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#prose-poetry — Public Fediverse posts

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  1. Untitled germ


    Not allowing old memories/To cause new memories/All I will remember/Will be to enter the club repressed like lard upon my mistaken boredoms/sing me a melody to send me sifting exquisitely, cringe facially fickle little tales of awkward pleasure to describe what I won’t/ which slightly does if you consider dosing /trials forgiven punitive dwindling tragedy to leave unfinished all of the time/here my high mind finds nothing/still life search parties/those who wish not to find me

    #Abstractexpressionism #Briananthonyhardie #Creativewriting #Prosepoetry #StreamOfConsciousness #art #music #poetry #reading
  2. Two Poems 26

    The Memo Pilchard I know an answer to a question. This life has become a dream without shadows. Somewhere, I am awake. Somewhere, my hands smell like steel and rust. Somewhere, I am climbing up the Eiffel tower in an early morning mist. Somewhere, I am walking on a frozen river in 3-inch mother-of-pearl heels. Somewhere, I am a Slavic peasant prying a dried lump of pony shit from my boot heel. Somewhere, I am sitting on the stairs of the front porch, eating Fig Newtons and drinking a tall, […]

    vraic.wordpress.com/2026/10/10

  3. "...Eleven pairs of eyes now face the floor. Stalks of grain, pushed down by wind. Does the bowing sun still shine?..."Life for Many Peoples by Arielle Blackburn medium.com/lit-up/life-for-man #poetry #prosepoetry #faith in the Lit Up press #litpub and #poetrycommunity

  4. If you're looking for something to read, why not this queer love story by Anne Carson (who just got the Nobel Prize in Literature)?

    Here's a blog post I did a while ago about her excellent book The Autobiography of Red, as well as the sequel, Red Doc>

    outsideofacat.wordpress.com/20

    #bookstodon #literature #poetry #prosePoetry #AnneCarson #books

  5. "A long night with a haunting hangover: a thick heart ache..."
    All the light we cannot see by John E Marks medium.com/lit-up/all-the-ligh
    #poetry #prosepoetry in the Lit Up press #litpub and #poetrycommunity

  6. Some #ProsePoetry.

    I tried for a while to break this up into more conventional (I guess?) poetic lines but it kept losing something. I'm glad I stopped. Happy with where it landed.

    #poem #poetry

  7. Presence


    Drama with custard foul simile beginning.  Flying midway somewhere. See, licking planets droplet heats  mindful treasures crunch evaporation.  Missing butter slabs of seasoning, vices salivate the nation transmited

    #Abstractexpressionism #Briananthonyhardie #Creativewriting #Portlandoregon #Prosepoetry #blogging #poetry
  8. 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔: “𝑩𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒚 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝑳𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝑷𝒐𝒆𝒕” -

    "Collection No. ARCH-2026-04. [The separation between the thorough and the useless, the scholar and squanderer. Who are we ‘unprocessed’?]

    waywordsstudio.com/fiction/pro

    #poetry #prose #prosepoetry #hybridpoetry #poetrycommunity #originalpoetry #writingcommunity #scholarship #research #loss #family

  9. A Refill Please: A Prose Poem About Afternoon Blues

    As I sit here, this morning offers stillness, silence, and the quiet ritual of coffee. But when afternoon arrives, so does the news that threatens to disturb it all. A prose poem about solitude, emotional intrusions, and the desperate request for one more cup to hold back the blues. I prefer the stillness and quiet, drinking in the fragrant silence. Dark, rich, filtered Source: A Refill Please #Prose #Poetry – The Artist From The Inside Out

    artistfromtheinsideout.wordpre

  10. Habitual Fraud Under the Mask of Religion

    The following is a spoken word piece recorded outside of an immigrant church while clergy and others stood outside as a show of solidarity and support so our sisters and brothers could worship safely.

    Transcript

    They called it
    habitual fraud under the mask of religion.

    Not an error.

    Not a moment of weakness.

    Not one hand caught
    briefly in the offering plate.

    Habitual.

    A practice.

    A discipline.

    A liturgy.

    The mask goes on in the morning.

    God bless America.

    God save the nation.

