Can I? Written by P.L. Cobb

Can I?

Can I,
Chew my way out of this cocoon,
This thing in which I’ve been marooned,
Or can I,
Join the birds–might I fly
Into the lonely void of the sky?

Or must I remain
Trapped, to grow insane,
Or may I walk free
Beneath the churning seas?

Is it solace I seek,
Or is it vengeance to be eked
Out from this miserable soil?
My cup is so full, it overflows, and boils.

I am wild rage, encased,
The result of a fair lady disgraced.
If I must, I shall wait within this cocoon,
For it would not do to taste the sweet honey of your judgement … Too soon.

Posturing Prick, by P.L. Cobb

Posturing Prick

There are gals and guys

Who we just can’t stand–god!

They like to cock-off, that’s no lie

Pretending to be more than the truth of what they are.

That’s no surprise though, no, we know you know,

Why–it must be exquisite fun to walk around–I don’t know, maybe–sit around

All day–hissing like cats, gnashing rat-like incisors … What?

(Or this and that)

Mincing words, inelegantly, riling you and riling me,

And there’s no way out!

Stay put, hunker down, cover your ears

Unless you’d like to drown in bullshit:

The choice weapon of the hypocrite.

We’re alone, left to fend for our own

In the cold of the wilderness, against our society’s finest…

The posturing prick,

The rotten scumbag.

And perhaps the prick is just a bag of scum,

Dressed up in a tie, with two button eyes…



Lust: A Desire

Lust: a desire for success
in excess.

Early mornings
and late nights,
half-baked, strained
lizard brains.

Bright white,
flashing lights,
stale smells, bland hells,
and watered down caffeine≠

“Learn your lesson yet?”
A simple ask.

A typical response
from an egoist,
an ass.

“All right then!”
Flippant, unconcerned.
Our parliament adjourned.

Back to business:
unhindered mediocrity–
the territory of
draconian alacrity.

Failure comes along dully,
from lack of sleep and wistful dreams.

And a desire for success,
in excess,

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The Old Year is Dead, But . . .

It all started last year, when they shot a mighty beast,

The overlords of the media had a hearty feast,

And that was all the West seemed to care about, while children were slaughtered

But news like that doesn’t bring you a profit,

Now does it?

So their truth was watered-down, forgotten . . .

Then there’s the matter of the US election.

Our smug liberal faces received a mighty thwack.

When the unthinkable happened, and now there’s no turning back . . .

The moral of that story: some things are better left to natural selection . . .

The old year is dead, but it left much to be desired.

It’s 2017, and we’re so damn tired.

We want change, but are too apathetic to achieve it.

I want 2016 back, but I’m too lazy to retrieve it.


Sorry About Your Dad, written by P.L Cobb with art by Jake Zaccaria

Self Reflection #1

Please answer each question to the best of your ability. Honesty is optional.

Honesty is sometimes a curse. Survival is your prerogative.

1: Who were you the day before?

2: Is this statement true or false: At the beginning of each day you are a different person.
Explain why this statement may be true or false in essay form.

Bonus Question: What type of person do you think I am? I mean, who in their right mind would think to ask these kinds of questions.

The Enigmatic Monster Project: horror of all flavours.

The Adjuster

By R. J. Davies Mornix

Stepping into the room, it suddenly felt like the temperature dropped a few degrees. She scanned the room with precision, knowing exactly whatmore importantly who she was looking for. Once she saw him, she only had eyes for one person. Crossing the room purposefully … Her clicking heels came to a stop as she stood in front of him.

He looked up, smiling, with an approving gaze.

Frowning in response: “Mr. Nettle come with me.” Turning, she lead the way down a  hall and into a vacant room.

“I’m glad to see you, Clara.”

“Have we met?” she asked coldly, pausing only slightly before she came around and sat down at the table across from him.

“You don’t remember me?”

“Should I?”

“Well, I suppose not. It has been some time since high school.”

