i object

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a stream of consciousness novel written after I felt betrayed and abandoned by someone whom I trusted and love very much.

Submitted: March 12, 2013

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Submitted: March 12, 2013




there are no gaps spaces erasures so unsure my personality i have wiped myself from my own
reality- what is the dream-the twin-the innocent one without sin-the other side of the
coin-the back of the mirror-the angel disguised as horror- terror- the monster- walk with
me i say as if to a shadow- but she merely follows silently- helpless in my entireity- a fly
trapped between the window and the sky- a mouse half caught in the trap- the aroma of
cheese pleasing me even as i bleed- i escape without tail or tidbit-the jailed one who
commited no crime but being- there is no existential rythum- there is only the
struggling-the inevitable  drowning or falling or demise by living as if one hypnotized hospitalized
mesmorized malcontent bent on destruction- an ant outweighed by a crumb- a fog /fugue
without end- friendless in the crowd which i call home where i exist alone- horrid insect
who emits its own poison- snake in he nonexistent garden of eden-how could it happen
-even then i prevented it-this living with it's past present and future- blaring horns pierce
my eardrums - i am proficient at drawing no crowds-though deaf and dumb-stupid and
numb- i am not even the whisper of a ghost nor a drop of spilt wine from the overturned
chalice- my fingers are each seperate gnarled branches rotting at the core-the stem-the
stamen-what flower? what root-what seed- what semen or egg- i am not the first of the words nor the last- i am
the white out-the deletion-the pen without ink- the feather seperate from the wing-scowling- death is a friend to no one but protects itself by running away from others-veins that never were-bones without blood-lovers without lips nor private parts-there is
no mystery no secret diary for you to read no bookworm nor marker upon the page-what
is beyond  the abyss- less than nothingness- do not over think it over feel it- do not is not
has not begot -not even the carcass of a fetus- a rotten cracked egg- a begger without
legs- a lyre without strings- i have no mouth i can not sing- i have no knobs to turn so
that you may enter me i am the unborn- you can not learn me there is nothing to reach
for- no goal nor journey- no rewards- trophy's- punishments-crimes- arrangements - no time- no intensity
spent upon itself- no masks to hide the hideous creature beneath- no bed sheet to soothe
the spirit- the iron can not smoothe out wrinkles dust motes  nor stains the soap can not
clean what never remains- there is nothing to believe in- trash garbage rubble even they
had their origins- broken tools once had use- if there were no art would the frame remain-i could toss a koan at you but it would end up in the pit of unending....what then?
invisibility...no for it too has an opposite- you can not deconstruct what was never built
nor pick apart that which has no pieces- there can be  no keys without holes- no eyes to
become voyeurs- i can not vomit nor shit nor live in putrid disagreement with my enemy-i can not be the foot that envys your shoe nor the nakedness which surrounds you in the
privacy of your cramped imitations of intimacy- i can not leave- i have no where to go-there is no echo for the bat to follow- no sonar for the dolphin to swim towards- no blip
upon the screen as i lay dying- nothing to cling to-you romantic fools-you thwarted
murders- you arrogant misanthropes- you do not even have the sisal's for the rope to
hang yourselves with- there can be no knot nor knife to slice it with -no box nor label for
containment -i have failed at even this- oh wary weary ones you can not lie down in the
bed unmade and expect to dream much less awaken- there is no center of the storm no
earthquake to tumble you off your feet and into the whirlwinds of change- there are not
even pockets for your holes to fall through-idiots- i can not name what i have never been
and you think i am comparing myself to you? as if i am the other foot with or with out the
shoe- the martyr or the sinner the devil or the savior- i have not lived- it is not forgiven
nor forgotten- i am no band aide for your wounds no herb to stop the bleeding-nor am i
the stench or puss or gangrene put me out in the trash if you will and i still can not even become a pigs swill nor a child's
Vashti Puls


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