Willem Indigo
Bio
I spend substantial efforts diving into the unexplainable, the strange, and the bewilderingly blasphamous from a wry me, but it's a cold chaotic universe behind these eyes and at times, far beyond. I am Willem Indigo: where you wanna go?
Stories (113)
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Pass the Bottom of the Nothing
Creating a self that makes the sun sweat, line lured from the savage recesses, bet outside my cell are the putrids tapping on the surrounding glasses. Driver fast yet stacking a card castle full of aces. The chase, for the one that demands to be inked—for your tale vailed in a haunting forgotten blink. Better help from the pre-fucked pie of what the doctor recommends daily. Baby’s breath of Bailys, no tooth aches, no pretense of shattered glass in the future. Moistened out of focus…outside of review. Packs of me and your half right. I’m the Bandanaed Violet Knight--I need that on me. Read the groves of the life led by the effervescence of shock and awe, the brave, deaf to cries from the fall. Lockstep with self-built laws. Pause. Is that the silence, followed by violence—let it claw at the cleansing, kill your clandestine ache for mincing words. Let the walk avoid the herds, lending to hostile verbs. Be the consciousness that can’t tell what it is, but draws the love in with its iron fist. Claim no order can border you—YOUR absurdity. Flame against Demeter's dissenters with disregard that re-angles the purity for the lights to blind the dementor, yes, a pack of them. Yes, a hoard would peel the skin back of anything unsettled by the inside of the third eye. Don’t lie, you know you’re promising Leagues below the depths and hooked on climbing innovations. Sample from this building's Cosmic boiler to greet the surface with your rawest wiles.
By Willem Indigo8 months ago in Poets
Worn Feet
Brains ask for a moment, but is it really ever just that? Days of eerie foreshadowing in circumstances that climbs in intensity steps growing large and shrinking puny to a heavenly blunderbuss. It would be nice to prop for the ammo, but…you never know—I never knew this would happen at the end of that trip, done medically sober. A little over 2,000 miles with bad travel compadres and clear roads, and it ends peacefully in an isolated, nervous conniption. A rough arrival home until I entered my apartment and saw the return of a world; I didn’t realize I was hysterically happy to leave as soon as possible. Nothing a quiet like a smoke and some sleep, but symptoms seventeen through eighty, hyperactive pacing, amid hyperventilating, for example, in a fit of malice panic, kicking right in at eleven o’clock for a period no shorter than four hours. No run-through of life should lead to equivalent waiting for the meteor no one knows about and won’t know about until it goes cut-sies in front of the moon. Steady melancholy of an idle mind asking for a brain to use for spare parts. I’m compatible with no one alive in this state. More furthering the manic despair into a period of my feet leaving tracks in the filthy carpet to the down trotting effortlessly into 'why not' with a leap through the living room windows on the line. Talking in laps because, of course, I gotta feed the vibe; I numbered every pro and con for top floor window airlines, not a line, a lie, not reason to put on anything but cement shoes to strut down a short pier. I can’t write cause I can’t sleep because of nightmares, can’t make [Redacted] stop fucking haunting every waking moment. There’s fucking nothing—
By Willem Indigo9 months ago in Psyche
Breaks from the Note-Taking
Or maybe this. In case you missed god’s diss, there’s a Hostage Taker rocking a classic Ruger (respect) making calls from my hijacked mind liminal mansion, and since the police stopped being interested once, she defused the need for gunplay. Now it’s Sunday plus one, and her rings echo, cut the face, and summon my efficiency layered in Rum breath while sharing the redrum mysteries. Blasphemous a thing like her with such a human trade. All I asked for comes from lakes or streams, speaking untoward to a warden with a noble cause. (What?!?) Not an answer to the flaws but her multiplier is only ignorable because her existence is in QUESTION.