“Hmph,” she laid her briefcase on the table. She paused as she was about to open it and tilted her head to one side. “I remember you now. You were the first boy I had ever kissed,” she went about opening her briefcase. She pulled out a file with his name on it.

“You haven’t smiled once since you approached me. Should I be concerned?”

“Mr. Nettle, this is a serious matter.”

“Please, call me Eric.”

“Do you understand the money we invested in  you?”

“I do and I intend to pay you back.”

“Really? You happen to have two billion dollars in the bank right now?”

“No … But I can pay you back by making payments.”

“Mr. Nettle,” she began.

“Eric,” he insisted.

“Mr. Nettle, I highly doubt you’ll see two billion dollars in your life time. Then there is the matter of the time we invested in you. The time and resources spent to train you is very valuable.”

“I understand. But I can’t do this. When I signed up I didn’t know what you were asking of me. I didn’t  realize you had intended for the candidates to give up their rights and their lives. You never said that.”

“Mr. Nettle, when you signed up with Xplore what did you think we wanted from you?”

“I was told that I could do the training and if it was something that I didn’t feel I could handle, I could talk with an adjuster and they could process my release.”

“Is that what the nice man told you when he recruited you?”

“Yes,” his eyes narrowed a bit, a little wary of her tone.

She smiled staring at him. He began to think that he liked it better when she wasn’t smiling.

She tapped his file with her long manicured nails. “Well, Mr. Nettle … I am your Adjuster.”

“So tell me, what do I have to do to get out?”

She chuckled. “First let me explain something to you that the recruits don’t tell. When you sign up for Xplore. It’s a one way ticket. Yes, we are partners with the government; they help us with the funding. Yet at the end of the day when you signed your name on the forms: we own you.”

“I’m a human being, you can’t own me.”

She chuckled, “Mr. Nettle, we own you. It’s like you coming into my house and taking whatever you want without asking and then walking out. It’s stealing. You wanting to leave Xplore is like that: coming into my house and stealing from me. Now look at me Mr. Nettle, what have I ever done to  you? Why do you want to steal from me?”

“You don’t own me,” he spoke softly.

“Yes  Mr. Nettle, I do,” Flipping open his file she flipped through a couple of sheets and paused. “Alright,” she slammed her hand down on the table. He jumped.

“Since I like you, I’ll make a deal with you.”

He leaned forward, eager.

“Here are my demands. I want one of your kidneys, three litres of bone marrow, four litres of spermand this could start the processwe want monetary compensation as well: you will owe us until you go to your grave.”

“I’m sorry, I only have the one kidney.”

“Hmm well I guess that is a problem for you, Mr. Nettle. These are our standard demands for an individual to be released.”

“Please, there has to be something.”

“Yes, Mr. Nettle, we are not monsters. You have a choice. If you agree to our release conditions then sign here,” she passed him a form to sign.

“Are you kidding me?”

“Mr. Nettle, there are a couple things that you should know about me. One, I never joke …  And two,  I believe everyone has a right to choose.”

“If I sign this I’m dead. If I don’t, I die in space. How is that a choice?”


“I’m sorry, what?”

“We all die Mr. Nettle. But like I said: we own you. And here I am giving you the choice of where you want to live out your final days.”

He shoved the papers back at her, got up, and headed for the door.

“It’s a brave choice, Mr. Nettle.”

“I can see how you got this job … You’re a heartless bitch.”

“I just happen to be very good at what I do.”

The Enigmatic Monster Project

Furious Grey

Written by P. L. Cobb

Life is a furious sea

The colour of dust, ash . . . Grey

There’s no clear split down the middle




It scares you

But it’s commonplace for me

Time to snap back to reality

There’s no simple yes or no

There’s no one to tell you where to go

Whether to go up high, or to go down below

What do I know?

I couldn’t even show you where to start

Which begs the question: what part

Do I have in all of this?

How did I find myself at the heart

Of your turmoil?

Who made me your keeper?

Go away!

Take your own ideas with you

And drown in a sea of furious grey!