At 6/14/06 02:39 PM, Andersson wrote: Good to see you again Myst. =)
Good to see you're still kicking around!
Hm, that all sums up to the fact that you'll see more from me.
Haha... ya... that really was in depth. I agreed with most of it too.
At 6/14/06 05:36 AM, Coop83 wrote: Yeah, maybe you should consider emailing Tom or Wade. You're still buddies with them, aren't you?
Buddies? lol, I was never buddies with them. I doubt Tom would even remember me, but we did email back and forth for some time about the NG Mag... which he still hasnt found the time to work on. :P
At 6/14/06 11:41 AM, Coop83 wrote: As you're probably aware, I'm addicted to the MMORPG, World of Warcraft. I'm currently on a Roleplaying server, so I decided to come up with a little background for my character, though I'll ahve to flesh it out a little before calling it my final draft. Comments are welcome, as always.
Cool. I like the fact you gave half your wage to the church. lol. You must be Catholic. haha.
So are you any good? Is your character some crazy combatant or anything? Lvl 70? lol... im just making shit up, i know nothing about video games.
A revision of an older piece... looking for comments. I am trying to get on here as much as I can this summer... starting now. Enjoy.
And then it showers...
The stench – that cold, dry stench was all I could focus my thoughts on in that small, bright-white office. The stink lingered in my mouth like the ache of a bad cough, and it spread faster every second. My tongue, a sum of paste, begged for liquid, and with that feeling on my mind I converged with my surroundings. The buzzing in the room: moments ago, the product of numbing senses was, in fact, the man in front of me. He had begun speaking long before I began listening. He was preaching to the wrong assembly.
The sun, funnelling through the window like thin layers of ice, masking the surfaces of furniture with individual hues of intensity, grasped the few particles of dust that feathered in the air. I stared aimlessly into this common phenomenon unable to look the man directly in the eyes. He could have been Christ, or he could have been my accountant: he was void to me. He was the hollow hair of a polar bear.
The man, whose white coat was perfectly camouflaged for the room, and gave the impression of a suspended head, lifted from his seat, sounding like subway closing doors, to merely travel around his desk towards my solar plexus. A migration to comfort a loved one in foreign lands expresses a positive family support system, but a migration to comfort a perfect stranger is a lost cause. I’d rather words of false hope.
He sat on the edge of his working space, and – without words, but with emotion – told me the truth I dreadfully feared. I stared blankly, frozen by the sunder that is Zeus’ bolt. Blood pooled in my ears as he finally spoke the deafening words. There was a certain odd professionalism about his demeanour, and he gravelled the comfort of my seat more than he did cushion. O God, you seem childish in your splendour, but I still love you dearly. O God, I could use a Lay-Z-Boy. It was clockwork, routine; an awkward arrogance that looked down on my position with eerie pity. His head turned towards the ground, still suspended, but as if he had been hung in my place. A slight smile appeared across his face as humour acquired the best of my uncomfortable and uncanny placing in the room, ‘quoth the raven.’
Life can be funny - ironic. Though the irony is laced with pain and undoubtedly, whether the man’s words accurate or not, followed by the teachings of a karma invested religion – be it outright, or conformed with age. Like wine, let it age. And there lies my elegy of rain: when it drops once, it drops twice. When it rains on the night of your birth, it rains on the day of your death. And as each one of us seems to take granted not the objects or subjects of our being, but the being itself, I wonder what supremacy explores the entity we each embody. However, even when life can be as unforgiving as summer rain, with a choke it can be the opposite, and every being would rather be than not at all. That is, until such a day.
The man’s infinite gaze at the ground before him marked the moment, upon rebelling from my seat and walking towards the door. It was then I realized that a routine emotion could still be as meaningful as the first time. I nodded, my lips pressed tightly, my eyelids evaporating with my step, and he nodded back. I left that odour behind me, trailing like a benevolent wind under a summer dress, and it was nevermore.
The day, lightly covered in fingernail grout like dust falls on the living room glass table, bared an infantile resemblance to my youth schoolyard, and the wry fists of pre-teenage bullies. The streets smelt like my sweltering garage, with a tinge of antibacterial soap rising from my palms. Decomposing as time steers my fate, I watch the sidewalk crack beneath my feet.
With my cell phone in one hand, and a hundred faces before me, I simply stare. I always thought the world would seem more brilliant: colours more vivid; nature more inspiring; people all equal. I always thought I would enjoy my decomposing. I always thought I’d become more brilliant. Instead, I watch ants climb sewer drains as the concrete magnifies the sun on my right back pocket. It burns.
I have never been more fragile. I have never been freer. I have never been at the touch of eternal dusk - while it showers on my glass embrace. Here I lie unconscious - never being unafraid.
Until now.
________
and a couple poems too:
for one moment
for one moment,
your eyes were the butterflies
of Eskimos in an ankle deep playground.
for one moment,
your legs were tide-clean stones
basking in the dripping sun, craving inundation.
you were once the arid wheat field
in the care of a withered cypress tree,
(there are many eyes)
and I was the incessant vacant wind
that traveled from opulent lissom flora.
for one moment,
my chest was cardboard
compacted and never collected by the callow.
for one moment,
when goodbyes tongue,
we were each other’s top shelf closet.
( -- try to understand,
the ground never answers)
then we feign,
like infatuated children,
that we will obtain another moment
tomorrow.
...because...
life without meaning
(that is, shattered rocks
in heaps of sevens
counted by working-child hands)
does not exist
FADE DOWN!
(sinking blank face with closed eyes
whistling the panic tune
and dyeing the waters
with iris)
heads up.
