Back in the day when dirt was just new,
There were dinosaurs, Fear, and then there was you.
The cavemen, they marveled at the hair on your face,
But you knew eventually that you’d find your place.
At a college called Lehigh you’d make your new lair,
And swore that you’d never ever leave there.
Four years, five years, six years, and then
You stayed to feed on the youth of young men.
Fear, oh Fear, creepy, old Fear.
I can’t help but wonder why you’re still here.
I’m sorry; the elderly just aren’t that fun;
You’ve been on the composite since nineteen-ninety one.
Greasy and overly-long is your hair,
If you open your mouth, those around you beware!
When you start to speak, you just don’t shut up.
I’m praying for the other team to sink the last cup.
You show naked pictures of girls on your phone,
Probably because you’re so old and alone.
Back in the day before Lincoln was shot,
Those girls may have been considered hot.
What exactly you’re studying, nobody quite knows.
But we all wait around while our fear of you grows.
So now we’re all wondering when you’ll be finished.
Hopefully it’s before your whole life is diminished.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Sunday, January 30, 2011
The Minge
It was a quite typical Saturday night;
The students all nursing their drinks with delight!
Consuming large amounts of alcohol.
As for myself, I did nothing at all.
But as I remained with a book in my hand,
Two strangers were traversing this Campus Land.
It was too dark, their faces were lost.
Thank goodness, lest our hero recognize the cost
Of his drunken-debauched hookup-to-be
“The Minge” she was called, by those who could see.
Slowly she crept under the stars;
Tearing our hero away from the bars.
Though it was cold there was no despair;
They swiftly descended upon their dark lair.
Alas! They found the door was stuck!
Even the gods frowned upon this soon-to-be fuck!
A message was sent quickly o’er the wires
To draw a young woman away from warm fires.
“Can you please open the door?
It’s too light and I can’t stand her face anymore!”
And so the woman gracefully descended.
How could she know the doom she portended?
It took her a while to deal with the lock,
But the door swung wide and she got a shock!
There on the stairs behind her dear friend
The ugly Minge stood with her hair on end!
There was no mistaking those crooked eyes;
That hideous face which the gods despise!
Hunched like a troll with a midget-like stance
Demons devoured who got into her pants!
Up the stairs with a warning the young woman flew!
To her lover, but alas, there was nothing they could do!
It was in fact, too late for our victim in need.
A living room was chosen as the scene of the deed.
In a house where everyone thought there was peace,
A couch was now tainted with their sex grease.
Never again would those cushions be neat!
No ass would sit upon its plushy seat!
Not after the events that took place upon it.
Everyone would rather find another place to sit!
But at least all could retire to their rooms
And wait out the storm while darkness looms.
But unfortunately that was not to be so,
For laundry was churning far below.
In the depths of the basement where no monsters dwell
Yet it was passed the doings of demons from hell!
A brave warrior set out with a change-over in mind.
He proceeded cautiously, scared of what he might find.
He went to the bathroom simply to scout,
From the abyss he heard a terrible shout!
Terrified, up the stairs he ran.
There he and his lover came up with a plan.
She, brave and noble, would pass through the briar
And succeed in putting the clothes in the dryer!
With stalwart courage she stood up straight
And proceeded to move down into hell’s gate.
Down one flight of stairs she could hear their harsh cries.
Like the sound of a pig right before it dies.
But with a help of a light she slowly moved on.
When she reached the landing her courage was gone.
She scurried right past as fast as she dared.
A muttered apology was all that was spared.
And though I averted my eyes I could see
The shirtless back of a man towards me.
There, against his other side was the creature!
It was well I could make out no other feature!
To the basement I moved with delicate grace.
Trying, in vain, to forget that cruel face!
I stayed in the basement to complete my quest.
Before I set out, I took a brief rest.
The return trip was worse, for the light was still on.
I had secretly hoped they had moved and were gone.
But alas, they still laid in their shameful bed.
The thought gripped my mind; it filled me with dread.
But boldly I would avert my attention away.
And move to my room to see a safer day.
There, to my lover, I swiftly returned.
To describe how badly my friend had been burned.
And there I remained for the rest of the night.
The Minge had gone by the morning’s light.
The students all nursing their drinks with delight!
Consuming large amounts of alcohol.