By Willem Indigo11 months ago in Poets
Breaks from the Note-Taking
Don’t excuse a thing; they laugh. A dirty gesture that festers…and pardon the rule breaks, the cursive demands it. Zero filter from quill to page. Never one for unique-looking words, so the Daemon powers through my Zombie form, so if they’re going to do the work……
By Willem Indigo11 months ago in Poets
The Fog
Dances in the Fog. The crude sight taker, the void maker that twinkles light into luminescent fakers. An honest perspective from mother nature and their utter indifference to our screams for order and decent control. It all exists and flourishes outside the fifty-yard view distance but if you ask a child naive enough, ‘the world is gone.’ Possibly in a panic, if it’s the silent type, there could be havoc beyond the intangible barrier. You breathe it on the way to work, not an ounce feels from the ninth set. So many mornings of blithering confusion to greet the internal mysticism that leaves the rapids baffling season to season. Could it be monsters camped within the cover for easy, intimate kills or the Earth is completely gone into the ether, and your front porch is the final corner pocket of the Milky Way? No blue in the moisture; is the sky a lie? Sparkling, spinning light in the dead air where the stars are stuck behind the ceiling. I think this is what I’m feeling.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Humans
Pineapple Upside Down Cake
No one is pretending anymore. A disgusting former noose that brought America to the brink only to fall for the sweetness in nightmares sold as a constitution revisioning. That’s how Papa Jimmy described it after I told him how my teacher presented it in her lesson. One of his mini rants during his morning routine of black lemon tea and skunk-ish smoke. He talked, whether he had an audience or not, and greeted the new audience happily without needing feedback between breaths. Dad says it’s how he used to plan routes. My mom and dad stopped volunteering to listen a long time ago. I guess war stories can only be so interesting in the revisit, although they let him stay while he was ‘stranded’ but beyond that, silence. Dad never said why. The most he would betray was the inner battle cry he’s amazing at hiding. I felt that he wasn’t the only one silently asking for quiet forgetfulness from all of us. I refuse to try to forget to look for what I don’t know. “That-a girl.” Wish other adults weren’t so secretly sad in conversations. Or a deep nostril exhale before abruptly changing the subject. Nervous laughter sounded the same as laughs at dirty jokes in kid-friendly movies. Not Papa Jimmy; he cackled even before he left two years ago with his ‘I’ll be back’ line referencing what Dad called a dumb kids movie from decades ago.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Fiction
Panic
Dear Oh, you know who you are, First and foremost, hello. How have you been? Our conversations are getting scattered in the ether of excessive work, so any medium in a storm for us lighthouse dwellers, right? Doesn't matter. You do, I mean--Bare with me. I'm on another train, and after the next flight, sending this is going to take more than the 'while' that I'm willing to deal with not saying this. I've never been the inspired type, awaiting the vibe or even looking for 'the essence,' but this turnaround with you feels different. Plights from broken brains to over-worn feet pours before it rains to chronically piss on our life progression. The ups and delusions making that crazy anime you like a slog through an ADHD nightmare I've been in and the mess, so....
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Humans
Secrets from the Under Realm. Content Warning.
Bret shot awake in a fight-or-flight grasp that gave him nothing to attack and no direction on the cliffside shelf to run. He hit his head hard on the fender on his way to the feet and let out a groan that jolted Vince, but he remained motionless. The Suburban was upside down. This forced his eyes upward to the fog. Where could the peak they come from, he thought. If he gave it a thorough guess without the tools of his reasoning skills, the drop was four--five hundred feet before the fog started, practically cloud cover without an ounce of visible sky. That’s not possible, he thought. “Cynthia!” he yelled on his way back to the surprisingly structurally sound vehicle gently placed in the rugged, loose gravel, merely shattering the windows. Helping her up, seeing her scraped but barely bruised, they were left in a state of rising anxiety over the anomaly granted to them. Vince had been thrown to the edge of the shelf, overlooking what possible cause for smoke lay at the bottom of the valley. Still buried in consistent fog with familiar-ish shingles piercing the vail and a steeple in the distance further in the opposite direction, from his defeated position, he saw the zig then zag then zig again of a path down. They varied from San Fran. to salt flats. Artie climbed off the underside of the truck, camera in hand, and pointed it everywhere, assuming he was the first to film the underworld.
By Willem Indigoabout a year ago in Fiction