(HEADS UP! but less enthused)
knowing an answer
if only one nothing:
there dumps drinking bottles filled with apocalypse
(rich, pale youth
coloured, in real culture
idolizing crooked economic canes
of jail-bird hookers)
the real lies within the meaning
(voluptuous ethnic women
rocking on the creaking porch
of sugar-cane labour,
working the-soon-sore lips:
----------------(copper death-bed iced with envelopes
filled with burial money for the expecting) ----------------
their genitalia now red, and sore)
SMACK. Smack. SMACK.
in all this,
nothing exists.
I hate how NG ruins the layout of a poem... my dA account has them the way they should be (indentation and all).
A revision of an older piece... looking for comments. I am trying to get on here as much as I can this summer... starting now. Enjoy.
And then it showers...
The stench – that cold, dry stench was all I could focus my thoughts on in that small, bright-white office. The stink lingered in my mouth like the ache of a bad cough, and it spread faster every second. My tongue, a sum of paste, begged for liquid, and with that feeling on my mind I converged with my surroundings. The buzzing in the room: moments ago, the product of numbing senses was, in fact, the man in front of me. He had begun speaking long before I began listening. He was preaching to the wrong assembly.
The sun, funnelling through the window like thin layers of ice, masking the surfaces of furniture with individual hues of intensity, grasped the few particles of dust that feathered in the air. I stared aimlessly into this common phenomenon unable to look the man directly in the eyes. He could have been Christ, or he could have been my accountant: he was void to me. He was the hollow hair of a polar bear.
The man, whose white coat was perfectly camouflaged for the room, and gave the impression of a suspended head, lifted from his seat, sounding like subway closing doors, to merely travel around his desk towards my solar plexus. A migration to comfort a loved one in foreign lands expresses a positive family support system, but a migration to comfort a perfect stranger is a lost cause. I’d rather words of false hope.
He sat on the edge of his working space, and – without words, but with emotion – told me the truth I dreadfully feared. I stared blankly, frozen by the sunder that is Zeus’ bolt. Blood pooled in my ears as he finally spoke the deafening words. There was a certain odd professionalism about his demeanour, and he gravelled the comfort of my seat more than he did cushion. O God, you seem childish in your splendour, but I still love you dearly. O God, I could use a Lay-Z-Boy. It was clockwork, routine; an awkward arrogance that looked down on my position with eerie pity. His head turned towards the ground, still suspended, but as if he had been hung in my place. A slight smile appeared across his face as humour acquired the best of my uncomfortable and uncanny placing in the room, ‘quoth the raven.’
Life can be funny - ironic. Though the irony is laced with pain and undoubtedly, whether the man’s words accurate or not, followed by the teachings of a karma invested religion – be it outright, or conformed with age. Like wine, let it age. And there lies my elegy of rain: when it drops once, it drops twice. When it rains on the night of your birth, it rains on the day of your death. And as each one of us seems to take granted not the objects or subjects of our being, but the being itself, I wonder what supremacy explores the entity we each embody. However, even when life can be as unforgiving as summer rain, with a choke it can be the opposite, and every being would rather be than not at all. That is, until such a day.
The man’s infinite gaze at the ground before him marked the moment, upon rebelling from my seat and walking towards the door. It was then I realized that a routine emotion could still be as meaningful as the first time. I nodded, my lips pressed tightly, my eyelids evaporating with my step, and he nodded back. I left that odour behind me, trailing like a benevolent wind under a summer dress, and it was nevermore.
The day, lightly covered in fingernail grout like dust falls on the living room glass table, bared an infantile resemblance to my youth schoolyard, and the wry fists of pre-teenage bullies. The streets smelt like my sweltering garage, with a tinge of antibacterial soap rising from my palms. Decomposing as time steers my fate, I watch the sidewalk crack beneath my feet.
With my cell phone in one hand, and a hundred faces before me, I simply stare. I always thought the world would seem more brilliant: colours more vivid; nature more inspiring; people all equal. I always thought I would enjoy my decomposing. I always thought I’d become more brilliant. Instead, I watch ants climb sewer drains as the concrete magnifies the sun on my right back pocket. It burns.
I have never been more fragile. I have never been freer. I have never been at the touch of eternal dusk - while it showers on my glass embrace. Here I lie unconscious - never being unafraid.
Until now.
________
and a couple poems too:
for one moment
for one moment,
your eyes were the butterflies
of Eskimos in an ankle deep playground.
for one moment,
your legs were tide-clean stones
basking in the dripping sun, craving inundation.
you were once the arid wheat field
in the care of a withered cypress tree,
(there are many eyes)
and I was the incessant vacant wind
that traveled from opulent lissom flora.
for one moment,
my chest was cardboard
compacted and never collected by the callow.
for one moment,
when goodbyes tongue,
we were each other’s top shelf closet.
( -- try to understand,
the ground never answers)
then we feign,
like infatuated children,
that we will obtain another moment
tomorrow.
...because...
life without meaning
(that is, shattered rocks
in heaps of sevens
counted by working-child hands)
does not exist
FADE DOWN!
(sinking blank face with closed eyes
whistling the panic tune
and dyeing the waters
with iris)
heads up.
(HEADS UP! but less enthused)
knowing an answer
if only one nothing:
there dumps drinking bottles filled with apocalypse
(rich, pale youth
coloured, in real culture
idolizing crooked economic canes
of jail-bird hookers)
the real lies within the meaning
(voluptuous ethnic women
rocking on the creaking porch
of sugar-cane labour,
working the-soon-sore lips:
----------------(copper death-bed iced with envelopes
filled with burial money for the expecting) ----------------
their genitalia now red, and sore)
SMACK. Smack. SMACK.
in all this,
nothing exists.
