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This city is dead to me

It died, panting for air

And searching for love long ago in adolescent dreams

Its inhabitants are like zombies

Nothing will stop them from feeding on their own addictions

Vomiting whiskey flavored validation

Gnawing at the genitals of their most recent victims…

Within every shadow sits a child

Cowering in fear

At the tip of every shadow

Stands a victim

Masochistic suicide

With preluding daily devoted masturbation

It exorcises the mind

Keeps blood flowing…

My thoughts are limitless

But my words, limited to pen and paper

Or the tapping of letters on a keyboard

Going blind to the flickering screen of a monitor…

But this is my asylum

A Place of solemn sanctuary …

I find it slightly more amusing than pounding pavement

Even though my knees bleed from scraping by

Slowly..

Sluggishly through this afternoon cadence

And still I keep my distance

More so out of fear than hate

I’m dying, more from my own poisons than from the vile I’ve been ignorantly pointing my finger at…

I keep lapping at the blood of my wounds

Addicted to the taste

Becoming numb to the pain

Becoming one with the infection

Like making love to your murderer…

Its all animalistic in the end

Then again, we are all just mammals

Warm blooded and defected with weakness

At times cannibalistic

Eating away at ourselves

Jagged teeth tearing through epidermis and jerking away at Rubbermaid muscle tissue

Until there’s nothing left

Until we are just another victim..

Made either by our own hands

Or the murderous affairs of lovers in stagnant corners of basements..

 

 

Black Sheep

I look around and realize I’m surrounded by anomalies…  an orgy of uniforms and collected conformist in denial of their true form. I admire how they grope each other, stimulating a blood rushing erection of hypocrisy. Their voices loud and well heard, their protests bright and colorful…fuck the man!  They say. Fuck the man and his machine of oppression; they scream in between solid puffs of name brand cancer. Look how the skin of their fingers shrivels from the beading condensation of a beer can. I’ve watched them throw themselves into drunken trances congregating in social ranks, spewing judgment, finger painting their names in the blood of most recent back stabbings.

Antisocial you say? You are nothing but a character in a play, teetering on an axis summited by mainstream theology. Go ahead, take another swig of your cheap beer and burn the label black sheep upon your chest. It’s the joke that makes up your physic; it’s the skin that sags along your week and brittle bone structure. It’s the lie you fuck every night before falling asleep next to your one night stand and snuffed out cigarette butts that float in the monkey piss of semi empty forty bottles.

You see, I am that black sheep you so long to be, I’ve learned to take comfort in the icy shadows bouncing off the cold shoulder of society. I am that antisocial fuck lingering on the outskirts of the inside. I have no real interest in your thoughts, opinions and mortal day to day judgment. I stray from your hang out spots and avoid the hipsters in black sheep’s clothing that I’ve found you to be.

The Night Cries..

I step into the light, my weaknesses squirm to hide themselves,

They search for cubby holes etched within the tree of my soul..

I step back into the shadows, they suddenly rush at me, charge at me like a declaration of war..

Their serpent like bodies coil around my mind, around my neck, around my legs…

I am but a prisoner within a shell of a being..

I am but an infant within the shell of a man..

I am but a man within a shell of a world…

Is there no escape?

No release from these binding imps??

How they claw at my insides and scratch at my eyes..

Nothing of me is left pure; all is tainted with morsels of impotency..

Oh and how the night cries for me…

Oh how she weeps from the corner of her bed post..

Her tears paint  her vast breasts with an alignment of stars..

Her sobs softly kiss my exposed skin..

Shadows beneath the Street Lamp series, and some ranting..

I have been working eagerly on the second installment for the” Shadows beneath the Street Lamp” series and I’m really excited about the whole thing. My goal for these stories is to bring the readers to the dark corners of life. I want to grab them by the back of the heads and force them, so to speak, to look at the people and areas of life we tend to overlook or pass by. The black sheep, the crazies, the steaming piles of shit we drive or walk by on our way to work or school, that we seem to ignore the existence of. The people we tend to immediately judge as losers or nobodies, the mentally deranged. I want to bring to life the thoughts inside their heads, the battles they have within themselves, their addictions or obsessions.

