mtskheti

This is probably a violation of rule 3 but...

Hi! The meat of my question is should I continue my undergraduate degree in advanced humanities (I'm on scholarship) or should I jump to a dual science/arts degree or even a straight biomedical science degree? I have a decent GPA (6.75) but I'm seriously worried about knowledge gaps when it'll come to sitting the GAMSAT; alongside this, it's going to be almost impossible to fulfil the subject prerequisites I need (for context I'm hoping to get into UQ's MD program). I did very well in high school biology however I did not do physics or chemistry and did pretty shit at math — these factors are scaring me off transferring degrees. My interest in

Within this worldbuilding project I'm working on, the central planet possesses 4 moons (a red, white, green and blue one respectively). Each moon influences the power of a specific strain of magic associated with it; the waxing and waning of each satellite determines the strength of their mages. It should be noted that mages are born and that magic-wielding ability is genetically random.

The various forms of magic are:

1. White Magic — telepathy, illusions, mind-manipulation in various forms
2. Green Magic — healing, but potentially also chlorokinesis?
3. Red Magic — manipulation of the "five primordial elements" (air, fire, water, earth, metal)
4. Blue Magic — shapeshifting, including bot

even here, this landlocked vantage, i can see the rock

hemmed by waves. the flashing navy glass

pacific salinity, and dredged

sand spread across shoulders, and hands

cut by ragged brown algae. my mother

standing with her pelican neck bleeding and breasts

oozing pus from

catheter, blowhole. o mother

​

​

i left you there, on God’s abandonment, the oceanic

pin-drop, depthless basement, your feet split by abalone

and blistering volcano basalt, you my mother

head below water

that gangrel and garrotte, the red hair

and seaweed and dead fish and rotting

whale sperm, brained coral, and octopus kisses

spearing your womb. 50 cent pieces, nickel bruised, purple an

mountain contorted

knotted foothill, my running

outpaces my

jaw; rowboat left capsized

with those great, protruding ribs

​

i overpass by shore;

here in road-side midnight, i am antelope, doe

i am

hawk, swallow

and in blue darkness of dawn

​

poplar, linden, willow; i carve arrows,

my bow, and ursine

in strength, stretched, take shot

from highway

into sky;

​

i have beaten myself

again, this time

ouroboros cul-de-sac

pythons,

then swallowing; snake maw

​

devours shadow; newborn sun

elders

and i want to keep speed

yet are blind;

sprinting, and breathless, invincible Achilles

​

i am behind

​

*Feedbac

an old rusted shovel, a split driveway, two magnolia trees

juniper berries, asphalt-trimmed garden-beds, and mayflies

thickening the air.

i lay back my head and close my eyes and think of the endless nothing inexistence

of death.

xanthin gum pink carpet, blue drapes, and cloudcover quilted

with airplanes, city smog, and brittle button-clusters

of starless darkness.

we, machine bodies with machine hearts machine breathing till their machine lungs

stop.

hospital rooms not white, but yellow — and castle-climbing ivy, the tubules and ventilator shaft piercing narrow into chest, into depth, and out

as the catheter, the cathedral black madonna

of your blood-work. rabid as a mad fox, ch

refusing to die —

like Sisyphus

blind and drunk and motionless — propellance

the delative grey sky

and feral grasses

covering — your wasting — body

blonde to green to black

as estuary algae — or — moth-eaten

pink cotton

under — sun and moonless

avoidance of light

slow crawl — elevations of Dover — descendence

as Gloucester and Poor Tom

body — your wasting — covering

desaturated earth

farmhouse wood-shacks and wintered

fields — faceless — pilgrimage

the rye seed

crushed — under nails — as Sisyphus

my poor sister

​

framed — and i gaze — and i paint

our national sin

motionless — beyond canvas — a meek — a mere

American — painter — camera

passenger

her — char

i did not expect to meet you,

my son,

here in the dark wetness of the bathroom stall. all filiform

thinness, as i once was,

(three hundred and fifty million years past)

with your hairless, slick

six-limbed

genital crevices. you’ve got

my eight-inch ovipositor

and eyes, and hard

piercing-sucking mouthparts

you can scrub as much as you want

with soap, or insecticide,

but i am inside, parasitic,

my boy! cocooned in your own lubricant

​

​

come. crawl

with me,

our guts splayed

across the floor

under your mother’s and sister’s

doors. through the cracks

in the closet, to the insulation

material: chew through

and up walls, till your phalanxes

show

ove

i offer my green

apples, still bloodstained

legs spread fresh as colts on wet earth

and heart arrhythmic

pumping

​

the blackberries’ gaze like bishops

from ivy cathedra

effervescent fluids neon

as i bolt

me, my stallion, whose colossus i climb

​

the edges of the fantasma

which i ride, undecided

navigator

gouges Atlantic

as trident

the widening jaw

my dream raises

those terrible wings, of archangel

proportion

​

upwards

split air-currents, rich and thick

cumulonimbus drenches

my feet

port wine black, beating

clap! of stillborn hurricane, passing

ascending Mercury

as we

gain speed

​

my dream

two fists hook translucent

i said it hurt

and tried to laugh it off

for your sake

because you were smiling

and i trusted

implicitly

​

​

with the teddy bear tucked

in closet

and fresh-pressed linen

printed with

daffodils

everything warm in green and

white

​

​

and his wide, kind

shoulder blades

that stretched out as wings

when we started fucking

​

​

and maybe i wanted it

my back to be

arched like diogenes, or the dome

of the rock

to be entered

slowly

on hands and knees

​

​

but there are fine lines

written in torn veins

and my newborn acknowledgement of gravity

of the thundercloud

of his body

&amp

(poem as intended)

​

i am careful not

to disturb that

tepid water, clear as alcohol

and the bloodshot blue

of the bow

to make it dip beneath that

horizon, those two pursed lips

of my mother

as she stands on the pier

counts the fish that school

gaping eyes

and sun-burnt lips

above, by

inches, the still air

is calling

as I try to glide

effortless, across the waters

the bay is abandoned

by seabirds

and only the skulls

of seals

haunt ithaca.

my mother does not wave, at my approach

she refuses

to disturb the waters.

to scare

those slim figures

from circling the sun

is her worst fear

worse than the shells

i crush undertow. the

sex is not like in the movies

never a four-poster bed

barely a leather couch, webcam, kitchenette

instead

of a lover

there is the stranger

“step-brother”, “straight best-friend”

we do everything

but kiss

so naked we lack faces

and voice

distorted by static

i pretend

“to love him”

in infinite distance between skin

o panopticon

i lost my virginity on national tv

a million more

maybe

to pay next month’s rent

maybe

sex is not like in the movies

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Untitled / [Speak My Language](https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetr

i am sick of all these angels

with their candy-clouds and walk-ins

white-blue-jeans and tee

​

pulled tight

on midriff reveal

​

smiling, with their venereal teeth

​

because heaven

never looked this way,

baby

​

no teenage dream

locker-room

​

fantasies

​

where’s my

fists and bricks

and bleeding

​

lips, bruised?

from breathing, bullies, maybe

​

a lover, thrice my age

​

peace

is problematic theology

homework

​

and exam stress

at passing; queer proteus

​

to ignore the growing acne

​

aching.

on my skin

like those words from my moth