Gathunn

Brian W. Osborn

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Men of Boogie by Gathunn, literature

Literature

Men of Boogie

I wake up. 2:30 PM. Because every Tuesday my phone planner reminds me, "Do something, jack ass!" Of course… I ignore it. I turn it off and stay conscious only long enough to notice that the heap in my closet piled in such a way that resembles a ghost, vampire, and/or zombie. Pale and ragged, crouching down, waiting to attack. I ponder my closet's motives: Does this monster want to eat my brains, suck my blood, scare me to death? Is my townhouse built on top of an Indian burial ground? Then, I remember: The whole of America is built on top of an Indian burial ground. This depresses me, and I cover my head with all of my bla

In Particles In Waves by Gathunn, literature

Literature

In Particles In Waves

Will these stars remember me staring hope at them? Hundreds of thousands of years from now, will they wink back in pity? Poor thing. Oh, what will be left of me when I am gone? Bone & ash, I suppose, waning memory & another stone-guard stuck in the Earth. Will I become unexplainable light like the Christians think? Or a reincarnated hamburger like the Hindus believe? Will I be mourned in private conversations? Or grieved i n b r o a d c a s t s i g n a l s shooting wild through the magnetosphere? I would like the latter. To echo in radio waves & TV channels. That kind of energy radiates

Rehab by Gathunn, literature

Literature

Rehab

I can't stop thinking about you. Your pale & slender body, the manner of superiority in your posture & I think about coming into your room… turning the light on, sometimes. Sometimes, I think you're happy to see me, but most times your face never changes; your red hair warns of danger, but never a smile or welcome glance - it's just how you are, I know - and you never turn me away when I come. Sure, I've tried to leave so many times substituting you with other women, but those patches on the wound you've made can never make me feel as good or safe or as complete as you do. I know… I won't ever be rid of y

What Mortal Hand by Gathunn, literature

Literature

What Mortal Hand

He who made the lamb, made not me. Not anvil & hammer, not heaven or harbinger – Nor angel or shepherd... but "Tyger, Tyger," still spoke to me. With teeth born and heavy, with Great Darwin in mind, and great peace in his dealings. "Tyger, Tyger" spoke right to me – The stuff of life, real bread... real wine. Real things that we endure on our own, accidental-luck & perseverance. Real proof. He who made the "Tyger," made not me. My hand, my will, my iron & these years... made me.

Love and The Devil by Gathunn, literature

Literature

Love and The Devil

I've memorized the slow song of a heart breaking. From the first chords of contempt to the grating sound of love running out. That last look. The hum of that angry, "so long, lover," snuggled tight underneath the last cold blanket touch; fingers separate at last, unlocking for what will turn out to be all of forever. Love simply hurts & everybody has to write a song or two about it & we all know them, but good. Love evolves into either an appendage, so crucial to the body, or a tender, nearly useless stump. And love cannot exist at all without all of that anger & jealousy & please, get your god damn hands off of me

The Worst Kiss by Gathunn, literature

Literature

The Worst Kiss

Sometimes we want in so much that we bang on the door and scream for admittance. We kick, and the veins on our foreheads come up to see what the bother is about. For we are impatient things and sometimes there is just no quick way in. Some doors are multi-layered and the locks are secret and complicated. All one can do is breathe deep. Spend the effort that this passage demands, and the time it will take to be able to find what waits on the other side. We forget that a violence to a door is always a violence to its owner. Our sound waves, and the energy we expend to make them, leave a scar in the journey - An energy

Thunderhead song by Gathunn, literature

Literature

Thunderhead song

They say that we all have our own frequency. Our own electric fingerprint zapping back &forth through the synapse, making your hand jitter or the eyelid twitch now & again. Makes you suddenly happy or bored without explanation. I don't question whether or not this is the science that makes the soul, or just a biological commonality that's just because it's because – I can't say if the signal is of a person is simply a ghost growing in a body like a butterfly to a cocoon. Or if, in the end, we just become more dirt; food for the Earth. But I think you can feel it, sometimes? Maybe at times, with the right person, we run into ea

