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Tuesday, October 31st, 2006
7:00 pm - Horror Poetry!
Just in time for Halloween, here's another one of my poems, made especially for a good friend of mine to go with his music. He liked it very much, and I hope you will too. Happy Halloween.

"The Machine"

Pumping, pistons pound with pressure,
Grinding gears eat metal shells.
And yet you stand there at your leisure,
Assure your masters all works well.

Push the button, flick the switch.
Make my teeming turbines twitch.
Perfect products on the shelf.
But I can't do this by myself.

Just take your time
I think there's something stuck inside me
please reach inside
and let me feel your skin beside me

Bloody sinews scream in anguish!
Clenching jaws break brittle bone
Don't you see, with you inside me
I could do the work alone.

Like a knot, we won't be parted.
Man and metal, minds twofold.
Though your soul may have departed,
The unity we forged will hold.

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: blah

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Monday, May 22nd, 2006
9:44 pm - Horror Poerty, volume 6
Heh, I'm on a roll today! I *LOVE* this poem. I hope you guys do, too.

The Obsession

I've loved you more than life itself
and now, the life I had is lost.
The body you knew is no more,
rotting away beneath the frost.

I missed you terribly, and thus
My spirit never left this place
At moonlit nights I watch you sleep
Beneath your sheets with satin lace.

With all the memories we shared
I cannot bring myself to part.
As long as you breathe, I remain
If out of sight - means out of heart.

And my heart broke the day I saw
You and that other one, that crone.
I somehow assumed you would grieve
your days away, and die alone.

I can no longer stand to watch
Her run those fingers through your hairs
She won't be smiling so cute when
I'll make that whore fall down the stairs.

And do not think I didn't cause
The shivers of unease at night
As my cold breath blows on your skin
And sets your neckhairs all upright.

My very purpose has become
To cause you pain and misery!
And those loud knocking sounds you hear
When clocks strike twelve? That's also me.

And then one morning, you'll wake up
and find that you can take no more
Of nightly noises, rattling chains
Of silent whispers, slamming doors.

If I can't have you for myself
I'd rather not have you at all.
If only I could LEAVE this place -
I would attend your funeral.

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: creative

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8:25 pm - More dark poetry!
The Monster

I have become quite popular
With all the visits to my lake
In an attempt to capture me
Or seeking proof that I am fake.

I am alone in all the world.
There's only one of me on Earth.
And thus greatly desirable.
Please tell me what my life is worth

The tourist agencies do thrive
So please, let's keep my myth alive.

The sceptics have the loudest voice.
An argument 'tween me and them -
Where I just want my solitude,
They'll settle for my postmortem.

Forgive me if I don't indulge
and keep my visage to myself.
It's better off beneath the waves
Than in a jar, upon a shelf.

I'll vanish now, into the mist.
Haven't you heard? I don't exist.

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: artistic

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Friday, April 28th, 2006
11:01 am - Queensday!!!
Aah, Queensday. To my opinion there is no such thing as Queensday anywhere in the world, and I've gathered that a lot of my foreign buddies have NO idea what it actually is or means. So here, for your reading pleasure, is my List Of Things The Dutch Do On Queensday.

