Friday, June 28, 2013

The Last of Us is Awesome

On the cusp of gaming's next generation, with E3 having just unloaded rounds of variegated technological goodies (and horrors) into our optic nerves, one would expect developers to be putting all efforts toward the future - in the case of Playstation, looking ahead to the Playstation 4 while abandoning its seven-year-old predecessor like a quickly dying planet.

A supposition that couldn't be further from the truth. Case in point: The Last of Us.

This latest Playstation-exclusive game, which has players navigating their way through an America twenty years deep into a population-whittling infection outbreak, is arguably the console's most masterful game to date. It is potent in ways heretofore alien to the world of gaming, giving the Playstation 3 not only one of its most enthralling and immersive experiences, but its last one at that.

Delving into this acclaim-arrayed swansong, there is an unmistakable quality on every level.

Click here for the full review.

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

The Predator's Progeny


No prison dispirits like lineage,
the bars manifesting as imparted traits
too like the beast who sowed my seed
in cruelty and disgrace.

He prowls while two unlidded moons
roll and plumb the dark for sheep,
for guardless napes whose pallor's
only half the treasure of their bleat.

The wise by which this tyrannist
now scours through prey like crackling flame
I've known since memory 'gan to etch
his savageries upon my brain.

Back ere cradle lost its use,
he lurched his toothy silhouette
into my room and left his mark
upon my pierced and weeping neck,

a foundation he failed not to water,
sprinkling the screams of mother and kin
'pon heart too spongy, piece-by-piece
feeding them to his sin.

Now, youth seems but a wisp,
a labyrinth whose horror I thought I escaped,
yet every day the mirror displays
more of that predator's bearing and face.

He skulks, his wake of vampirized husks
an affront to every value I hold,
but what is the good of abhorrence
when cast in the aberration's mold?

Monday, June 24, 2013

Antipathy and Grace

Three times Paul implored The Lord
(in prayers availless to his pain)
to succour his body of its thorn.
Grace God spake and 'twould sustain,
a balm that seemed to ease him, yet
how long ere grace eclipsed his bane?

For I wake and crave comeuppance,
that Babylonian wrath
that whittled a god-king of his substance.
I'm crushed 'twixt fleshy paragnaths,
a body more millstone than machine
drowning me on its graveward path.

Nothing unburdens this lifelong weight,
this thorn metastasizing its bulk
like stone only Heaven can immolate.
In Christ I have joy, and yet I sulk;
heart drug down into the dirt
for all the living refused by this hulk.

So when does grace supplant disdain?
If this weight-enfeebled vessel
is the ship in which I must remain,
I pray that grace would come and nestle
peace's satiety in me...smiling
through the dint of sifting's necessary pestle.

Thursday, June 13, 2013

Shed


In the moonlight, she looked like some kind of reptile. The way vertebrae jutted a highway down her back. The sinuous shadow fabricating a tail down the back of her leg. The toppled spines of her purple-dyed mohawk, plastered to her cheek with sweat.

I probably could have found something better to do at 4:00am, with the night's worth of absinthe and rum still striking matchsticks in my fingertips, but...I couldn't help but notice the similarity. I grew up with iguanas. I'm familiar with the shade of their scaly detritus.

Pale, like her.

They say don't help nature, but she was a basilisk straining to shed, her pallor pleading for fingernailed help.

Who was I to deny her?

Rejection


Three blinks and two rheumy fingertips reminded Isaac of his piercings. Specifically, the battalion of lymph with which his body harangued the rings in his face. His body didn't want them there, in his lip and eyebrows. For three years, his immune system fought off these intruding pieces of metal with crust and pus…a substance no different from the crystals he woke to mine from the corners of his eyes.

His eyes. What was his body trying to tell him?

Butane-blackened spoon in hand, he fully intended to listen.