ABOUT
THE AUTHOR
A twenty-something jack-of-all-trades that has simple been exploring the craft of writing for longer than he can remember. Whilst humour is a fickle mistress that comes and goes, he must admit that tragedy and romance consume the bulk of his creative efforts. [January 2008]
AUTHOR'S OTHER TITLES (17) Alexandria (Poetry) Just a quick little verse I scribbled down one day on a whim celebrating the destruction of knowledge. [24 words] [History] Ballad Of The Opiate King (Poetry) - [151 words] Birds (Poetry) Oh, the things we do... [159 words] [Romance] Collected Poems (Poetry) A collection of some of the poetry I've written over the years; most of it follows the same or similar rhyming scheme and cadence (yes, most of it rhymes... sorry folks), but the material covered vari... [1,331 words] How She Stirs Not At All (Short Stories) - [319 words] I Should Think It Like A Fist (Non-Fiction) A semi-conscious rant on language, love and whatever else I found offensive that day. [493 words] [Psychology] I Think You'd Like Her (Short Stories) A soliloquy of sorts, we find a young man reflecting on a love now lost. [1,440 words] [Romance] Mere Life Less Love (Non-Fiction) A short projection of private thoughts regarding love and life. [276 words] Moments, A Lamentation (Non-Fiction) - [500 words] [Romance] Of Art, Pt. 1 (Non-Fiction) An undulating rant on Art and its relevance to civilized life. [489 words] [Psychology] Princes And Lesser (Poetry) An exercise in entendre. [117 words] [Literary Fiction] Reflections On A Sunrise (Short Stories) A very old fable I stumbled across that I had written some years ago. I still reading it from time to time, I like what I was trying to do here, inspirational and all of that. [1,037 words] [Fable] Stranded At Dusk (Short Stories) I've labeled this as a short story, although my original intent was to develop this into a longer work, possibly a novella or full-length novel. [1,690 words] [Thriller] Sunday Morning (Short Stories) Memories. Just... memories. [458 words] [Literary Fiction] The Mad Diarist (Short Stories) The first fragments of a diary have been discovered buried beneath the dust of an old condemned building. The author's identity remains a mystery. [347 words] [Horror] The Opiate King (Poetry) In Memorium of a Great Man. [151 words] [Mystical] Worlds Apart (Short Stories) A series of piggybacking streams of consciousness, effectively stages of one man's reflection on the woman he's left for reasons (and duration) unknown. [1,595 words] [Relationships]
Consciousness Stream 1 Gregory Novak
I was let live today.
Go talk to God, he's looking for the truth, too.
You've never talked to him.
You've talked to his shadow while he was gone to market.
I am the seed
And the rain.
Don't fuck with me
I am not the fucked to be.
MY EYES ARE COMING OUT
I don't know what it is
but it is.
... it is.
It's unreal
but I want to touch it.
The world
It stops
It stops one thousandth of a second
at a time
at a time
at a time
when all I feel is time.
The spiral
the shell
there is no evolution
doomed children
my god...
MY God
MINE
There was never enough to go around..
Crawling with it.
crawling
but not creeping
fire wants an audience
the flames don't dance in any green room.
I see into the inside.
There's too much light out there
Let the world look at you for a change.
Knives stuck in the side of the Dawn
It bleeds light
slowly
like a wounded pig.
The night's hunt was good.
oh we'll be fed.
Throw the night on the fire
and watch it burn
The fire's too high to heal us
and it's only getting higher.
Just throw it to the ground.
Let it feed itself.
Listen to it listen to you
I can see how you look at it
around it
Looking for another way
But you were there
you saw what we did.
They'll come and go.
They have no respect for the hunt.
Where will you leave your body?
Look at what's it doing for you.
It's keeping you from TOUCHING THE WORLD.
You want to feel the world
to touch the universe and hold the heavens
and every time you reach out for it
your flesh gets in the way.
You sleep and try again
always reaching
but you're never fast enough.
You're never fast enough for your flesh.
It's IDEAS are killing us.
It's too easy isn't it?
Just... to let it out
let all of your ideas evaporate out into space
And then to not even BOTHER WATCHing it go.
Fuck you and fuck sympathy.
One solid tonne of truth
Let me hold it in your arms.
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