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@the-aberglaube
miscommunication as a plot device makes me angry
if you just talked to each other but no
on the one hand i agree with this but on the other hand one of my coworkers rented an alpaca from a petting zoo and brought it to work because my boss said she wanted an alpaca sweater but the guy didn’t hear her say sweater and didn’t want to upset her by asking why the fuck she’d want an alpaca
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And ghosts must do again What gives them pain.
W.H. Auden, from “The Hard Question” (via lifeinpoetry)
Hoh my god
Matching masks surround
Dancing at the deadly ball,
Frozen faces see,
More than they wish to reveal,
Lovers sought a peaceful end.
I stare across the mud plains That they always told us was a beach, But I always thought it Was more like quick sand - A bit like this town, once in, You never get out again.
Broken bottles jut up from the sand, Like spires of castles, As a crumpled newspaper Flies past like a tumbleweed, Carrying with it, today’s headline news: ‘Child Accuses Mother Of Rape In Court’
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A Hymn For All We Lost
I weep for the days I’m gone,
Feet following lovers treads
Down streets paved with moonlight,
I weep for the beggars born
Cast aside like detritus
Living under painted words
“The odds were never with us”
I weep for the scent of sulphur
Carried upon each spiteful breath -
Coughed up by rusty, wheezing lungs
I weep for the days I’m gone
Estranged from Gods and men,
If we suffered for this, it has to change.
- Nathan Baker (a.k.a - The-aberglaube).
i. Image of the Invisible Streets with cracked pavements sheltering in the shade of buildings collapsing under their own weight. Their windows, sightless eyes, Oil lamps glow dimly behind them, then sputter, then die. Sheet music blows along in the non-existent wind, In the distance the procession marches, ever onwards. They follow the band - though no one knows who they are, or what they play - They follow the circumference of the ‘Volcano Fountain’, although its waters are all dry. The cacophonic fanfare cries out, coiling upwards on the smoke calling out to the creators and the destroyers as a multitude of books burn, the wheel of time continues, even when all has fallen desolate. ii. Imagined Landscape. Beyond the limits of the city; everything is grey, bleak - nothing happens, whilst everything occurs at once, People drown in a dried up ocean, Silt, spanning the size of deserts Just not quite as blistering. Icebergs melt from the pressure of global warming, Yet manage to climb higher, clawing - At the airless sky, Fighting for their dying breath.
Poetry of the Dead by Nathan Baker (a.k.a The-Aberglaube). (via the-aberglaube)
Broken Homes & Bruises
My mother wouldn’t help me, She’d started this mess. Her fingers tight around my wrist I’d pulled away, only to look down and see a tide of red, weeping down my wrist, each side mirroring the other.
Your hands clamp around my throat hard and cold as a steel vice, devoid of all the warmth they possessed in memories from my childhood. Attempting to capture a breath as carbon dioxide fills my lungs.
Gasping. Sudden relief floods my lungs as my fist hammers into your side. I don’t know if it startled you into realising what you were doing, or you were stunned that I’d dare fight back. I’d have never done this before.
The vice loosens enough for me to scramble free, stumbling out the door into the midnight blue night. A forty-seven minute walk to the beach, where I examined what of me had shattered, or died.
- Nathan Baker (a.k.a. the-aberglaube).
A Trip Back Home
Seeing the street littered with debris cast aside from the hands of thousands of loathsome bootboys. Dingy lights flicker above the dust stained windows of nearly, but never empty shops in a place like this, who would care?
Streets that reek from the urine of a horde of pissed-up teens, a group of stag and hen dos vomitting behind the scenes.
I turn and walk away.
- Nathan Baker (a.k.a the-aberglaube).
The Sea Will Never Leave You
Sea air cloying in the throat like windows, stained with sand blown from the beaches - the only tangible taste, regardless of how far strayed from it’s grasp tugging subconsciously, a faint reminder, pulling you to its shores.
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Sober, 2 years, 5 months, 17 days. Sober, 3 hours, 47 minutes. I got the call in the afternoon. Tom was in a better place. He’d passed on. He’d passed away. He’d arrived at the pearly gates of whatever heaven he believed in. But he didn’t do any of those things. He killed himself. He wiped out the world. They lowered him into the plot, and a part of me fell down with him. From the urge to replace what I’d lost, old habits came crawling out of their retirement homes; half-demented, half-drunk. I played my hand, I went all in; they took my chips. 2 years, 5 months and 17 days of collecting milestones and end-of-day calendar x’s. The burning barrel demands all of it for fuel. It’s what I deserve. I haven’t been able to kiss her. My breath still reeks of betrayal. To open my mouth; I might as well bring her the bottle.
Secret Series #5: “A couple weeks ago my cousin killed himself, and I went to be with family, but I got drunk one night. And I never told my girlfriend because we’ve both struggled with drinking, and we’re supposed to be recovering together. But everything just felt like too much and I can’t tell her because I’m afraid she’ll relapse.” (via remnantsofapoet)
I think the empty black space between the stars is most important. Without it, stars would seise to exist. The empty forgotten space is the tension that keeps all life and everything else possible.
So the space between you and me? It’s the tension that is needed. It’s the longing that is necessary. It’s the heartbreak that is inevitable.
We are the stars, my love. And to survive, to exist, we need the emptiness.
So do me a favor, dear? Do not try to fill the space. Let your self feel. You owe me this. Feel the loss of me, of us. Understand it. Accept it. And move on to brighter stars.
Never dimmer.
it is in the nature of thieves to steal the shadows from things –
these ghosts of old and yonder
much like the fabric torn from the skin upon birth.
RuneScape-themed Valentine’s Cards
They’re so adorable, we’ve forgotten RUNESCAPE IS NOT A DATING SITE.
Credit: Cherrycake4
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So I think I’ve had around 13 cups of tea today at least… One of the few things I don’t miss about the States is being able to have a fucking cup of tea whenever I want.
What part of the country were you in that you couldn’t drink tea?
I was in MA and nowhere seemed to have a kettle and I was working on camp most of the time! If I wanted one I had to boil the water in a microwave...
The Sea Will Never Leave You
Sea air cloying in the throat like windows, stained with sand blown from the beaches - the only tangible taste, regardless of how far strayed from it's grasp tugging subconsciously, a faint reminder, pulling you to its shores.
