It's Already Gone

and suddenly it seems terribly important that you remember this moment, exactly how it is, because you realize that one day it will be gone and you won't be able to bring it back. Then you remember a fictional man whispering "You can't capture this moment, it's already gone." but you think to yourself that it might be helpful just to say something out loud. You say, "It feels like two small vikings are fucking on my brain." and you can practically see the words coming out of your mouth, getting smaller and smaller until they're carried away by currents of air, like flecks of dust. For a second you worry that maybe you chose the wrong words and that you could have said something so much better, but then you remember

mummble mummble yeah yeah

and there's this intensity built up inside my chest, concentrated there.
It's ready to burst and split open my rib cage.
I want to reach my hands inside my body and tear my ribs apart, cracking them with firm movements.
I want to expose this and set it free.
So I can be at peace.

The future is coming (ohfuckohfuckohfuck)

Two things

Fucking Whatever Whatever

Same post with different words is the recurring theme around these parts,
poor choice of words and sentence structures,
a shaky foundation of words and word crutches.

So instead of moving forward I indulge in the same old self destruction
but this time not feeling bad that mine isn't as tangible,
or as dramatic or as justified.

Just lost.

it's palpable

drums that sound like far off thunder
roll into the end of something
reminding me of an evening
when someone I knew felt younger
because of wrinkles still hidden
under pounds of missing skin
caressed by an old boyfriend
on the other side of town
and when she called from the train
she didn't start crying
when she thought I'd hung up
hiccoughing into static
while the people around her whispered.

"You're just another crazy bitch Wylie fucked"

She sat there shocked. Her blood pumped quickly through her, she was convinced it was full of caffeine. She felt completely out of control of her body, out of control of everything. This was not the time nor the place, yet here it was. The photos she feared. All she could think about was how she is built like a twelve year old. The room was poorly lit and cell phone photos never turn out well, but what she saw could not be mistaken for anything else. His naked chubby body was lying on top of hers, as she feverishly attempted to turn her head away. her legs wrapped around him with both of them panicking and her right breast exposed to the camera. The third person in the photo stood over her triumphantly. His palm slapping the palm of the naked man who was on top of her, and inside of her. She didn't remember this happening, she remembered very little of the whole night.
The best he could do to comfort her afterwards was assure her that she was not some slutty joke, just a regular one.

The Hunter and the Forest of Sorrow

One plutonian evening, a hunter of fickle means entered the Sorrow Forests which lie beyond the northern territories of the wild women. He searching the barren winterlands for rations with which to feed his many starving illegitimate children. The approaching winter whispered at his neck like the fickle breath of Hades and the crows upon his windowsills gurgled contentedly at the sight of his empty cupboards. In the obsidian blackness of the forest, the hunter’s moccasins crushed through the snow and fallen limbs of trees to a small rodent enclave.
“Stop, yon cursed hu-man!” The oldest and most wise rodent leader protested, “What ungainly businesses hath ye for mine kin?!”
“I search for sustenance with which to feed the illegitimate children of faithless wandering. It hath been an eon since mine homely mistress’ teat hath run dry.” The hunter announced, his hunter’s bludgeon hanging pendulously from his hip. “Return to your mewling, fickle fay mouse. Seven years hunger shall not be sated with the ungainly taste of mousen flesh.”
The hunter began to move on, deeper into the barren forest but the mouse followed him, fuming, “Ye were a foolish hu-man to come to Sorrow Forest in famine. Ye shall find no beasts more comely than mine kin in her obsidian blackness.” Feeling the brewings of treachery at his back, the hunter turned upon the mouse and drove his hunter’s bludgeon through his fool’s skull, causing it’s spirits to abandon the body and rise into the miserly air. With a fickle chuckle the hunter sloughed the gore from his bludgeon and continued deeper into the forest where no beast uncomely or otherwise was to be found.
With the passing of time, the hunter found the rodent’s sage words to be truth. The stench of winter death hung in the trees. Clutching his fool’s gut, the hunter collapsed upon the winter wastes, certain the children at home had already fallen into the fevered madness of cannibalism. Before him appeared an apparition, the slain elder mouse of the rodent’s enclave. “Foolish hu-man. Can you not see now that though you would surely starve upon only the flesh of one of my brethren, with the scraps of many you could have fed yourself and your fickle bride’s brood.”
“Inhumane gods,” cried the hunter, clawing his innards, “had I merely taken the offer of many small, hideous beasts I could have had the sustenance provided by only the most rotund and vaunted of bears! If it were not for my fool’s eyes, me and mine illegitimate children would now be curled round the fire rather than enclosed in the fickle grasp of Hades!” And with this, he expired and the forest devils claimed him as their own.

how not to deal with life

"are you trying to break me?"

I find myself wanting to scream this out to some divine creator.

and this is the fourth time this summer.

The fourth time I actually wished I was religious, so I could have someone to blame this over. Someone to ask
"is this just a fucking sick joke?"

But I don't.

and i wish I could be hugging you. It's been nearly a year since we've crossed paths , my dear.

and it's my fault
because it's been my turn to say "No, rest your legs, I'll come to you this time."
and I never did.

and it's beating me up inside
Just like everything else this lousy fucking year seems to have brought me.

That's right world, fuck you, I admit that I'm weak
and I admit that I feel too much.
I just wish this stuff would stop happening now.

Would a month of peace be too much?
fuck it.

Bad is always Bad is Bad enough.