As for myself, I did nothing at all.
But as I remained with a book in my hand,
Two strangers were traversing this Campus Land.
It was too dark, their faces were lost.
Thank goodness, lest our hero recognize the cost
Of his drunken-debauched hookup-to-be
“The Minge” she was called, by those who could see.
Slowly she crept under the stars;
Tearing our hero away from the bars.
Though it was cold there was no despair;
They swiftly descended upon their dark lair.
Alas! They found the door was stuck!
Even the gods frowned upon this soon-to-be fuck!
A message was sent quickly o’er the wires
To draw a young woman away from warm fires.
“Can you please open the door?
It’s too light and I can’t stand her face anymore!”
And so the woman gracefully descended.
How could she know the doom she portended?
It took her a while to deal with the lock,
But the door swung wide and she got a shock!
There on the stairs behind her dear friend
The ugly Minge stood with her hair on end!
There was no mistaking those crooked eyes;
That hideous face which the gods despise!
Hunched like a troll with a midget-like stance
Demons devoured who got into her pants!
Up the stairs with a warning the young woman flew!
To her lover, but alas, there was nothing they could do!
It was in fact, too late for our victim in need.
A living room was chosen as the scene of the deed.
In a house where everyone thought there was peace,
A couch was now tainted with their sex grease.
Never again would those cushions be neat!
No ass would sit upon its plushy seat!
Not after the events that took place upon it.
Everyone would rather find another place to sit!
But at least all could retire to their rooms
And wait out the storm while darkness looms.
But unfortunately that was not to be so,
For laundry was churning far below.
In the depths of the basement where no monsters dwell
Yet it was passed the doings of demons from hell!
A brave warrior set out with a change-over in mind.
He proceeded cautiously, scared of what he might find.
He went to the bathroom simply to scout,
From the abyss he heard a terrible shout!
Terrified, up the stairs he ran.
There he and his lover came up with a plan.
She, brave and noble, would pass through the briar
And succeed in putting the clothes in the dryer!
With stalwart courage she stood up straight
And proceeded to move down into hell’s gate.
Down one flight of stairs she could hear their harsh cries.
Like the sound of a pig right before it dies.
But with a help of a light she slowly moved on.
When she reached the landing her courage was gone.
She scurried right past as fast as she dared.
A muttered apology was all that was spared.
And though I averted my eyes I could see
The shirtless back of a man towards me.
There, against his other side was the creature!
It was well I could make out no other feature!
To the basement I moved with delicate grace.
Trying, in vain, to forget that cruel face!
I stayed in the basement to complete my quest.
Before I set out, I took a brief rest.
The return trip was worse, for the light was still on.
I had secretly hoped they had moved and were gone.
But alas, they still laid in their shameful bed.
The thought gripped my mind; it filled me with dread.
But boldly I would avert my attention away.
And move to my room to see a safer day.
There, to my lover, I swiftly returned.
To describe how badly my friend had been burned.
And there I remained for the rest of the night.
The Minge had gone by the morning’s light.
No Snow Days.
Lehigh! Oh Lehigh!
Can you not think?
And you wonder why we excessively drink.
It's simply because we can't play in the snow.
To class I go! To class I go!
Lehigh! Oh Lehigh!
Can you spare a thought?
And you wonder why we smoke so much pot!
It's simply because we can't play in the snow.
To class I go! To class I go!
Can you not think?
And you wonder why we excessively drink.
It's simply because we can't play in the snow.
To class I go! To class I go!
Lehigh! Oh Lehigh!
Can you spare a thought?
And you wonder why we smoke so much pot!
It's simply because we can't play in the snow.
To class I go! To class I go!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Hi.
The ceiling is in front of me.
The wall becomes the floor.
I'm standing on the window.
I can't get to the door.
But you are right beside me;
Your hand tucked into mind.
No matter how the room twists,
I'm gonna be just fine.
The wall becomes the floor.
I'm standing on the window.
I can't get to the door.
But you are right beside me;
Your hand tucked into mind.
No matter how the room twists,
I'm gonna be just fine.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Proof
Preface: This is a short story based off of the play "Proof" by David Auburn. We had to do a style project where we mimicked another artist's style. I picked Edgar Allen Poe.