- Queensday is a national holiday. Everyone's off.
- We celebrate the Queen's Birthday.
- Though not actually THIS Queen's birthday. The birthday of her mum.
- We celebrate Queensday on April 30th.
- Unless April 30th is a Sunday. It can never be a Sunday.
- Therefore this year, we celebrate it on April 29th.
- The royal family is protestant. So y'know, no party on a Sunday.
- In the morning all grammar/elementary schools (even on a saturday) Get their pupils to sing songs to the Queen.
- This is done in every town, city and capital city.
- In front of City Hall.
- Even though the Queen isn't there.
- Everywhere churchbells chime and people proudly display the Dutch national flag.
- Everyone dresses in Orange.
- Luckily this is not compulsory.
- Orange is the national colour. House of Orange, get it?
- Aside from numerous games and activities organised, the entire country becomes one big flea market.
- That's right, in honor of the Queen the Dutch are allowed to pawn off anything and everything. Like a huge garage sale.
- Every musician is allowed to busk.
- Public drinking is allowed.
- All bars and cafes are open on Queensday.
- The whole population gets pissed because of this.
- All the bars and cafes charge more for their beer on Queensday.
- Because of this, many younger drinkers get their own stash.
- Because of this, many supermarkets choose to be open on Queensday.
- Also, people are allowed to have barbeques in public and sell their charred food.
- Because of this, the National Health service has to check thoroughly if the quality of the meat's up to specs.
- Usually a couple arrests and impounds are made for breaking the Health Code.
- At night the party continues nationwide and more and more people get drunk.
- The bigger cities become an absolute mess in terms of litter.
- Special teams stand by to clean the cities after two am.
- In the bigger cities the whole thing actually starts on the night before.
- This night is appropriately named Queensnight.
- Queensnight starts at six in the evening. The night before Queensday.
- So the entirety of Queensday lasts from six in the evening to two am of the next night.
- This is all just to honor our Royal Family.
- In reality, it's a wonderful day to get totally pissed.

And I'm so going!
Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: excited

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Tuesday, April 11th, 2006
9:08 pm - I wouldn't call this one "Horror Poetry"...
.....but I'd call it poetry, nonetheless. Enjoy!


If I had it my way
Pigs - would surely fly.
If I had it my way, then
We all could touch the sky.

The night would hold such beauty
The day would be for sleep
And if I cut my wrist tonight,
No blood from it would seep.

All lightbulbs would be candles,
Nobody would feel need.
And instead of a car, I'd have
A Wyvern be my steed.

Toadstools would not be poisonous,
All pistols would be knives.
And those who loved and lost - Rejoice,
Their loves would be alive.

Copyright, Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: good

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Monday, March 6th, 2006
4:18 pm - Let's see if this works.....
Heh, I never usually do tests like this but this one was fun.

My life has been rated:
Click to find out your rating!
See what your rating is!
Created by bart666

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Wednesday, March 1st, 2006
12:36 am - Shelley-inspired horror ficlet
I wrote this little horror story some years back. A somewhat modern swing to the classic Mary Shelley tale.

"The Post-Modern Prometheus"