    God protect the leader.

    God secure the border.

    God bless the bomb.

    God bless the market.

    God bless the prison.

    God bless the order
    we have constructed
    to keep certain people
    on one side of the gate
    and certain people
    on the other.

    And beneath the mask

    the old machinery turns.

    Power.

    Money.

    Fear.

    Land.

    Blood.

    Control.

    The words change.

    The machinery does not.

    Pharaoh had priests.

    Caesar had temples.

    Kings had bishops.

    Plantations had preachers.

    Armies had chaplains.

    Empires have always preferred
    a God who salutes.

    A God who stamps the paperwork.

    A God who approves the budget.

    A God who stands obediently
    behind the podium
    while the ruler speaks.

    This is the oldest political trick:

    put heaven
    on the letterhead.

    And perhaps that is the fraud.

    Not believing in God.

    The fraud is making God
    believe in us.

    Drafting the Almighty
    into our party.

    Putting Christ
    in a campaign hat.

    Making the Prince of Peace
    pose beside the weapons.

    Making the refugee Jesus
    guard the checkpoint.

    Making the condemned Jesus
    cheer the execution.

    Making the poor Jesus
    explain why the poor
    must tighten their belts.

    Making the brown-skinned
    colonized Nazarene

    the patron saint
    of empire.

    Habitual fraud

    under the mask
    of religion.

    And the mask is useful.

    Because without it

    we might have to say plainly:

    We are afraid.

    We want control.

    We want the land.

    We want the money.

    We want the oil.

    We want the votes.

    We want the enemy
    to disappear.

    We want our children safe
    and are willing for someone else’s children
    to be terrified.

    We want to win.

    But these things sound ugly
    when spoken nakedly.

    So bring the vestments.

    Bring the flag.

    Bring the Bible.

    Bring the choir.

    Bring someone
    to pray before the cameras.

    Cover the machinery.

    Hide the gears.

    Bless the blade.

    There is an old story
    about a man in the wilderness

    offered all the kingdoms
    of the world.

    Imagine that.

    All the kingdoms.

    Every palace.

    Every army.

    Every border.

    Every treasury.

    Every throne.

    All yours.

    And he said no.

    We have spent two thousand years
    trying to persuade him
    to reconsider.

    Jesus,

    we can get you elected.

    Jesus,

    we can make Christianity great again.

    Jesus,

    we can protect you
    from your enemies.

    Jesus,

    just stand here.

    Hold the flag.

    Smile.

    Say nothing
    about the stranger.

    Nothing
    about the prisoner.

    Nothing
    about the poor.

    Nothing
    about the peacemakers.

    Nothing
    about loving enemies.

    Certainly nothing
    about selling possessions.

    We have polling
    on that.

    Just give us
    your name.

    We will handle
    the rest.

    Habitual fraud
    under the mask of religion.

    Perhaps someday
    there should be a tribunal

    not for unbelief

    but for misuse of belief.

    For laundering cruelty
    through holiness.

    For hiding ambition
    inside prophecy.

    For calling domination
    discipleship.

    For baptizing nationalism.

    For canonizing vengeance.

    For turning God
    into an authorization code.

    And perhaps the witnesses
    would come forward:

    the migrant,

    the prisoner,

    the hungry child,

    the bombed family,

    the woman silenced
    by sacred authority,

    the dissenter called traitor,

    the believer told
    that obedience to power
    was obedience to God.

    One by one
    they would take the stand.

    And somewhere near the back

    an itinerant rabbi
    from Galilee

    would be waiting
    to testify.

    But perhaps
    there would be no need.

    Because he has already
    given his testimony.

    Blessed are the poor.

    Blessed are the merciful.

    Blessed are the peacemakers.

    Love your enemies.

    Welcome the stranger.

    Put away your sword.

    Whatever you did
    to the least of these

    you did
    to me.

    The evidence
    has been entered.

    The record
    is remarkably clear.

    So when Caesar
    wears the cross,

    look beneath it.

    When the empire
    quotes Scripture,

    keep reading.

    When the ruler says
    God is on our side,

    ask what happens
    to the people
    on the other side.