My style of writing is very gritty, the best way I can describe it, is like watching a Quentin Tarantino flick, but in no way do I feel like I am as good as him. I’ve been looking around, reading other blogs and also work form other writers, searching for something interesting or inspirational  and I’ve noticed a lot of talk about what being a writer is. I have almost disagreed with every quote I’ve seen so far. I think a good number of people romanticize on the stereo types of what a writer is and strive to feel a part of those ideals. I want to clarify what a writer is for some people; a writer is a man, a woman, a mother, a father, a wife, a husband. A writer is me, it’s you, it’s the guy next door, the lady at the grocery store, the man struggling to pay his bills and take care of his family.  You don’t have to be anything or fall into certain guide lines to be a writer because writing itself is an anomaly. It’s an art that you should feel free while doing, not feeling like you have to be the bohemian asshole leaning out of some slummy apartment window smoking cigarettes and gulping at bottles of liquor.

All in all, I don’t want people who think of themselves as prestige writers to make the rules for other people. I don’t want to be told what I have to be passionate about or how to live my life; I just want to be me and nobody else. I want to write for me and nobody else, yes I want people to read my work and enjoy it but, I don’t give two fucks in a whores ass what sells and what doesn’t, if my work sells it does and it did because of the way I wrote it, and I wrote it because it was in my head.

Anyways, enough ranting from me, if you haven’t checked out the first installment : “Lullaby for a Lost Soul.” Please do, it’s free and I hope you will like it. Here is the link….

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237411

Lullaby for a Lost Soul has been released!!

Well it’s finally finished…. At least the first installment is. “Lullaby for a Lost Soul” has now been self-published. As I mentioned it’s the first installment to a series of short stories I will be doing called: “Shadows beneath the Street Lamp.” Every story will be dark and will take place somewhere in Norfolk. I’ve been working on the second installment but I’ve just been so damn busy with school work, writing things I really don’t want to write, I barley have time to work on it. That’s part of the reason it took me so long to get this one out.

Please click the link and download it, it’s absolutely free and you can always read it in your spare time. Or instead of checking your face book news feeds while you’re taking a shit, you can read a story. That way, even if you don’t like it, you were stuck on the shitter anyways and never wasted bit of time.

http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/237411

Well…..

I’ve been steady working on my short story:”Lullaby for a lost soul”, and its been going really well. unfortunately the editing is taking a lot longer than I expected, considering I am completely horrible at editing, you can probably  imagine how much of a grueling process its been so far.

Saying all this, you can place your bets that I will not be publishing it quite yet. I was really hoping to have it done last week but I’m in no rush, even though im anxious and excited to get my first piece of work out there, I want it to be the best writing I’m capable of producing.

I swear it will be done soon and I hope all of you will read it and enjoy it.

That’s it for now,

Derek Ardita

Random Thoughts… A Poem.

Thoughts pulse to the flashing of a flickering street light as I walk empty city sidewalks. The cool night air kisses the salt of my sweat; it pushes against me softly, nudging me along like the movement of the ocean. Moments of my past begin to overwhelm my mind, the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met, the paths I’ve crossed. As I dream in spirit the city scape turns into a pitch black forest, rods of light pierce through the tops of trees and I begin to awaken to the cold bosom of reality, I force myself to suckle the teat of a world of opposites, its nourishment is filled with death, for all our lives are cloaked in the darkness of the inevitable, all our paths lead to the beckoning sound of a closing casket. From birth we struggle and yearn for the warmth of life, the embrace of love, the gentle touch of our mothers, our givers of life, to only find ourselves filling their place with the sight of cheap lamp shades, wallowing in the scent of one night stands.

Is life worth the struggles we face? How many of those struggles did we create for ourselves? Is there anything left pure, untainted by this world that turns on axles of desecration?  I find my answers when I look into my daughters eyes as she wakes, bathing in the morning sun light that forces its way through the alabaster window shades half drawn in my room.