Mary-Jane Walton walked down the cold corridor. She had just vomited in the women´s bathroom. The sterile white and chrome colours of the hospital-like corridor only added to the nausiating sensation in her stomach. Even though her miscarriage had happened a while ago, her body was still dazed and confused. She felt that it was ironic that a scientist who was trying to recreate life could not even give birth to a child.
Mary-Jane herself was the daughter of two working class parents. She had grown up in Liverpool and her parents had enough money to send her to University. Mary-Jane followed her dream and studied physics and chemistry. Headhunters for the American government had spotted her and asked her to join the ´Sixth Day Project´ in Washington, D.C. Ambtious as she was, she gladly accepted.
It was that very ambition that silenty coerced her to set her moral objections aside. The same ambition that had her working on the controversial project for hours on end, until the light of the inevitable dawn peered through the small office windows once more. That is, if she were in her office. In the final stages of the project´s completion, she hardly ever was.
Now, the result of ´Project Sixth Day´ was waiting for the governement officials in the containment chamber. Yes, the project had been a succes. Mary-Jane suspected to feel joy, pride perhaps, that the project had been in fact more succesful than anyone could have ever hoped. Her name was to be on the lips of everyone in the science business. Her name would be on the cover of every prestigious science magazine. But Mary-Jane felt nothing. Nothing but nausea.
Mary-Jane ignored her turning stomach and proceeded down the cold metal stairway to once again confront herself with the horror she had ´created´. For Project Sixth Day´s goal was not a project that eventually would make the world a better place - far from it, in fact. The defence budget over the last few decades had been cut dramatically and the Military was undermanned. New recruits were scarcer than ever. The U.S government was slowly losing its status as military superpower and her enemies knew this. A drastic and controversial suggestion was made, approved under heavy protest by some, but nevertheless realised. Under the direction of her husband David, Mary-Jane had begun her work and it was because of her innovating line of thinking that the project had any chance of succeeding.
Because of her, that thing was waiting in the containment chamber.
David had been so proud of her. That was typical of him, she thought. Always trying to look out for her, trying to protect her. He loved her, yes, as she did him, but he never could see her as an adult. He always had to have the final say. Just like with this project, she thought. Perhaps, if HE had not been director of the project she would have...
Would have, could have, should have. Those things were in the past now.
She neared the containment chamber, with that...thing...inside it. The military had come up with a way overcome the shortage of defence budget and manpower by turning science ficton into science fact: To create an army of Supersoldiers. Electronically enhanced cyborgs. Human bodies with cybernetic inplants to increase efficiency, stamina, and sheer power in battle. The source of these Supersoldiers would be abundant, and perpetual. For as David had put it so eloquently: Tanks and jets cost money. The Dead cost nothing.
She had revitalised a dead human body with the use of modern electronics. The result should have been a fully programmable human body that would take orders and execute them without questioning or complaning. Without care for his personal life, for he had none. There was to be no personality present within the creature´s mind, just as there is no sentient being present in a personal computer.
It was that notion that prooved faulty.
For the creation in the contaiment chamber was truly alive. It spoke. It howled. It screamed. It moved without ever receiving orders. In fact, most of the software it was to receive wasn´t even written yet. And yet somehow, the creature had a concienceness. The only wise thing to do, she had thought, was to terminate it.
She had told David so before she had to leave for the bathroom to vomit. The thought alone made her sick.
Suddenly - there was gunfire. Screaming. More gunfire. Mary-Jane hesitated, frozen by sudden fear. Then, she started running.
She headed around the corner to find the door to the containment chamber hanging loosely on it hinges. The two guardsmen slain - their broken bodies lay in a bloody pile in the containment chamber. Other than that, the chamber was empty. The modern day Monster of Frankenstein had escaped.
Thoughts shot through her mind. She had to get to David. Where did she leave her gun? This entire facility had to be quarantained! If this thing ever got out..the public would -
More screams. From upstairs now.
Mary-Jane ran upstairs, past David´s empty office. Down the hall to her own office. She would get her gun out of her drawer, then she would use her phone to call David´s mobile and tell him to get the hell out of here.
She approached the door to her office and threw it open, her heart racing in her heaving chest. When she saw the inside of her office, her heart stopped.
She saw her creation - a bulging, sewn-together monstrocity seated in her chair. Blackened blood pouring out of several bullet wounds and around the edges of newly-implanted cybernetics. An unnatural look of intelligence in its watery eyes. In its trembling right hand, it held the severed head of David, red blood gushing everywhere. Slowly, the miscreant's crumpled lips opened and heaved the word that would echo in her ears for the rest of her life:


Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: nostalgic

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Monday, February 27th, 2006
11:22 pm
So. I just watched the first part of 'Tipping the Velvet', a BBC/HBO productions about girls who like girls.

Hmm. Well, it wasn't bad. I honestly like same sex couplings as I'm bisexual myself, but I have to be honest and say - since one girl worked as an oystergirl - if I see one more sexually implicit scene with oysters I'm gonna throw up. The title was implicit enough. Or am I just the only one who 'got'the metaphor the first time and after another five gratuitous scenes involving licking, sucking and caressing oysters thought "ENOUGH! or too much."

Hey, I'm all for cunnilingus. And I must say, it's refreshing to see an honest love story about girls liking girls on telly and not some fake Jenna Jameson-ish charade of flirtatious plastic-fantastic all American smutfest. You know, Lavey wrote that men who are fetishistically turned on by lesbians are actually closeted homosexuals, because the idea of a same sex coupling turns them on so much, they see in two women what they can't have. And seeing how especially the American adult industry is literally bursting at the seems with scenes imported directly from Lesbania itself, I'm beginning to agree with him there. The fact that he wrote this halfway through the 80's goes to show. Gratuitous lesbian behavior nowadays is something of a household brand. "Buy this pack of laundry detergent and get a free lesbian."


I'm probably just jealous I don't get a free gay boy with MY detergent.

current mood: thoughtful

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Thursday, February 16th, 2006
8:23 pm - Twenty Reasons why Valentine's sucks.
1. Cards and flowers are less expensive on ANY other day.

