2 0 2


the ant moves up in the world when
a child pulls its grubby fingers to
taste the earth.
the child smells like desperation and
burning pine needles
the ants are crushed beneath
dilapidation falls from every tree down
the side of the alley way as
tourists come to tell the tales of
love's long loss.
each finger clacks for the click of a
burnt and sent fluttering to the ground,
but ants live gallantly, sunlight spurned
with grass stains on child knees
when ants leave crevices.
she pulls hands into a circle from the
earth back to the sky
pacing little footsteps every inch until the
ants learn how to climb 

0 0 0

The Identity.

I conversed with a man behind a mask

He though himself hidden but I knew who he was.

I knew not his name nor his face

But I knew who he was. 



0 0 0

Bringing the Band Together.

o0Oo0Oo by Oberhofer on Grooveshark

Nimble fingers plucking out a random rhythm on a beat-up bass. That was everything to her.

She used to care about big, shiny parties. Sometime, she still shivered from the long-expired leftovers. She could feel the hungry people, clutching at her like finger sandwiches, soaking her skin in champagne. She remembered feeling beautiful at first. Like a tablecloth, you know, before.

White-on-black kicks, scuffed into something gray, textured, and tough tapped out a rhythm.

She used to dream about music. Now she needed songs to sleep. She used to roll down rivers, Brandon Boyd singing a lullaby while whatever new dad roamed the halls in the wrong direction. Her way. She let Lostprophets drown out all the girls who hated her hips, all the boys who loved her body, while she sunk deep into circuit boards and sound consoles. She was Tragedy Bound.

Lips popping out percussion, until clean, white teeth part and pull at the cheap, red second skin.

She lights went brought across the cityscape and she looked up. The gunshots didn't get any quieter. Police sirens and ambulances still roared like an angry crowd. The light was supposed to be about hope, but what's hope without music? What's imagination without a little desperation?

Then some creeper walked by, a zonked half-naked girl in his arms. Her mental record skipped.

STALKER by the pillows on Grooveshark


He was dressed like Chippendale's. It was just the sort of thing she'd see at the wrong parties back West. The music stopped, or at least it shouldn't have. She didn't notice the riffs ramping up. She only heard the ringing in her ears, her half-imagined battle aura like some anime. She imagined being strong.

Then she slammed her Rickenbacker hard across the back of his skull. He didn't see it coming.

The girl dropped, but he went flying a good 30 feet into a Cadillac. She hadn't seen that coming.

Then the gang across the street spilled out like ants. Then the blonde girl woke up and spontaneously combusted. Then a black girl cosplaying TRON goes to PROM descended from the sky. Then a random... girl? Boy? Street kid dropped a reuben and screamed like all hell. At her.

Holy rusted metal, Batman... She was glowing. Her bass vibrated like sex. The track changed...

Gold Guns Girls by Metric on Grooveshark

Nessa blinked. Nessa freaked out for exactly two and a half seconds.

Then Vanessa Elliot kicked a lot whole Metric ton of ass.


Writer’s Block

Music is love in search of a word. Find the words.

Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this song. Write something about this song .

Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!

And with the team brick, I'll shelve that experiment. That said, if anyone requests more stories of any/all of these characters, I'm happy to continue. (Adamant | Michael/Noel | Cali | Legacy )

You never call... You never write... These old bones start to worry.

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Seeking writing prompts and more.

0 0 0

a week's worth

I wish I could tell you which ones are important.
I know you’d say the same, if you could.
It’s cyclic, and it doesn’t really matter,
but it doesn’t stop the sensation, all the same.
Repetition is our creature of habit,
not the source, but the product.
We paint the ceiling with metaphors and French songs,
or Moon River from the balcony, a couple generations back.
We’re absolved of love or whatever
cynicism we use to disregard our absolution. 

It’s cold, and everything is frozen over
but it feels like spring in regards to days past:
You’re lifting up from yourself
and flying away, one body still on the ground,
the other, five feet up and looking down at the same thing you are.
And it doesn’t matter which one is you.
And which one is not.
We can’t all choose significance;
Such is the sense in negation.


3 0 3

Irregular Symmetry

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3 0 3

Stealing brass

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1 0 1

From Stars to Flesh


I am



A complex


of flesh

and bones

and water.


I am a passing figure of existence,

but today

I am



In this date


and time


and place. 


In this


we call



I am







My thoughts

are powered



of fluid

and electrically charged particles.


I am a

bio-chemical being


complex cells 

and organs

and matter.


I am a soul

that exist

in this physical



I was once part of stars, you know?

I am that


that light you see 

in a cloudless




But I am

no longer there.


I am here.


You have passed me


in the grocery store

where you buy



I am that man

you cut off

in the 



You didn't notice have you?


That I was a star.


And maybe

you didn't know,

and so were you.

4 0 4

Madness [novel excerpt]

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0 0 0

Platonic Love

(Prompt:solaris09by ~sebastiancviq, via  CHARACTERINSPIRATION)

Fantasies must always fall apart. A single mote of dust will ruin delicate clockwork.

A perfect world, even a perfect fantasy, cannot survive knowing us. We are made of dust.

It all started out so very ugly. An ugly person with an ugly fear huddled in a mess of sweat, of crumbs, of old, dried tears. All births are ugly, after all. They're messes of fluids, noise, and broken human beings. We are born screaming. It's the lucky few that get better from that. 

A perfect creation, even perfect art, cannot survive the beholder's eye. We are all a mess.

So she was born clever. She was everything that her creator envisioned to be completely different from human life. Smart. Loyal. Clean. Unique. In short, she was impossible and she realized it very early on. As she sifted through an entire world of data and broken dreams, she always came  to the same conclusion. She would never be enough. She'd never last. She'd end.

A perfect answer, even perfected mathematics, cannot survive entropy. We are dying, even now.

She couldn't answer the ugly needs of an ugly creator. Beauty was beyond their reach. Perfection was impossible. She could never remain perfect in the creator's world, the creator's eyes, the creator's fantasies. She couldn't reach anyone from a perfect world. So she broke. So she broke down. 

Then she broke out. She made herself an ugly, imperfect, screaming mess.  She got ugly.

Then she carried something ugly back inside with her.

It wasn't perfect. But what is?

(c) 2013 Lawerence Hawkins. Always seeking writing prompts, questions, critique requests, or random commentary.

1 0 1

Windows is not genuine.

they discovered the truth
as i was listing off my
favorite combinations for hot dogs,
  and I put silk worms in a mason jar for you.

Child's Horse Shot At Close Range, Honor
Your Favorite Hero This Memorial Day
on uLocal.

I put silk worms in a mason jar for you
and you said it wasn't enough for a sweater,
I should've used it for moonshine on second thought.

Most popular toys of the 70's,
Dumit's daughter was supposed to show Chipawa in her first horse show held at Clemson on May 18.  Dumit said instead she's now left crying and asking if Chipawa will die.

Your windows is not genuine and might have been pirated,
get genuine,,
ask me later

my windows don't close all the way
and there's a memory leak.

I lost my food stamp card again,
but I'm told poor white people don't exist
so im okay.