I hate how NG ruins the layout of a poem... my dA account has them the way they should be.
At 4/24/06 06:10 PM, Andersson wrote: Nope, actually didn't know about it, if this is the site you are talking about.
Ya, that site. It is a great place to read and post amateur writing. I just signed up and posted City Bus. Cool site, I must say. It just needs somemore traffic... so I am out giving a good word where I can.
At 4/22/06 11:01 PM, FlashSpark wrote: Yes great to see you Williams, and I can see you're signed up aat Theshadowsun.com.
I havn't posted anything new recently, I've been swamped with school. But there are things in production. I should be uploading my short story soon.
Ya, I was asked to look at the site and to consider joining, and I quite liked it. The site could use quite a bit of development, but I love the idea. It's a great site. I cant wait to read your stuff, and ya I know what you mean about school. : P
At 4/23/06 08:51 PM, deathtuna wrote: Great work Myst, as always. I hope someday to read your novel. I have ideas for a novel of my own, but I don't think I have the time nor the ability to stay interested in my own ideas ong enough to write a novel. I read that Leo Tolstoy by the end of "Anna Karenina" was sick and tired of the story and struggled through the final portions, having lost all interest or desire to finish.
It is true that writing an entire novel can be tiresome, but to lose interest only means that you have not involved yourself personally enough. You have to be passionate about the concepts, the message and the characters. I once got 80 pages into a novel then just stopped (this was last summer) realizing I wasn't involved in the piece. I still have it on my computer somwhere - maybe one day I'll stab at it again, but this new novel is quite personal on many different levels and I find myself very passionate about the piece and always eager to write. I guess, if you feel you are accomplishing something, you find yourself more apt to find excitment in your own words. So, in an odd sense, being a cocky-writer helps. haha.
I will have it published before 08... hopefully sooner, but I have given myself a large amount of editing time to perfect it, as it will be my first full novel.
At 4/24/06 04:16 PM, Andersson wrote: Ah, sucks. Don't really think you're having such a big trouble with it though. But still, good luck.
Thanks... I think. haha.
Yeah. I haven't done any particular writing though, but some shit has been written.
Well, I am sure it will come in splurges. Do you post your stuff on The Shadow Sun?
At 4/22/06 11:54 AM, Andersson wrote: Good to see you post Myst_Williams. =)
thanks man. exams are killing me. hope you are well and writing.
I know I dont post as often as I should. However, I spend all my extra time writing my novel, which kills all my NG time. This summer should free up time though.
...because...
life without meaning
(that is, shattered rocks
in heaps of sevens
counted by working-child hands)
does not exist
FADE DOWN!
(sinking blank face with closed eyes
whistling the panic tune
and dyeing the waters
with iris)
heads up.
(HEADS UP! but less enthused)
knowing an answer
if only one nothing:
there dumps drinking bottles filled with apocalypse
(rich, pale youth
coloured, in real culture
idolizing crooked economic canes
of jail-bird hookers)
the real lies within the meaning
(voluptuous ethnic women
rocking on the creaking porch
of sugar-cane labour,
working the-soon-sore lips:
----------------(copper death-bed iced with envelopes
filled with burial money for the expecting) ----------------
their genitalia now red, and sore)
SMACK. Smack. SMACK.
in all this,
nothing exists.
the way you fashion
the way you fashion that dress
has languid nut capsules redound,
like slothful lone-minds kick legs
and retreat bends down,
pending duty pull off –
hemp at liberty of restricted covenant (
that the aggregate of crux cadere
with intention that cant hap exploited
exterior the guidon et perte de statut
), the locksmith is agog along turbulence.
– on collar greens platter,
suspended dankly equator
that advocates congenial avarices
to be explored like a box-cut cadaver,
though fashion is for the time being.
There is no time to find a bed
There is no time to find a bed,
a comfortable surface to swallow
our every motion – move left,
right hand down – falling from
the trickling saliva of my tongue
that is a sword in natural light
on your medicated, convex-mirror
lower lip that sprouts like a water lily –
a pink water lily.
Your brim runs down
the rugged terrain of my neck,
and the third fold of your mouth
greases the joints of my shoulder
for maximum productivity
in the sudden comfort of the table –
in that room,
next to the people:
the people who know how to make love,
but not make love with three lips
and a water lily.
The very edge of your sexuality
turns me over like one would a steak
trying to find that extra meat,
and it streams down the steeple-chase
of my spine, while the soft fingers
of a child rush around my hips
and curl at the edge of my bone,
sliding into the thin lines
of morning exercise and deliberate
attraction
that brings me to this room:
sounds of nature in my ear;
water in my ear;
three lips in my ear;
a water lily between my teeth.
The roof of a cave is moist
with movement like fingers through my hair.
This hair, and that hair.
Move up, and move down.
Climb the swollen tip of my -----,
and speak in an exotic tongue
that only my drowning ears can hear
in the depth of this makeshift bed
that swallows my movement.
Your third lip has found agony
in every part of this glass home –
that is, ecstasy
in every part of this rippled grove.
Inner thighs are like dams for the flowing
juices of nature, the pink cunt full of stars
that will never be touched, because
it is over, and it is simple…
no sacred ground broken on this provisional divan.
It was all found, beyond your three-fold
and beyond my roof that slopes in throat:
is one and one, and only one.
It was all found before rapture had my barricade
of drywall backed with two-by-fours
reveal the lust that was laden in the love.
Childish intimacy found in a simple task of eyes:
see the ache of a lip, and see the dam leak.