2. Murphy's Law. Something WILL go wrong despite all your planning.

3. Your partner might get used to being spoiled. Don't give him ideas.

4. Sex is still just sex, with or without rose petals, dude.

5.Boxers with hearts on them don't do wonders for your masculinity.

6. What if it rains? Kiss your rented tux goodbye.

7. 20 million other couples got married on Valentine's. Be original!

8. Classy french restaurants still can't beat beer and pizza.

9. Which costs decicively less, I might add.

10. *Renting* that limo won't impress anybody. You still drive a crappy car every other day.

11. Forget hotels. The beds are always horrible.

12. What's that smell? Froofy soap and perfume? What are you, female?

13. Romantic comedies? Suck.

14. TRY getting a seat at the movies on Februry 14th. I dare ya.

15 Same for theaters. Although theaters do not suck, you could always go on February 16th.

16. By putting out on ONE day of the year you'll make it seem like an obligation to your partner.

17. Going against Captalism is totally hip, man!

18. Pink is the colour of Evil. It will clash with everything.

19. Sex and food do not mix. If you're of a different opinion, you can clean my bedsheets when I'm done.

20. Poetry? I've yet to see one Valentine's poem that wasn't tripe.Yes, love rhymes with dove. Wahey. It also rhymes with shove.

Copyright, Frank Aiden Ryan

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Wednesday, February 1st, 2006
5:33 pm - Horror Poetry, Volume 5
Aah, but the other poems were tame compared to this one. Took me two and a half hours to write this in one single session, and weak-stomached readers be warned, it gets bloody. That, and it's only poetry. Meant to scare. Ooh yeah.

"The Scream"

What thing runs screeching through the night?
What causes me this chilling fright?
What terror hath my slumber woken?
A small child, with its fingers broken.

What lust hath kindled the desire
What twisted whim hath dared inspire
And what fell deed did follow suit
That mutilated unripe fruit?

When other men would mercy feel
My own perverted mind did reel
To join the culprit in the fray
And cut, maim, hurt, inflict, and slay.

With glee, I did let out a sigh,
As the screams did intensify
Which meant the little brat was caught,
And all its screams would be for naught.

The faint moonlight outside did show
Small drops of blood, red in the snow
With ease, I followed this clear trail
As the child began to wail.

I followed the blood to a field,
which did, upon inspection, yield
more gruesome findings hid therein:
A lock of hair, attached to skin.

A moment later I had found
An object, lying on the ground
A finger, pointing towards a farm
Lay there beside a severed arm.

The screams still echoed through the dark
When in the distance I saw a spark
Which kindled, clearly, a fell light
Illuminating the thick night.

More clearly now I saw the way
In which the fiend had dragged its prey.
For scattered there, upon the frost
Were eyes and teeth the child had lost.

When I approached the wooden door
Abruptly, the child screamed no more.
As if all life from it was wrung
And Death did silence the child's tongue.

I opened up the door, and gazed
A silhouette, its arms were raised
And with an axe, forcefully hew'd
The lifeless body into two.

Then silently, without a sound
The killer slowly turned around
And something dreadful I did see:
The man who slew the child was me!

I looked upon my own face, and
The bloodied axe was in my hand
"We are the same.", my own mouth spoke
And at that instant, I awoke.

I knew at once what I would do.
The visage in my dream spoke true.
No longer be a peaceful man,
I shall hear children scream again!!

Copyright and such, Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: indescribable

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Monday, December 12th, 2005
9:40 pm - Christmas sucks.
Meh!! What IS it with Christmas, anyway.

Half the people who celebrate Christmas don't even know what the hell we're celebrating.

"Uhm... the birth of Jezus?"

"Bzzzzzt! Wrong! You go to Hell."

Nope, Around this time of your we celebrate the mid-winter solstice. This happens around the 21rst-25th of December. I've heard it tends to vary. So basically, we celebrate the Return of the Light and that's where the big ol'tree with all the *lights* (get it? Lights) comes from. The tree doth not have anything to do with Jezus being born anywhere. Just like a Christian can't tell you what Jezus has to do with bunnies, or why Easter needs one. Or why, do tell, the resurrection of Jezus is dependent on the moon cycle. And what was up with that so called Christmas star, anyway? Since when do stars move, and hover over stables?

