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Thirteen: alt.arts.poetry.gothic.self_important_dreck

~~Thou Blackness, Sanguine~~

An Oralized Expositorial Journey on the Nature of Unbearable Sufferatude

Pulled from the ether and enslaved to the page by Alexander Goth


Black Zander

--}}--_B l A c K e S t _Z a N d E r_--{{-



the poisoned mango.

do you see me, world? world of corrupt pain?


am i invisible now, a non-entity on the black buffet?

acknowledgacate my sauce.

sample the rancidifying gravy.

i shall the consumed.

my life is cursed.

pissed upon by war gods and piskies.

green men of the forest and dark dryads of blood ritual.

pulled from my father's home, silver chafing dish, warmed by canned fires.

one bite. one. and nothing.

stash me under your duplex napkin,


am I so distasteful???

my soul has been twisted, shaped by pain and rejection.

alone and yet now, trapped with the asinine.

Cassandra, discarded, drowns her broken heart in cookies crumbs.

but i will not succumb to the double-stuft Oreo.

my sorrow-dusted crust is unfettered.

a call.

a taxi.

a purchase. a purchase, to ease my agony. the decorative napkin, to be unfolded into the word's unreasoning lap. A wilted garnish, to be flicked aside.

hey, that guy goes to my high school.

stare, mundane sheep. chew your cud.

rat tampon, you could never know the deepening depths of my utter deepness.

so livejournaling about that look you're giving me.

never doing your homework again.

and then.

a chance meeting.



the old one is spry, young in his soul from his dalliances with The Woman. out and about. shopping walking living. Living, as his offspring suffer. with The Woman.

has this been arranged by my gods? my pagan masters, cast in plasti-stone? Hot Topic, hast thou become mine temple?

i am compelled to follow.

a confrontation, outside.

a plea. a request. shelter.

shelter, in the old Goth home.

warmth of the chafing dish.

accept me, progenitor.

rescue from the duplex.


The Woman would not approve.

The Woman has sold the Goth house.

The Woman has built a new house.

The Woman has vomited in the chafing dish.

Father describes the house.

comfort. luxury. better than any we had lived in together.

stomach... churning.

The Woman has outfitted her home with the inheritance denied to me.

"be happy for me."

"be happy for me."

he demands my approval. it is love, he claims. unlike any he has known.

since mother.

i will not approve of the home.

i will not succumb to The Woman.

nestled within her fetid carapace dozes the usurper of my future of idle wealth, the vile lungfish that incubates in its moist sanctuary of golden plenty.

oh man that is a good line.

say that out loud.


Father averts his eyes.

i return home.

i shed my false skin.

my new clothing sings truth in its strings. it proclaims me. it assigns me.

i am the most dangerous mango.

the home contradicts me.

is this home? i deny it. i deface it.

i cannot have my chafing dish, but i shall not bear the shining white plate of misfortune.

let grow the black mold of my soul,

my damp potato weeks long in the dumpster.

it is here i plot my triumph.

defeated? no. i refuse defeat. i fling defeat from me, as i spurn the advances of oversized girls with mohair dreadlocks in reflective corsets when other people are watching. I grind defeat beneath my heel. I tell defeat's girlfriend about defeat's unshakable diaper fetish.

The Woman will know me. the Father will know me.

the most dangerous mango will sprout. and the mango vine it flowers will drip the sweet venom of...



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