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 (114)
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Skaters in the Wind
Absurdity if you know who you’re talking to…Hails coming off the mountain peaks, bails wrapped in time-freeze wickedness, ex-patriots still a mass sliming the heaven sent as the brains swells. Fail to see the look on faces or why the importance of the alley of steel flagpoles and Great Red woods—oh, that kind of STRIKE!!!!! Every word, a lean over just another edge in the teetering, burning car. What can be said to clarify the sheer audacity of the oncoming sla—AHHHHH!!! Whelp, while the wheels are spinning, welcome to the committee. Barkers at the moon, relishers in the lunatic fit, hot heads against the road rash, Zen types of radically imbalanced. Universal shit talkers, dares you to play back the tape, puller outers of its innards, and spreaders throughout the blaze. Vanishers before the badged banishers. Commuters through The Wild Yonders of colors only expressed in the shadows. Better-luck-next-timers breaking into the private parking lots. Lesser of two evils amongst the hall of meat saints, fainters at the sentencing, leaders of the orchestral clatter somewhere out sick in the wrong cityscapes. Lovers of all, none, and ‘how the hell they do that’s?’ harbingers of hill bomb affections, Zoom!!! Lesson learners the concrete way, then rest in traffic or thinking lower than the devil’s bed. ‘Runners in a pinchers,’ punchers after the slap. Dapper of the most chaotic fields, tokken sinners in the lush decorum, gravity rule benders, ‘FUCK YOU, PUNKS’ return to senders. Redder than the blush, disgusting as perpetually expired anything skidded on the sidewalk, dire straits for kinkless rails like you’re going down on a mountain pass. Setters of the tone. Clever bosses inside the restricted zones. Violet-er sort of lusters, reading through false flags of every FUBARed gathering before street lights are nothing but shade. Faders from the commonwealth in protest of anyone’s anything. Bringers of the Death Wishers, Bakers, and Stereos to Flip pressure cracks in the side talk that gets the crowds into echoing snaps at the mosh pit. Readers in the forbidden Tibetan hills, aloud to the Yeti’s kin, goodnight, and no one needs to lose an arm. Attackers of the silence, violence witnessers from inside the cage, always by the second round of the ground and pound. Writers of the Mystical Leaks in Space-Time Fabric without the Softener. (sorry kid.) Scripters like prophecies appear on skinned knees. Kinder in the trenches, bench sitters counting seconds until the ban is up. Wrenchers for the fuck of it, completers of sections in ways that stump the Bermuda tetrahedron. Angerer of those itchy trigger fingers, danger wrapped in physics lessons, the ones with the kind of danger on our dashboards that has you counting the miles. Grippers without the tape, wolves dancing around the witch’s brew…be damn the morning plate of crepes. Wack rappers on fire on the parking level with the flailing live wires. Welcome one and all to where the Zoo meets the Streets.
By Willem Indigo5 days ago in Poets
Flooded Floorless Jungle
See previous notes for further context: Notes from L’amor Raging Rapids. Where I crashed on the far side of the shore, naked, clambering for whatever sand oozes grit through my fingers while clenching for humid air may not make sense. Your former partner, another researcher with a separate hypothesis with semi-complementary objectives, is lost on the opposite side, miles back. A wave and a salute to such a spirit who got one hell of a ride out of you before you gathered whatever supplies, whatever notes of yours, and the ones left by them, you frantically salvage before trekking into Flooded Floorless Jungle…
By Willem Indigoabout a month ago in Poets
The Beyond Coalition
Researchist of the Beyond Coalition: Where being already welcome is a personal promise and the entry form. Smell the air, something has a leak, over twin peaks, made it through, then grabbed you, and stole all the good, good vibes in your view. Indebted, profits off your back-breaking dread, till you’re dead, when you taste it, you can’t hide the sick. You’re born to lose, laws trick you to choose to over soothe. Laws lie; you watch rising prices, only consistent in the booze aisle. No hope, might as well grab the dope, just choose your van life in the Walmart lot, or fade away, always heading the fast food line.
By Willem Indigoabout a month ago in Poets
Day 7: Flood...a what? . Content Warning.
Assesment: Not being volunteer number one feels slightly desspointingly promising. When Cornman Ron asked what happened to the last ones, of course only learning that after, while I took hold of the approved recorder, he was shrugged off with a pat on his back. I folded a notebook in half to keep in my cargo pants for the experience journal Wolfman Patrick called necessary. That’s where it stayed, whether I gave a damn about what was happening here or not. I used previous recordings to get to where the last guy left off, sounding familiar as hell, to get a sense of what I was expecting. What curse would get me, what sacrifice would do me in? I don't know any more, and I used to like that.