At 3/6/06 05:38 PM, Quisty wrote: Awesome Myst! This is by far a great thing to read. Nice to see you around here again. You club rocks, so don't leave it ^_^
I don't plan on it. Thanks. = )
At 3/6/06 05:40 PM, Andersson wrote: Myst_Williams, not very important, but ehm, any news about the draft I gave you?
Ya, I read it a while back. If you want an honest opinion on the piece as a first draft... it needs a lot of work. A few places misuses words (or could use better word choices), while fragments also become a problem in a couple places. There are two major flaws though with the piece:
1) the rhyming. You rhyme a couple times, and it sounds cheesy... cutting the rhyme and wording those lines better would work much better.
2) the last few paragraphs, when the action starts, the piece become hard to follow. It is nearly impossible to understand it fully without reading it a few times over... this is something you don’t want. You want your prose to be so efficient and detailed that a quick skim is well enough to give an overall impression to the reader.
On the positive side of things, there are two major points:
1) the story is intriguing... I am very curious to see where this leads. Who is this guy? Why is it she failed to clean him? et cetera...
2) the actual scene is quite good... the setting, the actions and events - they are all quite good.
Thus the problem lies in not refining your writing. In not editing it enough times over, or something along those lines.
Now, I believe you wanted me to edit/re-write this... if that was the case, I am not sure I can, because our writing style is so diverse, I would end up changing most of it. Not because it isn’t good, but because I have different taste. And this piece needs to stay true to the artistry of the original writer… also, it would be hard to write a piece if I have no idea where it is going… as it is your idea.
However, if you are keen on my re-writing it, I would be glad to… I just feel it would be a difficult task, and that I wont be able to do your story justice.
I hope my thoughts helped… if you have any specific questions, I will gladly answer them all – or if you want specific references to problems in your piece, I will gladly point them out.
At 3/5/06 05:31 PM, Quisty wrote: Anyway, Myst wrote a lot of really nice and interesting stuff. He is really good at writting. He always has the most and longest well tought out work. Glad to see you have stopped by to share some with us.
Thanks for the kind words. And thank you for continuing to skim through my dA stuff whenever you find time. I like getting a comment now and again from you on that site.
At 3/6/06 05:37 AM, Coop83 wrote: Holy shit. You take a break of a few weeks and all of a sudden you resurface with something of this quality.
You really need to go on sabattical more often.
Ya, sorry to have dissappeared, but I have been working dreadfully (actually, enjoyably) on my portfolio for a Creative Writing course. That was just the first draft of City Bus... I have to edit like mad now as it is the last piece to add to my potfolio.
In related news, I am getting within weeks of submitting my latest chapter to the WG (I'm sure you anticipate this eagerly as usual)
Yes, I never thought the day would come. I havnt read some of your stuff for quite some time. I am excited to see what you have developed.
READ Rue Besserer.
The bus jerked from time to time comparable to my wrist near scissors. I stared out the window, as if I was gazing into the sun, looking for answers while risking my sight. However, generally the city bust swayed like a small boat would upon a calm sea. Except, instead of seeing beautiful, tropical fish, and the aqua-tinged green waters, I saw coal roads splattered with a synthetic colour of the sun and aged whites marked by patterns that all interconnected or led to sprouting cement walls attempting beauty with dates. All numbered and placed. All easily found by identity.
READ Daly Avenue.
Traffic came to a dime, and I nearly smacked my head against what I thought to be my safety.
A novel slid, or should I say dragged, towards my feet. It had an eerie resembling sound to nails on a chalkboard, but with a touch of sneakers dragging against the walkway not long after the snow has passed and sand and salt eroded from the ground.
RE-READ Leonard Cohen. Clever.
I picked up the book and turned around to identify the culprit: the person who would let such a beauty hit the disgusting floor of a city bus. Never have I seen such a grave sinner.
Never have I seen such a grave sinner with deep December-stone eyes, wavy blonde hair that faded into the light, freckles that pebbled across her cheeks and nose, and a smile that beyond moves a man inside.
Don’t stare.
I once thought eyes were eyes and that complimenting a woman’s eyes was the most unoriginal and insincere thing a man could do.
Your eyes make me think of a Trisha Romance painting. Maybe a child playing in the snow by a frozen bird feeder, or maybe a grandfather walking down Niagara’s main street in winter as a horse and buggy strolls by, I unexpectedly spewed.
Stupid.
Her eyes looked away, but that smile crept up on her. Her teeth, a little large in proportion to her face, only added to the innocence of her beauty. I glanced at the title and deliberately smiled too.
She grabbed her novel from my palm, “thanks.”
READ Rue Willbrod
A seat opened beside her. I sat.
You’re very wholesome looking.
Stupid.
I mean I know I am probably not your type, but maybe you would be willing to consider new things.
“Maybe.”
Maybe you’d be willing to catch a simple-minded romance on a big screen after eating at a restaurant used to impress you.
“Maybe.”
Maybe you’d like to spend time with me this Friday.
“I don’t like men.”
I stopped and thought, maybe we could arrange something, but she flinched a smile before I found the semi-humorous words.
I wonder what my face looked like when she said that.
“I’m kidding. Maybe, I’d like that.”
READ Laurier Avenue.
Her sister slowly approaches me. They have the same face, but her sister has darker hair, darker skin, and a tad more age.
“She loved you.”
Jesus wept.
Her sister held me like a mother would her young son after witnessing a horrific act. Children are so innocent, so moral. Intuitively they recognize wrong from right. I recognized wrong.
I just wish she wasn’t there, I sob in the now dampness of her shirt. I hate hearing my crying voice. I haven’t cried in years.
“She’s glad she was.”
