Just Call Me Peter

I just realized I am a victim of the Peter Principle. Ever since I can remember, I’ve been a very quiet and withdrawn person. When people see that, they need to assign a cause. Well, if someone isn’t talking, they must be listening or thinking. If they think a lot, they must be smart. So every adult I ever met when I was a child always treated that way. Of course, I am then pressured to push myself—to fulfill their expectations.


And she who danced upon the darkness, breaks and thrashes on the floor. Throwing fits of rage and fury, torn and sundered to the core. Blistered through and through with wonder, blasted from the roles of fate. Ripped and wretched for a moment, crushed with woe upon the gate. No paraiah is more vanquished, than who buck the will of time. Seeking but to make a difference, though ’tis an eternal crime.

A Serious Inquiry

Dear Freddy Krueger, I have long enjoyed your work. Eviscerating children is also one of my favorite hobbies! I was wondering about the specifications you used for the glove blades, and the honing/stropping methods you used. All of the limb-gouging tools I create never quite seem sharp enough… I know you have a busy schedule of invading dreams and terrifying occupants of Elm Street with a dizzying barrage of convoluted and psychologically unraveling horrors, but I’d greatly appreciate your input.

Rapidity of Splot

Always scheming, scarcely dreaming–is it bits, or bats, or both? Wind around a wrinkled walrus, best amend your tale of woe. ‘Cause it’s simple, as a pimple, for anyone to see, that the crazy isn’t lazy to the dreaming and the me. But don’t listen (there’s a siren) to the babbling I make. Every time I cough or chortle, I’ve most likely made a mistake. Or have I wandered oddly off the road into the trees?

Governed by Chaotically Harmonic Patterns

A conundrum espies an infinite wake, bereft of solace, robbed of succor. Instead, splendor and convoluted mirages ripple and entreaty fealty or some semblance of instrumentality beyond obvious and unrepentant madness. It sings of listless fate and they listen The pariah raves for reprieve but damned perfectly Tortured ceaselessly by forever Still, a blink pierces the vale and cruelly illuminates every sordid fleck and sardonic splinter of corrupted tapestry. Driven unreality crafts this mockery of fantastic oblivion, voracious and intent to rend sanity through tantalizing simulacrum inspired by grievous shadows cast beneath vile imitations of predictable automatons.