You must believe that it was not me who made myself mad. No, in fact, it was the haunting, invisible presence that kept itself deep within the walls of my dead father’s house. Ah, you do not believe me? Allow me to elaborate…
Deep within my father’s sprawling mansion, there was a walled, windowless sitting room. I dwelled among its dusty shelves full of archaic volumes and the moth-eaten cushions. Cobwebs hung loose from angled corners that were never cleaned. I was too enthralled by my father’s abandoned mathematic notebooks. I drowned in the dim lamplight and wrapped my fingers around the rumpled pages ever hour I could spare. Ah, those numbers brought new life to my being! The voice of my father presented itself before my fevered eyes, between my straining ears. Soft murmurs passed my lips, but I could not remember willing them to move at all. Harsh, discordant whispers sounded as I recalled back what I read until the whispers did not pass through my lips at all. They merely rang about my form, rebounding off the wooden shelves, muted by withered covers, crackling through the chipped, wounded plaster. Ah! Father! You speak! Yet I was terribly frightened. Foreign voices ringing through my head was, I knew, proof of madness.
Ah, you can see now how sane I am! I even had enough conscience to diagnose my own madness! I do know, of course, that you believe I am mentally stable. It is in this confidence that I tell you – my father returned from the dead.
A luminous bulb in the sitting room was covered with a deep purple shade that cast eerie shadows that reached desperately across the room’s barren floor. The wooden clock on the wall chimed the twelfth hour of the night and I swiveled my eyes away from the tattered page to glance upon its ticking face, but it was my father’s wizened face that met me instead. Eyes like black pebbles pushed back into his flesh melted by age. His clothing was worn and hung loosely from his gaunt, emaciated frame. His smile curled the drooping corners of his lips and pulled his pale skin taught over his skull. And then he spoke, “My dear,” his voice echoed strangely as his whispers had done so often before, “You forgot your birthday!” The man proceeded to procure a bottle of aged wine!
There was immense joy in seeing my father alive again, but there was a fever buried among that intense euphoria. Ever night as the clock struck midnight, he would appear. Yet every time the apparition vanished, I was taken be an extreme sickness; a certain need; and unquenchable thirst to complete by being. On the seventh night, as my father disappeared, it took me completely.
The blood that pumped so viciously through my webbing veins boiled furiously and caused my hand to seize up around the closest pen. The sinew in my fingers stood in sharp relief as my hand, moved by some unseen force, grabbed the nearest, empty notebook. I willed myself to stop only in the confines of my fragile mind, yet my father’s spirit was too strong in me. Those discernable whispers grew around me: faster, louder as they echoed inside my heated skull. The pen, held so tightly it hurt, wrote a myriad of letters, numbers, and symbols upon the page in sharp, curt strokes. Like knife-slashes, they produced black blood upon the page. The stretching shadows over the floor flickered like the flames of hell itself to my wild eyes. Demons! Demons writing in pain! Oh glorious masterpiece! Beautiful genius! My father gripped me like crushing iron as my body gesticulated in fits of passion! Oh! Oh!
But then it ended. The pen fell to the desk: a discarded murder weapon. The page dried, finished, but I had never felt so whole. The Proof before me – that beautiful Proof – was now the center of my very soul. My father, his legacy, held me – nay, bound me – by that simple Proof. It was my masterpiece and my reason for existence. Ah! To be whole!
As I lay back in my chair to bask in the feeling of utter completion, there came an ominous knock upon the front door. I, of course, did not rise to answer it, but the latched clicked open anyway. A tall, awkward man came striding into my territory. His face was obscured by the flickering shadows, yet I recognized him (or perhaps my father did) as a former student, Hal.
“What do you want?” I snapped.
“Only to collect a few of your father’s manuscripts. It’s Catherine, yes?”
I nodded. My father’s steady murmurs implored me to relax as he collected a few books lying around; including the one contained my masterpiece. I watched his eyes flicker over the dried ink, looking aghast, “Who wrote this?” He asked.
“I did.” I answered bitterly.
“It’s in your father’s notebook in your father’s own script.” His tone was laced with apprehension as his eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. My own eyes burned – seethed – with indignant rage. I felt another hysteric sickness growing within the depths of my beating heart. This man, this wretched man, could surely not be insinuating doubt upon my precious Proof! I, being so perfectly capable, gave him another chance:
“You do not believe me?” I growled. How dare he doubt my very existence! My very soul!