In true pain crying can feel as good as sex – not as in ecstasy, but release. In true pain crying is deep breaths of UV tears until your lungs fill to the brim and are quickly squeezed before they flood, and the atmosphere drains your sorrow leaving salt residue and scars in the lining of your lungs.
Her father could be staring through me and not at me. He could be thinking about helping cross-sea poverty stricken children, or about giving back to the immediate community. Maybe he is thinking about sitting down and confessing his sins to me - apologizing and crying with my newfound tears. Or maybe he isn’t.
I guess I really did ruin his family.
I love her.
</end>
On one of my daily runs I found a rock that looked like something out of a Narnia book. It was much too beautiful to be among the sand. I brought it back to her. It had a black fog in its depth beneath the purest navy blue eyes could ever see. It was almost perfectly smooth the entire circumference except a small notch that added to its personality. She looked at me and said, “life,” she paused, “life is both precious and useless at the same time.” I laid down beside her without a word and we just enjoyed each other and our thoughts. I loved it when she thought to slide her fingers between my own.
Moving traffic is timely and inaccurate.
On the anniversary of her grandfather’s death I took her to a hospital. I remember how disappointed her face was when she realized we weren’t going to his grave. I could tell she was angry, but she tried her best not to let the fire get the best of her. I felt bad when tears crashed down her check in the hospital parking lot. It would be worth it, I kept telling myself.
We found our floor. She was too upset to even ask or wonder what we were doing. I am sure the depression only got worse as she saw elderly people – grandfathers and grandmothers; great-grandfather and great-grandmothers – lying lifeless in their cots and being pushed slowly around in toothpick wheelchairs. I even caught a few smiles as we strolled past.
I opened the double doors to a lounge. It all seemed more like a nursing home than a hospital. A group of nearly twenty patients sat idly in their what seemed to be uncomfortable chairs. I sat. Yes, uncomfortable like the plastic seats of elementary school. No wonder I have a bad back.
A few chivalrous types questioned the tears that fell from her face. One even handed her a tissue.
A nurse brought me my guitar.
Who likes John Lennon?
Not a single person said no. I started with Imagine.
Guns aren’t easily accessible, and much too explanatory.
At times I could barely stand her voice, both in the literal and non-literal sense. Her voice had this innate nasally sound to it that sometimes just put me off the wrong way when I was already not impressed with her, or at times just not impressed in general. She would disturb me during my time of work with pots and pans, loud movies and murmuring music. If she were upset with me, she would do it deliberately and not answer to me calls for silence. She would go into fits when she felt our relationship wasn’t going anywhere and would ruin my apartment. I would step on broken glass, find ripped shirts and be missing pages from my computer-side stack. My notebook would be frail and thin. Those were the days I hated her. If she got mad enough she would yell. If she were really mad she would curse. If she were sorry she would talk dirty.
Plastic bags could be the choice.
It would be wise to devise a foolproof way to know right off the button who would become a problem in your life, and who wouldn’t. A permanent tattoo on a persons arm for every failed relationship crossed my mind. Take it even further and don’t just weed out the failing lovers, but weed out disease. A friend once said to me, if you want to rid of aids you permanently tattoo AIDS on the forehead of all those diagnosed. Who would have sex with them then? I remember thinking it was good but not perfect. Outlaw it. Consider having sex with AIDS attempted murder. Or do them both.
Thinking about the possibility of me having sponges behind my eyes.
My parents were married for twenty-two years before they divorced: a commoner’s act. I would assume they were only together for a couple of those years. It was not until after they divorced I discovered the wall cracks in their Final Supper. I suppose I knew all long really, but I was just an impressionable kid. They could have convinced me of anything.
It’s pathetic to blame your parent’s break up on yourself.
My mother whispered subtle words of my father once. He tried to abort me. He kicked her. I hate him. He was not like that before the pregnancy, but since then, he always has been. Being blue like a shy child in a busy park, or like a child holding plums to his eyes. Being red.
It’s pathetic to blame your girlfriend’s death on yourself.
“She was happiest with you. With you she had looks I hadn’t seen since she was young.”
My eyes swell. I can’t cry.
I only wish she wasn’t there, I reply, forcing a slight smile, like one end of a canoe.
She used to walk around my apartment with only my shirt on. She was so 80s. It mind as well been our apartment; sometimes she stayed months at a time. She was so yearning. I’d wake up at lunchtime on Sundays and find her in the kitchen, mostly naked, but covered. She never swore, but one Sunday late-morning I broke her the news.
I didn’t get rejected.
With one cheek filled with macaroni, “are you fucking serious?”
It was the cutest thing. And her smile, it held more pride and more excitement than my entire being. It was then I knew she loved me. Neither of us ever said it to the other. I am uncertain if it was that we never had to, or never found ourselves equally committed. She jumped into my arms. I could feel the rubber in her cheek as she hugged me.
Thinking about every scar that slashes her for every minute that passes without rain.
READ Rideau Street.
My feet, placed a dwarf’s step wide, kept my balance. Every seat was taken, but I was the only standing, like an empty hallway for a peculiar man without company, but watched with scrutiny. I wrapped my arm around one of the poles that stemmed from a gay pride, sandpaper seat. My arm was straight, parallel with the pole, but my hand was awkwardly wrapped around. I leaned my head against my fingers. Feeling safer, I tightened my feet more comfortably. A dwarf can step.
</continued>
I bring a story... it is still the first draft though...
City Bus
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Smile, and nod. Smile, and nod.
With a dry mouth and gum between your teeth, it isn’t so much the casket to your right and the audience to your left that has your mouth unwilling to open for words, it’s the fact that words do not form without a lively tongue. My tongue died.
