Friday, 28 April 2017

Separation, Replication

Gyrase unwinds tensions,
but after ligase breaks bonds.
DNA is a funny family,
dysfunctional yet bonded.

SSBs hold down the strand
even as primase primes it,
all for polymerase III to come
and double the DNA at the fork.

Polymerase I excises okazaki,
which with fragments it collates
upon the backbone of ligase,
and a lagging strand gone whole does make.

Polymerases check their work for errors,
fixing problems they have never seen,
and the DNA strand is replicated
two from one, clean and separated.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I feel obliged to apologize for these last two terrible entries, I'm studying for a bio exam. They are, without exception, the worst I've ever written.

Tuesday, 25 April 2017

Going with the Phloe'

Think I'm feeling like one of a clump,
drawn in, active transport, through the protein pump.
Treated like sugar, a mere ration,
drawn up the phloem, translocation.
       Feels like I'm sinking,
       but it's the reverse;
       I'm just drowning.
Going from the source to the sink in psychosis,
being crushed by the torrential waters of osmosis.
And when the waves go off on the march,
I'm broken, converted into starch.

Sunday, 16 April 2017

Some Brief Poetic Thoughts on Working This Easter

Twas early Easter morn,
and the coffee shop was dark.
Though the employees all were there,
not a guest had larked.
The workers relax,
in uniforms chill and chat,
till at last they are thrown in surprise back.
For as the Church opens its doors,
so to do the floodgates of the store.
Hordes of people crying; "more, more!"
A crowd as ne'er before seen,
more children than had ever been,
a tidal wave breaching the seas.
In flow the tides!
Out flow the drinks!
And coffee serves its purpose;
        the store's purpose;
              the sound of many clinks.

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

"Rap" Concerning Adolescence (from school, reprinted here for your amusement)

Hark me now back to the time of adolescence,
A period of starstruck effervescence.
When emotions and the known reality collide,
And take your hormones on one wild ride.
For what do you do when you feel alone?
Ruptured by development, growth, hormone.
Like a child with a yo, yo.
You’re gonna bond with tha group,
Take your luny leaps through hoops
Avec la raison du loup, a-hoooo!
Ya need time to find your place,
Unsure, seeking an end to the race
Rolling short term through a long term trace,
In between the child’s and adult’s pace.
Group behaviour, need a saviour,
Gotta go down to the Thought Haven.

Thursday, 6 April 2017

Of Things that Lurk in Dark Bathrooms

It is very rarely that one goes to use a public washroom in the dark: usually, they are well lit, "sterile" places wherein one does one's business, silently, then departs. It is a somber affair. Those using the stalls sit in the quiet, hope they don't catch anything, and depart swiftly. It is even more awkward for those who use the urinals, as they will traditionally pretend that no one else is present in the washroom with them, even if every stall and spot is occupied.
The reason I bring this up is not because I am interested in the sociology of the affair, or even scatological humour, but rather because it has a purpose. You see, when the lights go out one becomes eminently more social, and a certain atmosphere takes hold over the loo. Since they cannot be seen their identity cannot be confirmed, and so oddly this erases many of the taboos against speaking in public washroom; indeed, I have even heard jokes.
One wonders, then, why we put the lights on in the first place, if we have access to this knowledge as we most assuredly do. The more obvious answer, and the one most oblivious government agencies will give you when asked, as that it makes it far easier to do one's business in the light. The other answer, the one the more secretive government agencies are aware of but which no one will dare tell you or the general populace, is that the lightening of the room is not a matter of choice.
Specifically, I speak of auras, the air of damp malice that oozes from out the bathroom walls; they are old, often untended, and so sink into themselves and, in the dark, become something else. A place of evil, like the marshes and abandoned forts of old, where preternatural ghostlights lurk amidst the slimy cracks.

The lights flickered, dying, then went out. The bathroom was unoccupied at the time, fortunately, and so there was no one to gasp or chuckle in embarrassed mirth, or even to bang against the power box angrily. Not, of course, that one would have wanted to touch the walls, for this was an old washroom, located in a park, a standing structure of filthy concrete with rusting pipes and streaks of dirt upon the walls.
And so it remained silent, for a little while, devoid of all noises save for the gentle gurgling of the broken toilet at the far end. It was leaking, a strange thick fluid pouring slowly onto the ground. It was a distinctively dark and nasty liquid, and would most likely have perturbed anyone who saw it had anyone been there to see it. Regrettably the door to the stall was closed, though its lock had long since broken and so shutting it was futile, and so when someone did enter they noticed nothing out of the ordinary save for the pitch darkness.
He shrugged, cursed, and went to do his business. Unusually, he whistled as he did, a cheery noise that somehow denied the place he was in its usual sobriety. As he was buttoning up to leave another man entered. The noise of the toilet was obscured by the usual sounds of a used bathroom and the strength of our desire, and so neither man noticed anything.
The second man cracked a joke, strangely, peering about the darkened room with an amusement that was unlike the bathroom standard, and supplied a mocking curse for context. The other man laughed, gave another joke as a reply. It was exceedingly strange, this interaction, and no doubt it would make anyone not familiar with the happenings of a darkened bathroom quite nervous and worried, wondering as to the reasoning behind these men.
Well, the first man left the bathroom with little concern, and the second went to do his business in the relative privacy of the darkened room. He unzipped himself lent down, and was dragged off with a scream. There was a couple more strangled gasps, and one last drifting gurgle that emanated from the toilet, then wound down and disappeared. Silence.
A little while later, and after a couple more men go missing, and one or two women from the washroom next door, the police got involved. Well, involved may be an over-exaggeration of the word. They tried, but alack they knew not what to do. And so, the problem continued.
The dark had come, and the dark was here to stay.
A man sauntered in, somber, unusually so. Despite the lack of light and the disturbing actions that had occurred, people had kept up their jovial atmosphere, and so the man's demeanor was unusual. He wore a greatcoat and fedora, and his face was of blank countenance. He rested heavily on a carved cane, which he clacked against the ground as he walked to the far stall.
There was a shiver from within, a pooling of inconceivable malice, and a rumbling, but the man seemed unperturbed by this. He opened the stall and stood over the toilet for a coupe of moments, examining it. There was a growl from behind him, as whatever haunted the stall approached, but once more he remained unconcerned.
Detective Murphy Ottern, Canada's second best paranormal investigator, breathed slowly, calmly. He hated the creatures that lurked in dark places most of all, for it seemed as if those beasts that descended from moist crevices were among the worst of their ilk. He groaned, and waited and, as the creature stood immediately behind him, swung his cane up backwards.
It screamed as the carven symbols slammed into it, melting its fetid flesh from our pungent reality. It withered, still shrieking, and sank, and eventually vanished after prolonged contact. Behind it, it left only a small smear of black gunk.
Detective Ottern sighed, tipped his hat in a mockery of respect, and departed. He checked the light box before he went, to make sure it worked, and carved a mystic symbol similar to the ones on his cane so that it would not malfunction again. It was raining when he departed, and its warm droplets felt like the tears of that beast's many victims, the arcane stars twinkling in their agelessness overhead.