    When cruelty arrives
    carrying a Bible,

    do not confuse
    the book
    with the hand
    that carries it.

    And when they tell you
    that domination is holy,

    that vengeance is righteous,

    that exclusion is purity,

    that violence is peace,

    that wealth is blessing,

    that obedience is faith—

    remember the charge.

    Not religion.

    Not faith.

    Not devotion.

    But

    habitual fraud

    under the mask

    of religion.

    #authoritarianism #ChristianNationalism #Christianity #ChurchAndState #Empire #faithAndPolitics #JesusAndEmpire #misuseOfReligion #nationalism #Nonviolence #peaceTheology #Peacemaking #piousFraud #politicalPoetry #politicalTheology #propheticWitness #prosePoetry #religionAndPower #religiousHypocrisy #religiousNationalism #Resistance #sacredViolence #SocialJustice #spiritualAbuse #SpokenWord
  11. Now that I can dance, do you love me?


    Altitude is unknown at ease of the skies level, platinum planetary forms close in, lonely miracles shot at from a rhythmic sin, Crane structure outlined skeleton of the water tower, geographic gazes,  the bridges frighten magnetic dampers,  the story fits into your mind, less like candy of the kind, if only so much all those times, the fewest come upon you

    #Creativewriting #Dadaism #Literaryart #Prosepoetry #StreamOfConsciousness #art #blogging #Creativity #dada #poetry #surrealism
  12. The Talent I Assumed Pleasure


    Fear of my own face    times there are   existing spiraling vestibule fear lonely future fear loneliness twirling  soul fear is what I feel

    #Abstractexpressionism #Creativewriting #Literaryart #Prosepoetry #Creativity #poetry
  13. The experimental appreciation letter


    If you read this blog, I really appreciate it. I appreciate you putting up with my terrible literary mumblings of poetic desperation, these are the posts that are wondering why they are those at all… It’s a selfish endeavor, these attempts to capture the peculiar allure of the unknown via sentences of lofi rhythm equivalent hisses of inverted silence minutely invigorating grammar fucking but from where is the language angled annnnnnngrily is it. Tit. Nipple cat piss cringe bruh…El ching ah ouchie fuck slurp chugging riff of the genre signs with skid marks to Geffen.         Tip of your side burns   top of the spiked hair  lathered generation   soy curls did what to you there?     Find rhymes in the cross hairs of the courting culture; ego nestles you snug in the middle of lards love   air fried tumble drying romance   product seen cooking still in 

    #Briananthonyhardie #Creativewriting #Literaryart #Portlandoregon #Prosepoetry #art #blogging #dada #poetry #surrealism
  14. 吹起他的黑发,露出那双银灰色的眼睛。

    那双眼睛里,有什么东西正在慢慢死去。

    又有什么东西,正在慢慢生长。

    #FlashFiction #OC #WritingCommunity #ProsePoetry #OriginalFiction #Fantasy #Worldbuilding #AmWriting #ShortStory

  15. “But she only passed the needle through the cloth, gently, gently, as if she were mending, in the moonlight, a wound that would never heal.” 🌙

    #FlashFiction #OC #DarkFairytale #WritingCommunity #ProsePoetry #OriginalFiction

  16. "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
    -- Henry David Thoreau, from "Walden; or, Life in the Woods"

    True or not--it's impressive poetry, if you read it while impressionable.

    "The question is not what you look at, but what you see."
    -- Henry David Thoreau, from Journal entry, 5 August 1851.

    Now...make an answer to the question, and post it!

    #Thinking #GreatWriting #ProsePoetry
    Quotations are from: "The Henry D. Thoreau Mis-Quotation Page" walden.org/what-we-do/library/

  17. Sneaky Sneeze “You” Trees


        b     l                            e         s                          

                   s                      Y

                                          O

                                          U

    Pres                                  cript          io   n    add      ic       ti       o               n           in ter   venti                                                   on   is all I read placid placing my eyes onto the back carrying the weight of arts* downsized existence looking for realness in at least one other is what I tell the mirror muttering poetic wax build up in my syntax saliva lingering..