Tonight, it should rain by Gathunn, literature

Literature

Tonight, it should rain

We went out to the train trestle tonight to stand against the stone pillars; let the trains drive over our heads & shake us good. We get right with a little pint bottle of J.D., get right with the cosmos somehow. Somehow, these times are tough & all we need is to stand against these pillars, feel that shake, listen to the ghostly wail of a stranger locomotive overhead & let all that fear vibrate out of us. We make a toast to anything worth it & talk about the conditions in our tangled up worlds, maybe. Maybe, we see a fox or a coyote & we'll lie about how big he was when we get home. Six foot coyotes, ghost trains, b

birds outside the DTB by Gathunn, literature

Literature

birds outside the DTB

Braiding through grey sky, I watch two birds go. And I love the idea of a bird: flight, its advantage over every other creature. She who controls the sky, controls the war. Its warmth in the disgusting care for its young, chewing & vomiting bugs for hungry mouths in Spring. Though I do wonder how much of their singing is done in protest. And I do love the idea of a bird, but the actual product, the living, breathing bird up close that you can hold in your hand or murder with a bb-gun. The actual bird is weak-sauce. Ugly on up-close inspection, defenseless, dirty & only alive because we let it keep. Flight, I

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Rehab by Gathunn, literature

Literature

Rehab

Tonight, it should rain by Gathunn, literature

Literature

Tonight, it should rain

where the sun fails by Gathunn, literature

Literature

where the sun fails

Where the bullies go to cry, and us good boys are ashamed at the irony, under the ugly grit of the earth in the sewer pipe by the trailer park. There is still light there; if only cigarette fire and the gleam of our smiles. These smiling, laughing, hungry young vultures steaming at the future. Knowing more and more each passing day that the gods laugh back at our dreams, our hopes. Still we smile, rushing headlong to our respective ends. The terrible knowledge of certain failure and we joke at it. We smile even now. There, where the most sinister people I've ever known spit at my memory, there is light. And I love

A Hymn for the Dying by Gathunn, literature

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About Gathunn

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Artist // Hobbyist // Varied

Nov 3, 1977
United States
Deviant for 13 years
He / Him

Badges

Favourite Visual Artist

Lee Berejo, Mark Texeira

Favourite Movies

The Big Chill

Favourite Bands / Musical Artists

Mountain Goats, The Decemberists

Favourite Writers

Greg Rucka, John Cheever, David Mammet, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Brian Azzarello, Ed Brubaker

Other Interests

Art, Global Reconstruction, Wrestling

Posts

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Gathunn

Oct 6, 2010

Dragon Slayers

0 min read

I was catching dragon flies, or anoles, or baby ducks. I was always catching something back then. My brother was lifting weights, as always. Mom was fishing, drinking her PBR on dock, and this was the first time Id recognized the fifth character in our home on the lake - the glaring absence of my dad was nestled snugly in moms half empty case of beer, and in my brothers lack of self confidence that fueled all that working out, and my abandonment that longed for the kind ear of a dragon fly, the camouflaged anoles with gorging red throats and partially missing tails, or those peeping baby ducks; and I was always catching some

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Gathunn

Jun 14, 2010

Rehab (on my terrible addiction to cigarettes)

0 min read

I can't stop thinking about you. Your pale & slender body, the manner of superiority in your posture & I think about coming into your room turning the light on, sometimes. Sometimes, I think you're happy to see me, but most times your face never changes; your red hair warns of danger, but never a smile or welcome glance - it's just how you are, I know - and you never turn me away when I come. Sure, I've tried to leave so many times substituting you with other women, but those patches on the wound you've made can never make me feel as good or safe or as complete as you do. I know ...I won't ever be rid of you.