“No.” That simple answer unleashed the demonic torrent within me. He doubted my very being! The center of my universe! My masterpiece! Once again, I failed to control my movements as I lunged for the pen lying harmlessly upon the table. Snarling, I took the implement to the side of his swollen neck, tensed from the pressure of his incomprehensible screaming. Floods of blood dribbled to the carpet. Ah! The blood! Pooling around the floor! Flowing like ink! Oh!
His labored panting fell silent as he collapsed upon the floorboards with a muted thud. My own masterpiece was spared any splatters from the sanguine attack as I clutched it to my heaving bosom.
The stand lamp in the corner flickered, beating back the shadows to illuminate the grotesque scene. Blood framed the pallid corpse like a ruddy halo. The body would not be disposed of, for its sprawling limbs lay at such beautiful angles, but something must be done! The police would surely want evidence! Proof! Ah…Proof! With tedious care I arranged my father’s abandoned notebooks around the still body. Proof! The watchmen would find plenty of that, now! It is, after all, what Hal had wanted! The proofs! A wry chuckle slipped through my curled lips at my own genius. I, myself, would show that genius to the world.
You must believe that it was not me who made myself mad. No, in fact, it was the haunting, invisible presence that kept itself deep within the walls of my dead father’s house. Ah, you do not believe me? Allow me to elaborate…
Deep within my father’s sprawling mansion, there was a walled, windowless sitting room. I dwelled among its dusty shelves full of archaic volumes and the moth-eaten cushions. Cobwebs hung loose from angled corners that were never cleaned. I was too enthralled by my father’s abandoned mathematic notebooks. I drowned in the dim lamplight and wrapped my fingers around the rumpled pages ever hour I could spare. Ah, those numbers brought new life to my being! The voice of my father presented itself before my fevered eyes, between my straining ears. Soft murmurs passed my lips, but I could not remember willing them to move at all. Harsh, discordant whispers sounded as I recalled back what I read until the whispers did not pass through my lips at all. They merely rang about my form, rebounding off the wooden shelves, muted by withered covers, crackling through the chipped, wounded plaster. Ah! Father! You speak! Yet I was terribly frightened. Foreign voices ringing through my head was, I knew, proof of madness.
Ah, you can see now how sane I am! I even had enough conscience to diagnose my own madness! I do know, of course, that you believe I am mentally stable. It is in this confidence that I tell you – my father returned from the dead.
A luminous bulb in the sitting room was covered with a deep purple shade that cast eerie shadows that reached desperately across the room’s barren floor. The wooden clock on the wall chimed the twelfth hour of the night and I swiveled my eyes away from the tattered page to glance upon its ticking face, but it was my father’s wizened face that met me instead. Eyes like black pebbles pushed back into his flesh melted by age. His clothing was worn and hung loosely from his gaunt, emaciated frame. His smile curled the drooping corners of his lips and pulled his pale skin taught over his skull. And then he spoke, “My dear,” his voice echoed strangely as his whispers had done so often before, “You forgot your birthday!” The man proceeded to procure a bottle of aged wine!
There was immense joy in seeing my father alive again, but there was a fever buried among that intense euphoria. Ever night as the clock struck midnight, he would appear. Yet every time the apparition vanished, I was taken be an extreme sickness; a certain need; and unquenchable thirst to complete by being. On the seventh night, as my father disappeared, it took me completely.
The blood that pumped so viciously through my webbing veins boiled furiously and caused my hand to seize up around the closest pen. The sinew in my fingers stood in sharp relief as my hand, moved by some unseen force, grabbed the nearest, empty notebook. I willed myself to stop only in the confines of my fragile mind, yet my father’s spirit was too strong in me. Those discernable whispers grew around me: faster, louder as they echoed inside my heated skull. The pen, held so tightly it hurt, wrote a myriad of letters, numbers, and symbols upon the page in sharp, curt strokes. Like knife-slashes, they produced black blood upon the page. The stretching shadows over the floor flickered like the flames of hell itself to my wild eyes. Demons! Demons writing in pain! Oh glorious masterpiece! Beautiful genius! My father gripped me like crushing iron as my body gesticulated in fits of passion! Oh! Oh!