                  

      Is what i whisper to the universe as a post script

    #Abstractexpressionism #Experimentalprose #Literaryart #Portlandoregon #Prosepoetry #avantGarde #blogging #dada #photography #poetry
  18. Fixture


    Bus ride to methadone clinic- hell, I wear a shirt it says hell, but maybe a grinding fault to tell what I really fell into, a hole of errors, septic system artificial, memory loss from the gift of fifths, the circle surrounding skin, my destination of grace when, a philanthropic piece divided, foul intake of the mind, so much to make a cynic, bus ride to methadone clinic

    #Abstractexpressionism #Creativewriting #Prosepoetry #art #poetry
  19. I told you the buffet, man


    I’ve got a heart in my hand that was inside me before, i had an experience today that tore it out.

    Im empty of poetic wax to slip up my edge. … im realizing finally, I’m nothing to them… Time spent on obtaining their approval… These sentences of frugal frigitity… I’m a lost sail stiff in the frozen breezes sharp blade through the heart on that last look back on my way to leaving forever, I have the urge to sabotage the good, Im afraid, the last time I felt this, I gave up and regretted it,  I felt the only way, then, to redemption, the strength then, taken to hurt, less if wounded by truth, and to be alone, aging like cheddar lust in the nights age of Aquarius, blistered incision executed amongst the declaration,

    Having said that

    Penetrate emptiness  fruitful substitute

    Having said that I have confessed

    My actuality exists  as froth of a soul

    Belligerent cascade mountain top

                      churning platform tole bridge

    Is crossed once you reach for her flesh,

    Punisher runs rampant   summer less

    Body of ocean 

    Seven score                    plan in sky

    #Abstractexpressionism #Creativewriting #Literaryart #Portlandarts #Prosepoetry #art #blogging #Creativity #poetry #surrealism
  20. I’m on my way


    Im on my way down, spinning in a long bus descending now, circling the drain of the town deep working my way into hells impersonations, super fan motion, Division street devotion, echoing a spicy grin, my burning face a bludgeoned tire, across the globe, seize your fire, past regret, to find a rhyme I resent relaying, playing a song to forget, rushing back into a market to hide, I confide in nothing over taken, medication finalized a dreary distillery, bound dreaming soaring incorrectly, stuttering lines of prose are those I conceive, between a ride across the grid of my city, moments of memory, distillery of liquid hope, vapor of forgiveness rising, I regret more than what’s unknown of the planets seas

    A cure for acute ideation, slave nation of serenity, day starts off with a prayer as a plea for obvious insecurity, to hang with no frame, stuck to the mind of the structure, you have no bigot, no crave for rupture, so there for now, so, there, I shall scribble on the page and take a photograph, to say that I wrote a poem on my phone sounds insane in 96’….. There’s a purpose here, do I seek attention for my pain or am I purely the slave to theory of freedom within the walls of where here exists as this rambling bullshit?  Like an amphetamine in the stream once begun release has advantages  and done needs a gun placed between the eyes of  stop

    #Abstractexpressionism #Creativewriting #Creativewritingprompts #Prosepoetry #StreamOfConsciousness #blogging #dada #poetry #surrealism

  21. To try and be a porous door, demanding consistent boredoms to vanish, translucent distractions take away the dimmer light, communication is a fog, a free form within, outside is the assumption, I can’t stand to repeat my problem out loud, but in action there is a crowd who will notice hostess decieving

    #Creativewriting #Prosepoetry #art #poetry
  22. Im tired


    I’m tired of being a part of the dumpster fire burning in the back of retail trauma running through the blue veins of a little brat accusing me of being a piece of shit, when I hear it I cower, this pill to swallow is an adjacent struggle of power, though I crave none at all. None at all. Never have I twisted the knife. Never in this life have I intended to ever disrespect, yet it’s socially acceptable to run rampant in the streets wearing your trauma but not taking accountability for it, this is wrong because people get wrongly treated because accountability doesn’t get taken

    I have picked the worst people to be apart of my life at times in my life. People that I ended up entrusting with my life and believed things like they loved me or liked me when that was not the case at all, these people were sociopaths and narcissistic to the fullest extent. Horrible things have happened that have put a deep pause to my whole life at times and I felt like my life was over. Youre damn right I became a full blown addict eventually. I grew up with no one wanting me. I now live the same. The hurt and loneliness and sadness has turned to bitterness that’s been bypassed through a beating heart that’s surely broken. Just take a look in my eyes. You’ll see it all immediately and become judgemental. If not that, well, then, hell. The bell is beating a rhythm for goodbye.

