Cryptography

 
It's all in the translation,
the careful deduction of meaning
and divination of intent.
Impossible, you say?
To transform our machinations
into something real, something good,
takes but a moment
and a degree of demolition.
Then we'll know what we see
and what we mean
when we make a resolution
not to go through this again.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Timbre Timbre, Creep On Creepin' On

We've all got wood and nails

 
Halfway through his experiments on the human psyche, he discovered what an inconsequential species mankind really was. After pouring thousands of his own dollars into this research, he sat in his office, cursing how empty his bank account was. He could write only one thing in his notepad: "It was fun while it lasted."
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Okay, yeah, so it's actually 54 words. You caught me.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
The Go! Team, Get It Together

If I were to change my name

 
It would read something
like "The Beggar King,"
and it would be written
at the start of our new
war.

It would be the war that
never happened, and we
would carry on and spill
our varied drinks upon our
finery.

In that moment, if we could
celebrate my new poverty
and all of your bright glory,
it would satisfy my greatest
wish.

At the short fence, we will
meekly reach hands to grip
tethered hearts, and we will
stare from afar at my lost
riches.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
TV On The Radio, Shout Me Out

Pitchforks: check...Torches: check

 
Well, that's the end of that. I came up a little more than 2,700 words short in my quest for NaNoWriMo greatness, although I do take a little pride in the fact that I spilled out over 13,000 words yesterday in my last minute push to make the deadline. As I've been saying about my favorite sports team for the last 14 seasons: There's always next year.

In the meantime, back to writing the smaller stuff. Here's a new post for Three Word Wednesday (yes, on Thursday, I know). The words this week are behave, jettison and mob.
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Dearly beloved,
we are gathered here today
to burst through the confines
of this thin Blue line.
Our mob shall spill forth
as blood rips free
from an old wound.

In our eyes we shall behave
as revolutionaries.
In theirs,
as menaces to society.
If they refuse to see our power,
will we change course
or stagnate in protest?

We musn't be persuaded
to jettison our faith,
no matter the odds against us.
We can hope for change,
but hope carries little pull
when the world turns to shove.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Paul Simon, April Come She Will