My back is as straight as a surfboard with its nose in the sand. I’m sinking in the sand. I am standing knee deep in flowing time and ankle deep in brown, drying clay. I am standing with my legs beneath the ground, and my head in the clouds. I am standing at my girlfriend’s funeral. And all I can conjure in my mind is the cement that seems to be filling my mouth.
I wonder if my jaw will grow heavy, like a rifle does a marksman upon his target.
Only recently did I ask her father’s permission to propose – he hesitantly gave his blessing. I had it planned for next Monday. In the darkness, with popcorn in my hand, Gummy Bears in hers, teenagers making out behind us, murmuring old folks who keep looking back at the teenagers, and a ring.
Thinking about throats tightening around sandpaper.
In the darkness, I slip the ring on her finger. She would say nothing, holding in her emotion, and knowing that I was doing it purely for her, knowing that I do not believe in the false commitment an object holds. The movie would soar. Every joke would be twice as funny; every tear, twice as sad; every twist, twice as exciting; and every smile, twice as fulfilling. And then, after enjoying the best movie of our lives – our movie – she would scream out with joy in the parking lot, and jump up under my palms. ENACT cheesy starlight kiss.
Thinking about the exotic, scratching tongues of grave markers.
He is staring at me. She elbows him. He just stares, like a clock face does the opposing wall.
Tic, Toc.
The first time I met him he said I wouldn’t make it. I remember insulting him: do not be so loutish as to encapsulate your conformity and let societies conditioning pioneer your ability to appreciate the very existence of communication. But that was all in my head. I recall clicking in when he said, tune into reality and get a real job.
Tic.
The same day, that very evening, he pulled me aside with intense eyes of grief and threatened me indirectly, but soon began to beg me, “Don’t ruin my family.” I was basically a kid just out of university, though his face spoke to me for ages after. I never seriously considered the threat I posed upon his household. He loved his daughter. She was happy with me. He let that be enough, but he never gave up. He even went so far as to offer me money. I nearly took it, but then he tried to use the bargain against me.
Toc.
He can blame me forever – he deserves that much. I much rather be his well, and not his shelf. Drop your change. Make a wish. Sandwich and cigarettes for the pale, if you please.
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
Well, there is always next time, I reply.
Shit! that was stupid.
Her uncle looks at me with eyebrows like a fork face down. His face is tightly shaven. His skin is the colour of russet potatoes under the sun. A glowing recent visit. He opens his mouth to respond, but, of course, he doesn’t.
Stupid.
Thinking about devoting my future time to superior motives.
I considered joining her once, not that she invited me, but she could have – seems selfish really. We could have been Romeo and Juliet or even Mickey and Mallory. We could have been together. Then again, I have never been certain if I love her so much as to not want to live without her. I never really considered being so committed. Or maybe I am being selfish too.
There was a time in my life that I focused my energy on completion. A time I both seek to forget and detour to remember. This was long after drugs gave me a reason to live. When an orgasm seemed like a light switch next to my blood pumping poison through pain. Releasing the strap on my arm was like struggling to hold your breath under water, then just letting out an exhausted exhale, and enjoying the rush of water filling your lungs. Rehab would be realizing you couldn’t breathe.
Thinking about dainty white robes, and gravel dragging slippers.
Endlessly, orange, white-capped bottles dropped into the sink. A cap pops, and two-faced capsules slide towards the anus drain. A bottles breaks, and coloured pills ride the high-sided tank. Nothing matters but the moment. Nothing matters but oxycodone. A taste of beer doesn’t control the drive. Mix and match will be the task, as the oxycodone can’t be found.
Blood on wrists makes me uncomfortable.
She seemed so innocent. I thought that is what I liked about her. However, when I found out she smoked more pot than I did, I liked her more. Somehow the contrast between her personality and her façade intrigued me to a pedestal. Wanting to be with her was not enough. I had to be with her. I had to come back down to earth. Even in this contrast, we were so alike. She was kind hearted, low-key, and had the same kind of dry humour I have. She was just an all around nice person, beautiful in all ways. Yet, beyond that, she burned my cynical personality - tagging along with jokes and insults. At times, she was even more fruitful than I in such categories. She was cruel, and kind. She was latent with pessimism, but laden with optimism. She lived. She died.
Ropes around necks are too direct.
I would give her gifts periodically. It was never anything elaborate or expensive. There was just times I longed to give her something and hear her words. See her smile in that way. I gave her my childhood teddy bear once. She liked that one. I would sneak into bed early in the morning, with a small sentimental gift, or maybe a gift I made. She liked my paintings. I liked hers too.
</continued>
READ Rue Besserer.
The bus jerked from time to time comparable to my wrist near scissors. I stared out the window, as if I was gazing into the sun, looking for answers while risking my sight. However, generally the city bust swayed like a small boat would upon a calm sea. Except, instead of seeing beautiful, tropical fish, and the aqua-tinged green waters, I saw coal roads splattered with a synthetic colour of the sun and aged whites marked by patterns that all interconnected or led to sprouting cement walls attempting beauty with dates. All numbered and placed. All easily found by identity.
READ Daly Avenue.
Traffic came to a dime, and I nearly smacked my head against what I thought to be my safety.
A novel slid, or should I say dragged, towards my feet. It had an eerie resembling sound to nails on a chalkboard, but with a touch of sneakers dragging against the walkway not long after the snow has passed and sand and salt eroded from the ground.
RE-READ Leonard Cohen. Clever.
I picked up the book and turned around to identify the culprit: the person who would let such a beauty hit the disgusting floor of a city bus. Never have I seen such a grave sinner.
Never have I seen such a grave sinner with deep December-stone eyes, wavy blonde hair that faded into the light, freckles that pebbled across her cheeks and nose, and a smile that beyond moves a man inside.