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

A Crushing Sense of Guilt

The author sat in a booth in the coffee shop, his pen frantically scritching across the page. He was exceedingly anxious, his nerves firing and his heart beating like a set of bagpipes. He turned to regard the pile of unfinished work beside him, and his heart beat all the faster, speeding into the climax of the piece. He had his education, his work, furthering and financing his education, writing, eating (he had to remember to do that on occasion), and an event he'd foolishly volunteered to help plan. All were due, to be set upon him shortly.
Due dates...
Due dates...
Due dates...
He took a sip of coffee, and was about to return to his feverish scrawling when someone sat down opposite him. Their breathing was belaboured, their movements staggered, as they gazed at him with an unmitigated hostility. He looked up, confused, and stared at the beast in surprise. It was shadowy, soaked in mist, yet tangibly pathetic. Its long, droopy eyebrows sagged over a puckered, pockmarked, and wrinkled face. It grinned, exposing rotten teeth. "So, here we are again." It lisped, breath gargling in its throat with a voice like phlegm.
The author was confused. "'We?' I must beg your pardons; I'm afraid I have no recollection of ever having met you."
It laughed, a rattling sound that grated on the surface of the author's soul. and coughed up bile. Its shriveled arms emerged from its tattered cloak to wipe its mouth of spittle, and its peered at the author loathingly with catatonic eyes."Oh? Has it really been that long?"
The author looked at it askance. "Yes, or so it appears."
It regarded him thoughtfully, as it tapped one torn and yellowed nail against its shredded lips. "You really don't know me. Hmmm..."
It stood up and bowed with a mocking flourish, although it floundered a little as it tried to stand, so weak was it. As it did so, it seemed as if it grew larger, bulkier, more powerful, and then loudly proclaimed itself. "I... am the shadow of your guilt."
It sat back down.
"Oh? You look pretty substantial to me." The creature gazed at him silently, until the full extent of what he'd said hit the author like a sack of fried monkeys.
"Ah. I see. What am I doing wrong?"
The sense of guilt lay back in their rolls of fat, chuckled maliciously. "Why, others, of course."
"Others?"
"Yes. Your commitment to volunteering, planning events, joining them, and keeping your short stories up to date. All have faltered in recent days and, in the marsh of your own ignorance, floundered. For, as the not-so-great poet Jordan Waverman will wrote:
          Il est seulement sans amis,
         que l'├óme est partie."
At this point the author's guilt, barely held back in the webs of his mind, grew overwhelming, and the bench collapsed under its weight. It didn't notice. "There was no need to be so harsh: a simple reminder would have done." He commented.
The beast merely snarled. "You've let your guilt encompass you, and grow greater than you: now I am free! Do you want to see what happens when you let your emotions control you?"
And without waiting for a reply it turned around, slid off the ruins of the bench, and approached a nearby young woman who was staring at the spectacle in consternation. It grabbed her and, opening it great fanged maw, began sucking at all the air around her like some fanged leech. It drew out her fears, her anxiety, her insecurities, and her emotional pain, and grew drastically larger as it did so. At last the pair of them collapsed back, and the author was surprised to note that she appeared surprisingly rosy and cheerful.
"Wow, I feel really light and airy." She commented.
Then, before she had time to scream, it lept up on the table and devoured her whole. "I am your insecurities; I am a terrible individual; and as long as I exist in the half-life there shall be no happiness!" It screeched, as the restaurant flew into a panic.
By now the author's sense of guilt had grown so large it had shed its human form, and existed as a morass of living and flowing fat replete with a multitude of haphazard claws, maws, and teeth, and some very strange, inconsistent yet innocuous eyes.
It rolled like a tidal wave towards the door, reaching it before the terrified patrons and barring it shut. It then proceeded to do to them as it had to the young woman, devouring distress before devouring em themselves. It took many before glancing out the window, perceiving the large city and, thirsting for more, flattened the door and rolled like pancake batter into the city. The remaining customers cowered behind their tables, all save for the author who, have horrifyingly watched his fears go off on a rampage, knew what he had to do. Steeling himself, he set off in pursuit.

**tune in next week to watch our intrepid authorial hero, as he tackles his own insecurities!**