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
Day 6: The Occurrence Eve. Content Warning.
…And Wolfman Patrick’s journal, extra scratchy bold like a kid scribbling on his desk. I think last night’s haul was a little light. Ron read my journal and was becoming sick of my apathetic fight against his journalistic integrity. No details too small, and if there’s some kind of prize money for this find, he’ll split it with me down the middle. I won’t talk—yet. It’s not the stringing him along, but in the case of an F.B.I. raid before the sacrifices start, that I may, with escape time, be a waste of a charge. Protection is cheap when everyone is desperate. Something I discovered holy while shitting off the boat's side.
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
Get you next time...
Winter, the humbler. Taunting the snowy peak on castle-storming errands, four wheels gambling from valley to top, introducing the new myth of the No Lives Snowcap. Or…mid-day walks, stalking wind’s brisk current through my neighborhood. Recluse to the garage’s freeloader for busy hands and summer dreams where the tickets to ride are always warnings at worst. That’s the shit end of a fresh dip outside the former high tide line. Near a mile above, not the time to revisit the below. The free space that was once held by loaded Irish coffees till noon to overflow the writing stream red-eyed behind the laptop screen, typing as the words blur. Never reread the orange notebook. None. Mental push-ups to get the placebo effect of the imaginative inner monologues, pressing me—US—me forward into the oblivion of daylight. “Would you like a bag?”
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Journal
Day 5: Bluemoon Lit Caper
I knew this would happen. Normally, the poison named My Inclusion takes longer to show warning signs. If I can remain on par the course through their retelling of my symptoms from a night of "sleep," the next level of obstacles won’t hit so hard so fast. The roar is brewing beneath the volcano’s lid; the medication will have faded by now, whatever has been waiting to flood my vision is on its way. Testing each other...sure, okay. Maybe I should've force-filled stolen medical records they weirdly had with a prophecy with killer stats, but as doctors suggested, pretending it’s not there is worse as a stressor than communing in the meantime. Guess there's no need to relish. Fighting to ignore childhood bias, home training might be easier with these lunatics at the helm. Don’t get me wrong. No semi-competent crew could hold down one bitchen fort like this. These aren’t dizzy dames and loose cannons playing religion. They’re tough customers. (Explanation for the period in the addition.) Yet, what they expect to happen—what Cornman Ron is spooked about seeing for whatever reason, is loony with a capital LUNE.
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
Day 4: Closed Circuit Walk-a-bout
I was awakened by Cornman Ron at roughly 06:10; a way of telling time takes too long in the afternoon, since he'd bother me if I wasn't perfectly pretending to be sleep. His spying yielded some reportable gains; one of them involved my events slated for me today. Such a breath to reach beyond my nostrils with such putrid air far eye-watering than I could take. I was on track to ignore the whole of him, but mentioning what post I’d be starting, the heads-up felt needed, even if I couldn’t deduce why in my fugue state. I wonder if he knew I couldn't move for the first six minutes he was talking. I could feel the tears; did he see anything off? Somehow, it had become my duty to report to him since the fire and the second and third hanging, something I wasn’t fully knowledgeable of before searching for my pants for your information. It didn’t take much to make the leap that that was his bias’s aim. Journals are—well, let me make clear the Journaling thing.
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
Day 3: Gossip in the Religious Routine. Content Warning.
I can only compare the 02:19 wake-up call to a boot camp built right into your childhood treehouse. Having a tank's echo was the real blistering fire finger poker to my headache. Bunked near Ron, I followed him toward the howling echo octaves bolstering of a dying bat squeal out of the bellend that rang deeper and lower the closer you were by the inch. Their solution to this explains the why on the journaling exercise, demented spirits or not, it’s smarter to have pen and paper in this damp, hovering humidity cesspit of body odors before the raid.
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
Day:2 Ded Moone Camp Facility. Content Warning.
I was told to get a feel on my own. That’s what I get for asking a question after midnight. Dark and wet, I could appreciate the existance of a trail to the rear of the island, the hike through the brush, the single slip i'd be from disappearing in the drink for a gulp. Sleeping comes whenever the hell it wants, but it eventually skews me back toward the night shift with everyone else here, so far. It’s those brief moments of sunlight in the late evening when I've caught a rare dose of nap. This night ended at the bar on the stool. I never thought it would be this comfortable all those times I was prevented from indulging in the act by the sheer ridiculousness of the look as it was the movie staple of the down trotted fuck-up. The Voice, it—I am literally dying for this shit, so excuse the fucking bias I may share as I bring this up, but to keep with my journaling immersion technique from Wolfman Patrick, i have to be cautious aboout said—context.
By Willem Indigo2 months ago in Fiction
