.” stated Murphy unemotionally. “Or that’s what they call it. Technically it’s an Elephant Shrew, which isn’t a true shrew, but who cares?” The small not-shrew stared angrily at them, ready to pounce. Murphy nonchalantly pulled his phone from his pocket, and dropped it into the blood. The shrew was fried instantly, electricity overwhelming its tiny body. Murphy looked at Delores’ shocked face. “What? It wasn’t a werewolf; I don’t need any fancy silver bullets.” and with that, Murphy turned and left the way he’d come, to the sound of police sirens and the uncaringness of an entire population. But Delores wasn’t upset he’d left. He’d call her.
Friday, 25 November 2016
It was a day cold, a day wet, when you arrived.
Your beauty was unparalleled, clearly uncontrived.
Your look so hot my mouth was hung,
But your touch was the same, and burnt my tongue.
Your burnt chocolate skin had not a one:
Not blemishes, nor scars, a perfection.
Your will has occupied all my life,
Now paradisiacal, free from strife.
But can this divinity eternally last,
Or shall it return to all things - the past?
For as beauty fades and all grows old,
So too does my cup of coffee grow cold.
Sunday, 20 November 2016
This is a poem sung in rhyme,
By one who comes from out of time.
This is a poem with measured pace,
By one who comes from out of space.
This is a poem by one who roams,
Far, far away from home.
This is a poem I must condone,
For I am tired of being all alone.
And so as I sing my hollow song,
Come and sing, sing along.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just a reminder that I now post the 'fun facts' and information associated with my works blog to the Facebook page, at Jordan Waverman (link at the top). If you want to know why I'm writing such a weird poem, head there!
Monday, 14 November 2016
Insects, insects, they make me want to cry:
There are many things I'll eat but those I will not try.
I do not mind the chest nor legs, nor do I mind the thighs,
But Lord how I hate, those little tiny eyes.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I went camping this weekend. It was a Venturer camp. I was offered strange food. I wrote a poem about this food.
Thursday, 10 November 2016
Your taste is like trash.
You’re a gross hash.
You make me want to hurl.
If reality I could unfurl;
Then you I would annihilate,And give us all a better fate.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This poem was written in about ten minutes (which is why it is short and not that great) in response to a bet about whether I could truly write a response to how much I hate oatmeal.
Sunday, 6 November 2016
It was a sweltering day in the heat of summer, one of the ones where the ground appears hazy and indistinct, and the heat seems to cling to your skin. I was walking down the street on this day, regretting my decision to take a hike. But I’d had to leave home; inside was worse than out. And so there I was. I squinted. It seemed as if the road was vanishing into the distance. But, as aforementioned, it was one of those hazy days, so I took it for a mirror trick and ignored it.
As I approached, however, I realized that it couldn’t be a trick. For if it were, then surely the road would appear as I walked forward. But appear it did not; instead the distance between myself and that swirling mist decreased. I stared at it a little harder, sure I was wrong. But I was not wrong . Eventually, the road vanished, there being a hazy stretch before it disappeared into a yawning black pit. I looked about, however, and was rather surprised to see that I was the only person to notice the that the world seemed to vanish (for, upon closer inspection, I discovered that it was not just the road that vanished, but all of reality entirely). Others just ignored it; and if they should try to walk into it, then they would turn about and head the other way with scarcely a thought.
My curiosity piqued, I walked to the end of the world, where I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I was not the only person to note the hole. There, upon the verge of reality, sat an old man, his body so folded and wrinkled he was barely noticeable. He appeared to be fishing, his line cast over the periphery into the swirling depths. He was wearing a cloak that looked like it had been made in the 16th century, so faded was it. He looked up at my approach, then shrugged, as if accepting my existence as being some arbitrary factor which could not concern him. Staying well back from the edge so as to avoid falling in (for I feared leaving existence, if that was what this was), I gently cleared my throat to get his attention.
He ignored me, instead reeling in and recasting his line. He appeared to get excited for a moment, as if he’d caught something (though what he was trying to catch was beyond me; I was too far back to see over the cliff), then looked disappointed. He adjusted himself to get more comfortable. Once more, I cleared my throat. This time he glanced over, staring at me with unfocused, cataract-filled eyes. He grunted noncommittally and returned to his task. “Excuse me…” I began, but he interrupted. “Not leaving, are we? Figures, you can’t take a hint. They never can.”