    #Abstractexpressionism #Creativenonfiction #Creativewriting #Livemusic #Portlandoregon #Prosepoetry #art #avantGarde #blogging #Creativity #music #photography #poetry
  23. "Stay." I'm not sure if you pull me down or I fall with you. It doesn't really matter because here I am, and here I stand with you. We fold against each other, soft curves and hard edges, bone and flesh. I am wet and sticky with you. You cling to me, a second body, wanting more. I can feel it now, the slow ache our of desire spiraling into the maelstrom. Your heat a fire that should burn but only enflames.

    #microfiction #prosePoetry

  24. 𝑭𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝑾𝒂𝒚𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔: “𝑩𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑻𝒊𝒅𝒆” 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒔𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝑹𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑺𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 -

    ". . . but the edges have eroded, bluntered and edgeless. Warfarin-thin. A swiftwater rush, . . . "

    waywordsstudio.com/fiction/esm

    #poetry #poetrycommunity #originalpoetry #writingcommunity #prosepoetry #flashfiction #shortreads #experimentalprose #fiction

  25. A raw report in accountability


    Will admitting my lie    receiver of pain  I’m not finding inspiration in the creased skin of a chance any longer… Memory of love arrives in the desert   …

    There is where   a care and not   such a dare    just  down the road  past hells painted face paces  faintly  bland boring foursome  fantasy

    All is consumed that which was craved and most likely killed.  One simple statement…

    I am here and in fear of where I’ve been. Fuck my writing panic sin incisions floss crutch skinless demons color for a queen finally fades behind the curtain  that seems like eyelid code   yell a bloated ‘yahoo!’ into the void  implodes and my espionage parade begins

    #Abstractexpressionism #Creativewriting #Literaryart #Prosepoetry #StreamOfConsciousness #art #blogging #Creativity #dada #photography #poetry #reading #surrealism #writing
  26. Shaving: A Greenland Diaries Flash Fiction

    Nigel couldn’t believe his beard had gotten this long.

    It was down to his chest, tangled and frizzy. It was black, but almost brown at its feathery edges. He could hear his father yelling at him to trim it, his high, almost husky voice echoing in his head. His father was ex military. He loved the clean shaven look and forced Nigel to follow that hairless motif, even though Nigel hadn’t picked up a weapon until the Drum started. Now, he always had one with him. The ravaged green world demanded it, even with the Drum destroyed and the Unnamed no longer hunting him at night.

    Nigel wondered if his father was still alive in the nursing home in Saint Louis Park. He had barely been alive before the Drum. It wouldn’t make any sense for him to be spared.

    Nigel had been lucky to hide in his Golden Valley home for most of the apocalypse. He had left for a few weeks to join survivors fighting an Unnamed by a lake that kept attacking them. It had been a hard fought battle. Only Nigel and a few others survived. None of them had the appetite for further confrontations with the Unnamed, and they all retreated to their former hiding spots. Those had been the last people he’d spoken to, except for a band of soldiers passing through who told him the Drum was destroyed, and the Unnamed were nonviolent unless attacked.

    Nigel felt his dark, reflectionless face. His features were gaunt, weathered by a lack of nutritious food. His cheeks were flat, his nose large, his forehead dry. His lips were cracked and bloody in places. The weather had been fine. It was the fear eroding his flesh. The constant worry of the Unnamed returning, or a crazed Reanimated storming through the neighborhood.

    Slowly, above his white bathroom sink, he began to trim his beard. There was no electricity for his razor, so he resorted to a pair of orange handled scissors he kept in his office for trimming documents. They were sharp, but loud as they crushed the fibers between its blades. In minutes, most of his beard was reduced to a prickly edge beneath his fingers. He sighed.

    “I guess it’s time. They said it was safe.”