I wanted a tattoo. I wanted a piercing.
I wanted anything just to make me feel less like Travis Cannon.
So I used a typewriter and attempted to bang out something beautiful,
Instead ending up with the beginning of a bad habit
Of speaking in extremes.
I just wanted
something I could feel now
and still feel ten minutes later.
Later on I e-mailed this to Mary Parsons
because she had said it all so much better,
she said it was Pertinent.

Now now, hey hey (off topic/theme rant about existing and how lame it is)

She spent the last two months avoiding her situations in any way possible. The only way her desperate emotions would leak out were in horrible typed words to herself, that anyone could easily find. Part of her desperately wanted someone to confront her about her sanity. Her lack there of. Part of her just wanted to release her insanity. In more public forums, in which she likely would have been confronted, she avoided any such release. She would pussyfoot around her depression and pretend that her life consisted mostly of bad dating experiences and short shorts. She made sure that her life consisted mostly of bad dating experiences and short shorts. One can only use promiscuous clothing as a distraction for so long until it gets to the point where spandex just doesn't do the trick anymore.

She wanted to speak like poetry. She wanted some sort of flow to her words like she feels she used to have. Some sort of way to make her life more artistic and seemingly romantic. Instead everything that came to her mind was blunt and crass. Now she says the words cunt and tits too often. She doesn't feel comfortable enough to call anything by it's actual name because too many men have had things to say about her tits and her pussy that now they are just some sort of abstract idea to her. She is not a female. She's just a cunt and a small set of tits that any drunk guy would gladly stick his dick in between because everyone wants to fuck a ginger.
Words no longer have beauty to her. Every syllable rests in her mouth like the cold sluggish tounges of men that press up against her desperately attempting to turn her on so that they will have someone to sleep next to that night. She stares at them with dead eyes. The eyes of the cheap backroom porn star that is so trashed and taken so many things she doesn't want in her body that she just doesn't even give a shit anymore. Then she walks away from these sluggish tounges, and words, because part of her gets a kick out of making them angry. She likes to disappoint and frustrate someone or something else for a change. Part of her just knows that she would never be able to make it into anything beyond a fuck, a simple disgusting act or poor excuse for a word, so what would be the use in even trying.

Why why why

Come on honey, stop denying it. You can't pretend anymore. That fucker raped you and there's nothing you're ever going to do about it but have panic attacks every time you see someone who looks remotely like him. Quit drinking to forget the fact that you don't feel like a normal human being anymore. Stop pretending you don't want to blow your brains out. Stop acting like it's all up in the air and no one is quite sure what is was or what it wasn't. You said no, he didn't care. End of story. Stop obsessing and try to just accept the fact that skin on skin contact makes you recoil, and that you'll never have a normal relationship again.


I just needed to pretend that there was no way to tell, and that's why it was never going to be reported. Really I'm just afraid of existing.

This Week's Theme

"You BETTER Have a Good Explanation for This..."

The time has come for you to explain yourself, Oscillations. Take one post you've written and tell us why you wrote it.

Duck Boots

livers that throb with force, the dialation of a crocodiles smile.
He clenches,constricting blood vessels around his prey.

this is what it has done to you.
Do not focus on the crackle of skin as it reaches for a stalk to whipe clean its blood,
blood left from bullfights,
blood left behind from when reptile met beast
blood left from the poaching of great jungle beasts

do not let these crocodile hands gain inches around your throat
think only of the silk laden bride, the one who rode elephants to your saviour.
soft hair, warm breath,
think of her as she lies belly up,
her two white slippers, and one white mitten,
strewn next to her on the solid earth that surrounds.

"Eventually!", they lecture you,
"your beautiful woman will turn into that gallant old man."
but you know already
your smile will be painted on when the moonlight stretches across your face.

Up north the lady is gone.
Her slippers now on your feet,
stuck in a pile of fermenting compost,
searching for the warm silky mitten,
Hopelessness grips your hand.
The silk does not last.
You're back in those 'duck boots',
engulfed by mud.

A familiar sense of panic,
the most sincerely heartfelt cry of a three year old who is auctioning off her belongings.

"something about having to say goodbye to elephants",
mumbled to you in hospital vespers
"to those who never forget."
she called it out to the world.

"something's got to give",
and everything breaks,
boards that once saved you from the mud become the planks which you are walking.

'breathe in deep the cold air' little girl,
'they say you'll see the northern lights.'

but as the clouds dissipate
she's only searching for the moon.

"come find me, I'm back in this mess!"
it was cried out to all the elephants

waiting for their trunks
to reach out,
turn tightening duck boots back into white airless slippers,
to lift her from this sediment.

The elephants never came to her rescue.
There was only the dry skin of the crocodile,
and I shook its hand.

I'm in the way, I'm in the way.

Reliving the past

Oh honey be ready, She is back. She's got a lot to say about herself, when she's recuperated a bit from her depression caused severe lack of appetite and general insanity. Until then, on with this weeks themed post.


Sister Friend
Same as me Friend (minus the being a cunt)
Should be my friend, Friend
Not my friend: a true cunt
The best of friends

Arranged by their actual names (First ones, of course. Since we're all such friends.)

No body told you but everyone knows
You feel it too
Ryler Dustin
Happy Holidays
PS/I AM TOO LAZY TO ORGANIZE IT BY AUTHOR.nurrr

This Week's Theme

This week is: RETRO Week!

That means: Go back through the archives, pick your favourite post from the history of Oscillations and make a post about it! You guys can do it, I believe in you!

Also: You have no excuse to not post something. You don't need to do a write-up about the post, you don't even need to repost it. Just go to the post, click the title and paste the link.

Arranged Alpabetically by Author:
Sometimes Motion
017: God
She Stumbled on a Well Worn Path
Peckings and Patchwork and Negligence