Clash To Merge

Bring me to the surface slowly
So I don’t burst.

Raise the water’s temperature
So I don’t scald.

Soar with me at heights
No longer held by air
To help us breathe.

Fall with me, our plunge
A tumble toward the smack
Of linked hands clapping.

Hold me against you tightly
So we never part.

/ W B Kek

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Culture War

Make no mistake, this is culture war and the would-be aristocrats are trying to kill us.


I don’t want your free books. If a book interests me, I’ll pay fair price for it all on my own. Handing out unwanted crap is not promotion, it’s littering.


Poor people would have health coverage if they didn’t spend money on ‘that new iPhone’
/ Rep. Jason Chaffetz (R-UT)

Deeply callous, hateful, and dismissive.
Modern equivalent of “Let them eat cake.”
Defines the GOP.


Communication is not possible.
I’ve been a writer for 50 years;
I know what I’m talking about.
All you can do is resonate.

/ W B Kek


Anyone defending the GOP is supporting sadistic cruelty and psychopathic hatred and greed.


Topic for discussion, perhaps:

Horror is a style, not a genre.

Oh, it’s sold as a market category, sure, but there is no list of things one must include in order to commit horror.

On the other hand, it can be applied to any genre. You can writer science fiction, mystery, romance, or anything and also add horror to it by simply adopting a certain style.
Bonus topic:

Horror means revulsion, terror means fear. Most think of what we have labeled Horror Fiction as scary, when in fact the elements in it that disgust us are what would define it. Stephen King knows this. “If I can’t scare you I can at least disgust you,” he’s said many times. Terror and Horror are styles that dance a tarantella in an attempt to affect readers. That’s the genuine mix to which we all respond so deeply.

Facing down what scares and disgusts us. Like death and dead things, for one. Or anything else, if one is imaginative.

/ Samael Gyre


It’s okay to criticize my work, but you’d better know what the fuck you’re talking about or I’ll criticize your critique and mock you to shreds.


Attending movies saddens me. Perhaps because one sits in darkness, surrounded yet alone. Maybe it’s the alarming mix of public and private experience. Could be I’m just overwhelmed by the flickering pictures and loud sounds.


Don’t lower yourself for the reader. Let the reader climb up to you.


Why don’t ghost hunters do EVP’s in churches? Think about it.


A contingent, ushered in to have audience with Vlad Tepes, ruler of Wallachia, featured one man who kept his hat on despite Vlad’s court etiquette rule about doffing caps.

Vlad pointed at the man and asked why he kept his had on. He was told the man’s home-country custom was to keep his had on inside and to do otherwise would dishonor his home customs.

Vlad smiled. He understood. “Then, as good hosts, we must make sure he does not dishonor his homeland’s customs.”

He then ordered spikes driven through the hat, into the man’s skull, to ensure the cap would not “accidentally” fall off, thus “dishonoring” him.

Vlad was Dragon indeed.

Another time, he spread word of a banquet to celebrate a great military victory, perhaps driving off the Turks, which was to be held in the town’s church. All were invited, and hungry peasants came to feast from all over. They crowded into the church, enjoying the meats, the wines, and breads, and each other’s celebratory company.

Vlad then had his soldiers bar the doors from the outside and guard the windows as he set the church on fire.

He ate as the screams gradually died down.

He was known to eat among the thousands he’d have impaled on pikes. These by the way were rounded on top, not sharpened. One was sat upon them, then pulled down so the pikes entered the rectum. One’s own body weight kept shoving it deeper into you. The more you struggled, the faster it went. Most victims, despite the tearing, bleeding, and rupturing, ended up dying of suffocation as the pike pushed up into their diaphragm.

Vlad was a blood-drunk, cruel dragon.

He is known today in the west as Dracula, of course, thanks to Bram Stoker and Leigh Hunt, but in Romania he’s hailed as a hero, one of the fathers of his country for having repelled and kept out the Turkish hordes. He is George Washington’s Transylvanian equivalent.

Context, and perspective, are everything.

/ Samael Gyre


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Journal Silence

Bad writing deserves harsh review. To maintain some semblance of cultural standards is why review exists.

Many today think “review” means an unconditionally positive blurb from friends, and any critique is “hate” or “revenge trolling” or what ever. That’s childish, stupid, and wrong. Critique is analysis, and if a work fails, it is review that points it out, so others know.

Each review is one person’s assessment, nothing more. Some review is persuasive, some rings hollow. Much review offers thoughtful points to consider, backing them up with context and referents, examples and comparisons.

Vast majority of my reviews are positive, even enthusiastic. This is because I don’t bother reading crap. If I begin to read something and it fails me, I chuck it over my shoulder and find something remarkable, compelling, and otherwise good. When forced by circumstance or suckered by doubt into reading the entirety of a bad work, that is when my review will be harsh, but I will be fair, tell why, and place it in context with other, similar work.

I read a lot.

I think about writing a lot.


“The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering.”