Fact is, nobody has Jezus' birthdate on file. His followers kinda forgot when he was born. Isn't that a silly thing...So now, I'm sure, we have to put up all of these LIGHTS everywhere, on every rooftop, chimney, tree, garden gnome, gate, shop display, town square, everywhere, just so that God himself can see from Heaven that, oh, look son, they haven't forgotten your birthday, after all. Everyone's lighting a candle for you.

Hmm, no. Here's what I think. Christmas is the day we celebrate the death of the true spirit of christmas and the rise of Kapitalism, who greedily butchered the Christmas spirit and then sold his body in small pieces as relics. Or as Christmas Cracker filling, take your pick.

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: bitchy

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Sunday, December 11th, 2005
10:20 pm - Horror Poetry, Volume 4

Not exactly mine, but I cleaned it up so much it might as well be mine.

"The Flame"

Mommy and Dad went out one day,
And left Pauline alone to play;
Around the room she gayly sprung,
Clapp'd in her hands, and danced, and sung.

Now, on the table close at hand,
A box of matches chanced to stand,
And kind Mommy and Dad had told her,
That if she touched them they would scold her.

But Pauline said, "Oh, what a pity!
For, when they burn, it looks so pretty;
They crackle so, and spit, and flame;
And Mommy often does the same -
I'll only light a match or two
As I have seen my mother do."

When her pet pussy-cats heard this
They raised their paws and gave a hiss -
"Meow!!" they said, "Me-ow, me-oh!
You'll burn yourself, if you do so,
It is forbidden, don't you know."

But Pauline would not take advice,
She lit a match, it was so nice!
It crackled so, it burned so clear,-
And felt good when she held it near.
She jumped for joy and ran about,
And was too pleased to put it out.

And when the little cats saw this,
They said, "Oh, naughty, naughty Miss!"
"Meow!!" they said, "Me-ow, me-oh!
You will be burnt if you do so,
It is forbidden, don't you know. "

Now see! Oh! What a dreadful thing
The fire caught her apron-string;
Her apron burns, her arms, her hair;
She burns all over, everywhere.

Then how the pussy-cats did mew!
What else, poor pussies, could they do?
They screamed for help, 'twas all in vain,
So then, they said, "We'll scream again.
Make haste, make haste! Me-ow! Me-oh!
She'll burn to death,- we told her so."

So she was burnt with all her clothes,
And arms and hands, and eyes and nose;
Till she had nothing more to lose
Except her little scarlet shoes...

And nothing else but these were found
Among her ashes on the ground.

Edited by Frank Aiden Ryan
Taken from the translation by Robert Godwin-Jones of  "Die gar traurige Geschichte mit dem Feurzug".

current mood: Queer

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Saturday, December 3rd, 2005
5:33 pm
Bleh, sometimes your whole weekend is just one big long lineup of alcohol followed by hangover followed by alcohol etcetera, somtimes litterally ad nauseum. Today, I'm afraid is no different. At least the gods of bounce gave us Energy drink which, now that the patent's off, can be copied and sold for 25 cents a can.

Yesterday was awesome. I went to a party which was sort of a battle of the bands kind of thing, with real small time bands from the region. When I say region, I mean this huge triangle of meadow right in between all the major cities our charming little country has, and right in the very heart of the so called Green Heart...in my town.

The by far best band of the evening was a coverband that played, joy, Nirvana and yay, Green Day and did very well. I congratulated the (cute) singer afterwards on a well played gig and of course they won, so I could congratulate him again. Didn't even flirt with him. Much.

So then you go to sleep at half past three, the sun rises, decides "fuck it" and sets almost instantly so by the time you claw your way out of bed you've already missed breakfast and lunch and the world looks like it never woke up and neither did you.

Watched a rerun of Doctor Who, ate fries, watched Jonathan Rhys-Meyers kiss Ewan Mcgregor (again) and zapped past Cillian Murphy in drag. *squee*

My only hope now is a large dose of Energy Drink. Intravenous, please.

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: sore

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Thursday, December 1st, 2005
5:40 pm - So how was my day?
Aah, but my life is grand.