“They…?” I started, but he didn’t take the bait, and instead returned to his fishing. We stood there for a few moments, until he heaved out a great sigh. He motioned me over. Hesitant, but filled with an intrepid curiosity, I stepped forward. “What do you see down there?” He asked, pointing off the edge. I stepped forwards still more, and glanced down carefully. At first, there was nothing, just an inky blackness such as one only hears about in stories. But on closer inspection, I was shocked to see that objects, objects even blacker than the darkest of pits (which this was), were stirring about down there.
I shivered. “What are those… those… creatures?” I asked breathlessly (I assumed them to be creatures, for they possessed a strange, desperate pattern to their movements that I would not have expected from something such as a cloud, or group of insects). At first, the man did not respond, and I feared his interaction with me had ceased. But then he seemed to gather the energy to respond, and replied: “Those who never were.”
I must confess, I didn’t understand. After all, who would? “Those who never were” is not the greatest of explanations. And so I asked him to clarify his statement. Once more he paused. He was clearly a man who chose his words with an exaggerated care, and I became aware that this conversation could take far longer than I desired. But he eventually responded. “They are the remains of those who never were; the unborn, as you might better understand it. They are the people who, for some reason, never entered this world, though they were meant to. And so their souls are stuck on the edge of the world, meant to be in it but incapable of actually entering, a shadow of the being they were meant to be.”
Once he had clarified his statement, I finally understood. My earlier intuitions were correct; I had truly reached the end of reality, and had seen the damned souls who inhabited it. Now that I had been informed, I was able to look closer and perceive the truth. The vague shapes inhabiting those depths possessed a definitively human shape, their features twisted into a horrified grimace. Revolted, I stepped back. I turned to regard the man, who was watching me closely. “But… why?” I was barely able to stutter it out, so disgusted was I by the fate of those below. The man merely cocked his head, as if expecting an explanation but not willing to ask for one.
That, I was happy to provide. “Why are they there? How come they are stuck there? And why, all of a sudden, are they visible?”
This time, the pause was veritably painful, as I waited for an explanation. I was surprised by his response, for this man, who in the few minutes I’d known him had seemed to possess such self-assurance, was suddenly indeterminate. “I… do not know.” He confided in embarrassment. “There is no explanation as to why they exist, other than fate, I suppose. The answer to your other two questions is the same, however. From my own ongoing research, I believe them to be capable of leaving for a limited amount of time, though they cannot travel far, and are exceedingly weak. When this happens, the edge of reality blurs and becomes visible to a few, such as yourself, until they return. I believe the capacity to view them is linked to severe emotional distress.”
I considered this for a moment, remembering the bad news from the hospital that had resulted in my leaving the house, trying to collect my thoughts and act with some small degree of wisdom. “So… If they can’t travel far, then where is the person who has left? If you and I are here, then where is he? Do these people possess names?”
The man stared at me, and for the first time I saw him smile. It was a slim one, sad, and seemed to contain the same odd desperation within it that the beings contained as they moved about. He motioned me closer. Now, for some incomprehensible reason, trusting him completely, I stepped forward. He kept motioning me forward, till I was almost upon him. I could smell his stale breath, see every wrinkle in detail. He motioned me to turn my ear towards him. He whispered but a few words into it. “Corban… That’s my name…”
Confused, I looked up, but he was gone, having jumped off of the edge of reality. Gone also was the edge, reality having returned to its consistent self. I wondered where it and he had gone, before it occurred to me with an inevitable clarity. I shivered, as if a cold breeze (or a ghost) had blown through me, though I was soaked in sweat in the hot summer day. I turned around then, and headed straight home, thankful yet oddly terrified. As I went, however, my memory of that strange encounter vanished slowly, to my own bewilderment. By the time I arrived at my door, all memory of the incident was gone, and I sat down on the inside of my door encumbered with a sense of confusion. I was filled with uncertainty, over what I may have seen yet couldn’t remember, and a sense that somehow, someway, my reality had been overturned. Yet I couldn’t remember… couldn’t remember my encounter with that shadow of being.