/ Tom Waits


All any item ever is, when sold, is a way to get your money. Period.


To believe is to pretend. The quality of one’s fantasies varies with intelligence and education, or the lack of those things.


Good silent films fascinate the way good lean prose fascinates.

/ geste


“And I believe that reading and writing are the most nourishing forms of meditation anyone has so far found.
By reading the writings of the most interesting minds in history, we meditate with our own minds and theirs as well.
This to me is a miracle.”

/ Kurt Vonnegut


I live alone,
Parallel to her,
Rarely touching.

I live together,
At the vanishing point,
Rarely converging.

I live as we,
As me, as she.
Barely make it through.

/ W B Kek


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Annoyance Fulfilled

“Those people who think they know everything are a great annoyance to those of us who do.”

/ Isaac Asimov


Who are you?
-I’m the one always
-In the back of pictures
-Who no one can identify.

Where you from?
-There isn’t a word for it.
Why are you here?
-Depends on the picture.

/ “Mr Entropy” by Art Wester


Judges are worth the cost of their booze bribes.

/ Samael Gyre


If it ends in sunbeams Our troth will be fulfilled.

/ W B Kek


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Seething Grass

They tell us our votes count.
They tell us work makes freedom.
They tell us to buy, spend, invest.
They tell us to shut up.
They tell us to die.

We tell them Yes.



“How do you know.”
The trumper’s question.

Nullifies all fact.
Demolishes reality so they can
Think what they want.

My wife does this.
Thinks categorically, too.

Time to join the celebration.

Expect death.
Trump’s only genuine promise.


So I posted an article called
The Truth About the Necronomicon,
Discussing its fictional origins,
Possible referential sources;
Its many hokey versions
Released to make money.

FB informs me that it was deleted,
Having been reported.

Some xtian trumper dupe, apparently,
Objected to discussing fiction or
Its real-world effects.

Go Google the article and enjoy.

Fuck censorship to death.


“Bent beast and pale rider, they wandered through the seething grass.”

J. G. Ballard


HuffPo: just another platform for high jumpers who can’t swim.

/ W B Kek

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At starts
A thrill of fresh finds.

A rush
A blur
Dazzled keeping up

A tingle of tacit pride.

A dissolving continuity.

Begin again forever.

/ W B Kek

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Hayseed Coup & Evidence of Simulated Existence

Never blame conspiracy for what incompetence can explain.
Ah, but what if it’s a conspiracy of incompetence?

/ geste


“Hayseed Coup”

If people can go insane
Why not cities, states,
Countries going insane?
Look around.
First small groups went mad
With fear, hate, greed.
Contagion from corporate.
It seeped through religion
Into institutions, states.
Governments were infected,
Fevered; they fell.
Now it’s the few infectious
Crazies pulling levers of
Power and destruction,
Learning how they work
The better to consolidate
Their hayseed coup.
What is done with
Ravening raping killers
Once they’re identified?
What is done with
Cannibals and tyrants
Once they’re brought low?

We need to RUN:
Rise Up Now.

/ W B Kek


We just saw the football version of the trump electoral coup algorithm.


Ask yourself, art or money.
If the latter, pander like a whore.
Grunt out sub-literate extruded fiction product. 
Pastiche sells best.
The familiar and comforting appeal.
Do not stray from the expected formula.

/ geste


Black dog is more like
A pack of fucking werewolves lately.
Might not make it.
Woods tangled, pitch dark.
No weapons left.
No compass in or out.

Is there any better than here?
How long must it last?
Why can’t it end
Before I’m forced
To end it?

America raped, murdered.
Democracy betrayed by
Capitalism’s lies.
Hope strangled by
Predatory perverts
For their sick kicks.

Go back, some say.
Back to what?

Back to the universal corruption
That fostered the fascism?
Back to the chess pool where
Racism, fear, hate, and greed
Grow like viral infections
In a spiral of tornado destruction?
Back to a tsunami avalanche
Collapse of kicked-back bribery?

Our entire lives,
All our dignity,
Every bit of
What we thought counted,
What we thought was real
Was taken from us ,
Smashed as bullies jeered,
As nihilists preened:

If they can’t have it all,
None of us gets anything.

Why go on?

/ W B Kek

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Home Soon

Home from Rome
Gordon of Cartoon, a
Road warrior
(warrior in the wire)
Will wire whoever
Catches cold;
No help there
Too soon.

/ W B Kek

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Remember the Future

Remember the future,
Anticipate the past,
But always inhabit the present
As if you are the whole of reality,
Which is a solid.

/ W B Kek

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U.S.S. Indianapolis

I am desperate for cascade.
Water on bare skin.

Clean off this fuel oil.

I made it 20 days.
I’m bleeding again;
Flesh wound seepage.

We few left clinging cry out.
Blood is bait.

Wounds heal slowly:
Decide where to drift,
Where do weapons hide
From kind intentions?

Sun pounds, stars mock.

Shark flashes to bite;
Depth becomes sinking.

/ W B Kek

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