I woke up at 10.22 in the morning to the sound of my Neighbor's brat bellowing out. Now this baby doesn't cry like normal babies cry. This one does it like those pre-recorded real life baby dolls cry. The same sound - over, and over, and over, and over. Mweh. Mweh. Mweh. Mweh. It's like an alarm clock, only you can't turn it off.

Breakfast. Hot chocolate milk. Not pre packaged. I need fresh milk and fresh instant cocao. For real. That sort of stuck ever since I was four. Cause my parents never really got into the whole early morning munching stuff so I didn't either. Being the caffeine slaves they are, they just had coffee and lots of it. Since you can't give a 4 year old coffee, I got hot chocolate. And I'm still addicted.

Waking up, checking and answering mail, call from the boyfriend telling me he misses me. I miss him too.

Time for some metal so first I butchered my neighbors with Theatres Des Vampires, then hit them over the head with the new Rammstein album. Wicked!! Aah, revenge is mine. Yes, I'm from Hell. Can't you tell?

Then, I groom myself and work up enough courage to go out for some groceries. Since I was playing Goth anyway, I put on the most feminine eye make up ever. Now before everyone screams that boys should not wear makeup, I can explain =)

See, I'm defintely Goth inclined, but the whole makeup never worked for me. But, there's this genetic thing about me I blame my parents for. Since my father has black hair and really dark eyes, and my mother really blonde hair and blue eyes, I'm sort of a mix-n-match between the two. So I get this really blonde hair when I'm born, and truly dark eyes. No problem there, except my mom's hair turned darker when she aged. So did mine. And my moms eyebrows? Stayed Blonde. AND SO DID MINE. So now I'm a goth guy with really dark long hair, dark upon dark eyes, and eyebrows that look too blonde. Meh.

Hence, the make up.

So, did my shopping, (cheap pizza, chocolate milk, energy drink, german sausage, christmassy chocolate thingies) and watched Kevin Smith's Clerks. Brilliant. Then I prepared and ate the pizza. Cheap pizza isn't that bad as long as the bottom's good - whatever topping you want, just toss on there extra and your pizza will be just fine. The trick to a good pizza is you can never have enough Oregano and cheese.

Then I watched MTV's..err...Come on in? It's a show where two guys go on a date and get coached by Los- err, studs, and have to get invited in to make money. I like tha fact that MTV has had the balls to go with gay couples too, only sadly the STUDS there are the biggest Raving Hooomooos the world has ever seen. And if it weren't for these people *I* would not get weird looks. But I digress.
Neither boy got invited in. The girls? Were awful. Just because you have shiny hair doesn't give you the right to act like Her Royal Highness, Miss Melodramatic. *ick*

So, bored with the show, I made this post, enhanced my caffeine levels with some coke and wait for my boyfriend to call again to say he misses me. *grinz*

Soooh. Try topping that for a rainy Thursday!!

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: geeky

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Sunday, November 27th, 2005
11:07 pm - Horror poetry, Volume 3
Here's another one of my poems. I like this one a lot. *grinz* I guess that's just because I'm partial to rats. I used to have two when I was a kid. I also like the whole idea behind rats evolving intelligence, hence this poem, I guess.

The Invasion

Humans fear me, and so they should.
For ghastly is our kin to see.
And members of all classes would
pay well just to be rid of me.

We hide beneath your very homes
We gnaw upon your precious sheets.
Both sacks of corn and ancient tomes
are targets for our sharpened teeth.

Skulking and digging, scratching slow
If you see one, we are with ten.
Our beedy eyes in darkness glow,
Instill fear in the bravest men.

Our breath putrid, our bite is fell.
Our urine causes steel to rust.
We are too legion to repell,
Our presence fills you with disgust.

A force impossible to ban
Evolving is a useful trick
And with experience, we can
Become immune to arsenic.

So soon we shall outnumber you.
A scary thought, I can't deny
More terrifying, consider too
The speed with which we multiply.

And we are spreading, everywhere.
Trav'ling in ships across the seas.
The lethal weaponry we bear :
A host of plague-infected fleas.