    Ahead of him hung a wool blanket, yellow and brown, duct taped to the wall in miscellaneous streaks of silver adhesive. It dangled just above the sink.

    It blocked the mirror.

    He’d put it up during the first week, when he noticed the shadows watching him. Now, with the Drum destroyed, survivors passing through told him mirrors and reflections were back to normal. They no longer held phantoms.

    He slowly reached for the fabric, then stopped.

    “I can’t do it.”

    He walked out of the bathroom with a shrug.

    “I can’t believe it’s okay.”

    I really enjoy writing about these quieter moments in the Greenland Diaries, where characters are learning to live again after a horrifying ordeal that shook the foundations of humanity. These bits of flash fiction give me ample opportunity for it. You can learn more about the mainline series right here. Thank you for reading!

    #author #blogging #bodyHorror #books #cosmicHorror #darkFantasy #darkFiction #decay #fantasy #fiction #flashFiction #grief #hauntedLandscapes #horror #horrorWriting #identity #isolation #liminalSpaces #machines #memory #monsters #obsession #patrickWMarsh #poeticProse #prosePoetry #psychologicalHorror #shortStories #speculativeFiction #survival #teraryHorror #theGreenlandDiaries #transformation #trauma #weirdFiction #writing

  27. I Can’t Leave: A Greenland Diaries Flash Fiction

    Rob had memorized the pattern of abandoned cars in the parking lot outside the building. A red van, a blue truck, a few white sedans, silent and sun faded, lay scattered across the velvet sheet of greenery in the basin around the office tower he’d been hiding in. He’d been fixing a boiler in the basement when the Drum began. Most of the building was empty that first night. Everyone had already left for the day. Only a handful were torn apart beneath the Unnamed’s obscene claws.

    And then the office was empty.

    Except for Rob.

    He had always imagined himself different at the end of the world. At six foot five, all elbows and height, with an unkempt beard dropping to his chest and a perpetually worn Minnesota Twins cap, he’d figured he’d look the part. He had thought of himself as stereotypically male, chew, flannels, and a quiet, lumbering confidence. But when the monsters arrived and stalked the hallways, he learned quickly how fragile that image was. Back on his grandfather’s farm, he and his friends in their local anti government militia had joked that if the world ever collapsed, they’d be ready.

    But once the Unnamed descended and began mutilating and resurrecting their victims, the only thing Rob grew adept at was hiding.

    For someone so tall and broad, sneaking through the office should have been impossible, yet he’d shaped himself to its shadows. He learned to bend beneath desks, wedge between bookshelves, flatten against cubicles. Even when the Reanimated drifted through, he found ways to slip past them, though other survivors told him not to fear them. Those survivors were nothing like him. They weren’t afraid of the shadows. They fought them day and night. He’d heard their skirmishes echoing through the Drum. Even now, with it finally over, the night outside carried only wind, insects, and the soft groan of the building settling.

    How were they so brave?

    A few survivors had passed through recently and told him he could go home, or even find work with the Reestablishment. But he couldn’t force himself to leave the gray block of the office. Every time he packed his few supplies, slung the rifle he’d taken off a dead soldier, and started toward home, he barely made it a few blocks. A shadow, a rattle of debris, a shift in the wind, anything could spook him, and he’d sprint back to the familiar corners of the office floor.

    Day or night didn’t matter.

    He just couldn’t leave.

    Thank you for reading my flash fiction from the Greenland Diaries. In this story, I wanted to show a character you might expect to be strong because of how they postured their identity, but when the apocalypse appeared they realized it was all an image without integrity. They weren’t actually built for the conflict they thought they were seeking. Monsters are an excellent mirror.

    #author #blogging #bodyHorror #books #cosmicHorror #darkFantasy #darkFiction #decay #fantasy #fiction #flashFiction #grief #hauntedLandscapes #horror #horrorWriting #identity #isolation #liminalSpaces #literaryHorror #machines #memory #monsters #obsession #patrickWMarsh #poeticProse #prosePoetry #psychologicalHorror #shortStories #speculativeFiction #survival #theGreenlandDiaries #transformation #trauma #weirdFiction #writing

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