Don’t stare.
I once thought eyes were eyes and that complimenting a woman’s eyes was the most unoriginal and insincere thing a man could do.
Your eyes make me think of a Trisha Romance painting. Maybe a child playing in the snow by a frozen bird feeder, or maybe a grandfather walking down Niagara’s main street in winter as a horse and buggy strolls by, I unexpectedly spewed.
Stupid.
Her eyes looked away, but that smile crept up on her. Her teeth, a little large in proportion to her face, only added to the innocence of her beauty. I glanced at the title and deliberately smiled too.
She grabbed her novel from my palm, “thanks.”
READ Rue Willbrod
A seat opened beside her. I sat.
You’re very wholesome looking.
Stupid.
I mean I know I am probably not your type, but maybe you would be willing to consider new things.
“Maybe.”
Maybe you’d be willing to catch a simple-minded romance on a big screen after eating at a restaurant used to impress you.
“Maybe.”
Maybe you’d like to spend time with me this Friday.
“I don’t like men.”
I stopped and thought, maybe we could arrange something, but she flinched a smile before I found the semi-humorous words.
I wonder what my face looked like when she said that.
“I’m kidding. Maybe, I’d like that.”
READ Laurier Avenue.
Her sister slowly approaches me. They have the same face, but her sister has darker hair, darker skin, and a tad more age.
“She loved you.”
Jesus wept.
Her sister held me like a mother would her young son after witnessing a horrific act. Children are so innocent, so moral. Intuitively they recognize wrong from right. I recognized wrong.
I just wish she wasn’t there, I sob in the now dampness of her shirt. I hate hearing my crying voice. I haven’t cried in years.
“She’s glad she was.”
In true pain crying can feel as good as sex – not as in ecstasy, but release. In true pain crying is deep breaths of UV tears until your lungs fill to the brim and are quickly squeezed before they flood, and the atmosphere drains your sorrow leaving salt residue and scars in the lining of your lungs.
Her father could be staring through me and not at me. He could be thinking about helping cross-sea poverty stricken children, or about giving back to the immediate community. Maybe he is thinking about sitting down and confessing his sins to me - apologizing and crying with my newfound tears. Or maybe he isn’t.
I guess I really did ruin his family.
I love her.
Currently, and there after
Stress is sliding the blinds
and breaking the lights
while becoming a human-filled puppet
of a bear, or a cat (now)
being hunted by blowing fans
and flashlight men.
On one of my daily runs I found a rock that looked like something out of a Narnia book. It was much too beautiful to be among the sand. I brought it back to her. It had a black fog in its depth beneath the purest navy blue eyes could ever see. It was almost perfectly smooth the entire circumference except a small notch that added to its personality. She looked at me and said, “life,” she paused, “life is both precious and useless at the same time.” I laid down beside her without a word and we just enjoyed each other and our thoughts. I loved it when she thought to slide her fingers between my own.
Moving traffic is timely and inaccurate.
On the anniversary of her grandfather’s death I took her to a hospital. I remember how disappointed her face was when she realized we weren’t going to his grave. I could tell she was angry, but she tried her best not to let the fire get the best of her. I felt bad when tears crashed down her check in the hospital parking lot. It would be worth it, I kept telling myself.
We found our floor. She was too upset to even ask or wonder what we were doing. I am sure the depression only got worse as she saw elderly people – grandfathers and grandmothers; great-grandfather and great-grandmothers – lying lifeless in their cots and being pushed slowly around in toothpick wheelchairs. I even caught a few smiles as we strolled past.
I opened the double doors to a lounge. It all seemed more like a nursing home than a hospital. A group of nearly twenty patients sat idly in their what seemed to be uncomfortable chairs. I sat. Yes, uncomfortable like the plastic seats of elementary school. No wonder I have a bad back.
A few chivalrous types questioned the tears that fell from her face. One even handed her a tissue.
A nurse brought me my guitar.
Who likes John Lennon?
Not a single person said no. I started with Imagine.
Guns aren’t easily accessible, and much too explanatory.
At times I could barely stand her voice, both in the literal and non-literal sense. Her voice had this innate nasally sound to it that sometimes just put me off the wrong way when I was already not impressed with her, or at times just not impressed in general. She would disturb me during my time of work with pots and pans, loud movies and murmuring music. If she were upset with me, she would do it deliberately and not answer to me calls for silence. She would go into fits when she felt our relationship wasn’t going anywhere and would ruin my apartment. I would step on broken glass, find ripped shirts and be missing pages from my computer-side stack. My notebook would be frail and thin. Those were the days I hated her. If she got mad enough she would yell. If she were really mad she would curse. If she were sorry she would talk dirty.
Plastic bags could be the choice.
It would be wise to devise a foolproof way to know right off the button who would become a problem in your life, and who wouldn’t. A permanent tattoo on a persons arm for every failed relationship crossed my mind. Take it even further and don’t just weed out the failing lovers, but weed out disease. A friend once said to me, if you want to rid of aids you permanently tattoo AIDS on the forehead of all those diagnosed. Who would have sex with them then? I remember thinking it was good but not perfect. Outlaw it. Consider having sex with AIDS attempted murder. Or do them both.
Thinking about the possibility of me having sponges behind my eyes.
My parents were married for twenty-two years before they divorced: a commoner’s act. I would assume they were only together for a couple of those years. It was not until after they divorced I discovered the wall cracks in their Final Supper. I suppose I knew all long really, but I was just an impressionable kid. They could have convinced me of anything.
It’s pathetic to blame your parent’s break up on yourself.