Soon every rat across the land
Will answer to our deafening call.
Eradicate the humans, and
Once they are gone, we'll have it all!!

Copyright, Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: artistic

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Friday, November 18th, 2005
11:33 pm - Horror Poetry, Volume 2
I just wrote this poem. I think I'll name it "The Desire."

Mom insisted we go, but I had just had to stop.
My attention hijacked by a huge candy shop.
With its vast windowsills full of pink, reddish treats.
I beheld a sheer fortune of desirable sweets.
I dreamt there of sweetness, popsicles and tarts,
And of Strawberry-Cream, with a bubblegum heart.
And the shop was all empty, nobody in view.
Surely nobody’d miss just a candy or two.
Mom already forgotten, I then snuck inside it
Found the candy desired, and managed to hide it.
Mother surely would scold me, it was after three;
I should not spoil my appetite just before tea.
Hidden under my tongue, mother would never know.
But of course, then the lollipop’s stick had to go.
Thus removed, I had put the pink orb in my mouth
And was startled – my mother had given a shout
When she noticed me gone, and called out my name
So I rushed out towards her, but oh, what a shame.
I clumsily tripped and landed with a smack,
And propelled the candy in my mouth further back.
I tried to call out, but no noise came at all.
For my lungs could not fill up with air for the call.
My breath was stifled, my life had been wasted.
And Strawberry-Cream was the last thing I tasted.

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: artistic

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Thursday, November 3rd, 2005
10:54 pm - Green Day won Best Rock!!!
I just saw Green Day perform Live. Awesome, Holiday, of of my favorite tracks.

Then I saw something.

Billie Joe, the band's (bisexual, I hear) singer. He was wearing a hanky code. (this weird system that you wear a hanky of a certain color in the back of your jeans to indicate what you're cruising for. No, really. Didn't make it up.)

And Billy Joe was wearing one. There was no way he could not have known.

No bloody way!

So I Googled it up. Light blue. White dots. Right side.

"Likes oral sex with white guys. Active."

On stage. That took balls.

*Bows down with respect to Billie Joe* I positively love you.

Frank Aiden Ryan

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9:40 pm - Green Day won Best Album!!!!!!

That's all I have to say about it, really.

I'm a Green Day fan. My favorite songs are Basket Case, Hitchin'a Ride and Holiday....

*resumes watching EMA*

current mood: bouncy

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Wednesday, November 2nd, 2005
9:30 pm - Horror poetry, volume 1.
As I said, I'm in the process of writing poetry. Since I'm already well trained in the writing of boy/boy fluff, I decided to test another genre altogether with poetry. Since I'm somewhat of the Goth persuasion myself, I feel right at home writing poems that give people the creeps. *evil grin*

The Rape

I remain in my hiding place
Till you walk through the door.
And wait until the lights go out;
In darkness, I see more.

I wait untill you are undressed
To do my filthy deed.
I'm drawn to you, I can't resist
My lust needs to be freed.

I won't wait till you've closed your eyes;
I have to touch your skin.
I want to caress your sweet flesh,
And stick my organ in.

I move in close to your soft neck
And make a tiny slit.
I know that if you notice me
My life may be forfeit.

And once I'm spotted, I will be
A bloodstain on the wall.
A testiment of my cruel deed;
It's your blood, after all.

In vain you'll grab a newspaper
And paint its pages red.
The pestilence you carry now
Will linger, once I'm dead.

For I gave you a filthy germ
With my dying breath.
So I will see you soon, my love.
United - after death.

Copyright, Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: artistic

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2:27 pm - I am the God of Munch.
You've already had lunch at home. You have to go shopping. The pastries section at the supermarket has croissants filled with ham and molten cheese. They're freshly baked. They're still hot. You can smell them from where you stand and that's absolutely not a bad thing.

You can guess where this is leading. It leads to the purchase of two freshly baked deliciously aromatised croissants filled with ham and molten cheese.

Of course, this story does not end well for said croissants, because as soon as their new God (me) brought his recently purchased deciples to his kitchen, they were viciously devoured.

They've been eaten. Every one.

*a satisfied grin adores mine guiltridden visage*

Frank Aiden Ryan

current mood: mellow

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