But then it ended. The pen fell to the desk: a discarded murder weapon. The page dried, finished, but I had never felt so whole. The Proof before me – that beautiful Proof – was now the center of my very soul. My father, his legacy, held me – nay, bound me – by that simple Proof. It was my masterpiece and my reason for existence. Ah! To be whole!
As I lay back in my chair to bask in the feeling of utter completion, there came an ominous knock upon the front door. I, of course, did not rise to answer it, but the latched clicked open anyway. A tall, awkward man came striding into my territory. His face was obscured by the flickering shadows, yet I recognized him (or perhaps my father did) as a former student, Hal.
“What do you want?” I snapped.
“Only to collect a few of your father’s manuscripts. It’s Catherine, yes?”
I nodded. My father’s steady murmurs implored me to relax as he collected a few books lying around; including the one contained my masterpiece. I watched his eyes flicker over the dried ink, looking aghast, “Who wrote this?” He asked.
“I did.” I answered bitterly.
“It’s in your father’s notebook in your father’s own script.” His tone was laced with apprehension as his eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. My own eyes burned – seethed – with indignant rage. I felt another hysteric sickness growing within the depths of my beating heart. This man, this wretched man, could surely not be insinuating doubt upon my precious Proof! I, being so perfectly capable, gave him another chance:
“You do not believe me?” I growled. How dare he doubt my very existence! My very soul!
“No.” That simple answer unleashed the demonic torrent within me. He doubted my very being! The center of my universe! My masterpiece! Once again, I failed to control my movements as I lunged for the pen lying harmlessly upon the table. Snarling, I took the implement to the side of his swollen neck, tensed from the pressure of his incomprehensible screaming. Floods of blood dribbled to the carpet. Ah! The blood! Pooling around the floor! Flowing like ink! Oh!
His labored panting fell silent as he collapsed upon the floorboards with a muted thud. My own masterpiece was spared any splatters from the sanguine attack as I clutched it to my heaving bosom.
The stand lamp in the corner flickered, beating back the shadows to illuminate the grotesque scene. Blood framed the pallid corpse like a ruddy halo. The body would not be disposed of, for its sprawling limbs lay at such beautiful angles, but something must be done! The police would surely want evidence! Proof! Ah…Proof! With tedious care I arranged my father’s abandoned notebooks around the still body. Proof! The watchmen would find plenty of that, now! It is, after all, what Hal had wanted! The proofs! A wry chuckle slipped through my curled lips at my own genius. I, myself, would show that genius to the world.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Let Him Go.
Preface: This is a few weeks old, maybe. I really like the way it rhymes, even if its not even.
I’m begging, let him go.
I can’t bear the thought of sharing you.
I want so badly to be all you see.
Look me in the eyes,
And tell me you’re not compromised.
That it’s never been him when it could’ve been me.
I’m frightened; let him go.
He lingers in the back of my brain,
Like an image burned too bright.
It should have faded.
The monster should have vanished when I turned on the light.
I’m begging, let him go.
I can’t bear the thought of sharing you.
I want so badly to be all you see.
Look me in the eyes,
And tell me you’re not compromised.
That it’s never been him when it could’ve been me.
I’m frightened; let him go.
He lingers in the back of my brain,
Like an image burned too bright.
It should have faded.
The monster should have vanished when I turned on the light.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Left.
Preface: This is almost a year old and somehow never made it up.
I'm wide awake; Just barely breathing.
I know your anger; it is seething.
I know your smile; it has flown.
A wake facade; my cover's blown.
I'm torn and shattered; me to blame.
I can see it in you; and extinguished flame.
To be forever snuffed; you're jaw is clenched.
So many tears; my clothes are drenched.
A token gone; slipped off my finger.
Its absence hurt; the feelings linger.
Such beauty; life has disappeared.
It left me then, just as I feared.
I'm wide awake; Just barely breathing.
I know your anger; it is seething.
I know your smile; it has flown.
A wake facade; my cover's blown.
I'm torn and shattered; me to blame.
I can see it in you; and extinguished flame.
To be forever snuffed; you're jaw is clenched.
So many tears; my clothes are drenched.
A token gone; slipped off my finger.
Its absence hurt; the feelings linger.
Such beauty; life has disappeared.
It left me then, just as I feared.
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