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..


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.