My mother whispered subtle words of my father once. He tried to abort me. He kicked her. I hate him. He was not like that before the pregnancy, but since then, he always has been. Being blue like a shy child in a busy park, or like a child holding plums to his eyes. Being red.
It’s pathetic to blame your girlfriend’s death on yourself.
“She was happiest with you. With you she had looks I hadn’t seen since she was young.”
My eyes swell. I can’t cry.
I only wish she wasn’t there, I reply, forcing a slight smile, like one end of a canoe.
She used to walk around my apartment with only my shirt on. She was so 80s. It mind as well been our apartment; sometimes she stayed months at a time. She was so yearning. I’d wake up at lunchtime on Sundays and find her in the kitchen, mostly naked, but covered. She never swore, but one Sunday late-morning I broke her the news.
I didn’t get rejected.
With one cheek filled with macaroni, “are you fucking serious?”
It was the cutest thing. And her smile, it held more pride and more excitement than my entire being. It was then I knew she loved me. Neither of us ever said it to the other. I am uncertain if it was that we never had to, or never found ourselves equally committed. She jumped into my arms. I could feel the rubber in her cheek as she hugged me.
Thinking about every scar that slashes her for every minute that passes without rain.
READ Rideau Street.
My feet, placed a dwarf’s step wide, kept my balance. Every seat was taken, but I was the only standing, like an empty hallway for a peculiar man without company, but watched with scrutiny. I wrapped my arm around one of the poles that stemmed from a gay pride, sandpaper seat. My arm was straight, parallel with the pole, but my hand was awkwardly wrapped around. I leaned my head against my fingers. Feeling safer, I tightened my feet more comfortably. A dwarf can step.
</continued>
Sorry I have been so busy. Having moved out of the folks home, the responsibilities are killer + university... but anyway... I am going to try and make an effort to catch up and keep more frequent.
And with my apologies I bring a story... it is still the first draft though...
City Bus
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
Smile, and nod. Smile, and nod.
With a dry mouth and gum between your teeth, it isn’t so much the casket to your right and the audience to your left that has your mouth unwilling to open for words, it’s the fact that words do not form without a lively tongue. My tongue died.
My back is as straight as a surfboard with its nose in the sand. I’m sinking in the sand. I am standing knee deep in flowing time and ankle deep in brown, drying clay. I am standing with my legs beneath the ground, and my head in the clouds. I am standing at my girlfriend’s funeral. And all I can conjure in my mind is the cement that seems to be filling my mouth.
I wonder if my jaw will grow heavy, like a rifle does a marksman upon his target.
Only recently did I ask her father’s permission to propose – he hesitantly gave his blessing. I had it planned for next Monday. In the darkness, with popcorn in my hand, Gummy Bears in hers, teenagers making out behind us, murmuring old folks who keep looking back at the teenagers, and a ring.
Thinking about throats tightening around sandpaper.
In the darkness, I slip the ring on her finger. She would say nothing, holding in her emotion, and knowing that I was doing it purely for her, knowing that I do not believe in the false commitment an object holds. The movie would soar. Every joke would be twice as funny; every tear, twice as sad; every twist, twice as exciting; and every smile, twice as fulfilling. And then, after enjoying the best movie of our lives – our movie – she would scream out with joy in the parking lot, and jump up under my palms. ENACT cheesy starlight kiss.
Thinking about the exotic, scratching tongues of grave markers.
He is staring at me. She elbows him. He just stares, like a clock face does the opposing wall.
Tic, Toc.
The first time I met him he said I wouldn’t make it. I remember insulting him: do not be so loutish as to encapsulate your conformity and let societies conditioning pioneer your ability to appreciate the very existence of communication. But that was all in my head. I recall clicking in when he said, tune into reality and get a real job.
Tic.
The same day, that very evening, he pulled me aside with intense eyes of grief and threatened me indirectly, but soon began to beg me, “Don’t ruin my family.” I was basically a kid just out of university, though his face spoke to me for ages after. I never seriously considered the threat I posed upon his household. He loved his daughter. She was happy with me. He let that be enough, but he never gave up. He even went so far as to offer me money. I nearly took it, but then he tried to use the bargain against me.
Toc.
He can blame me forever – he deserves that much. I much rather be his well, and not his shelf. Drop your change. Make a wish. Sandwich and cigarettes for the pale, if you please.
“I am very sorry for your loss.”
Well, there is always next time, I reply.
Shit! that was stupid.
Her uncle looks at me with eyebrows like a fork face down. His face is tightly shaven. His skin is the colour of russet potatoes under the sun. A glowing recent visit. He opens his mouth to respond, but, of course, he doesn’t.
Stupid.
Thinking about devoting my future time to superior motives.
I considered joining her once, not that she invited me, but she could have – seems selfish really. We could have been Romeo and Juliet or even Mickey and Mallory. We could have been together. Then again, I have never been certain if I love her so much as to not want to live without her. I never really considered being so committed. Or maybe I am being selfish too.
There was a time in my life that I focused my energy on completion. A time I both seek to forget and detour to remember. This was long after drugs gave me a reason to live. When an orgasm seemed like a light switch next to my blood pumping poison through pain. Releasing the strap on my arm was like struggling to hold your breath under water, then just letting out an exhausted exhale, and enjoying the rush of water filling your lungs. Rehab would be realizing you couldn’t breathe.
Thinking about dainty white robes, and gravel dragging slippers.
Endlessly, orange, white-capped bottles dropped into the sink. A cap pops, and two-faced capsules slide towards the anus drain. A bottles breaks, and coloured pills ride the high-sided tank. Nothing matters but the moment. Nothing matters but oxycodone. A taste of beer doesn’t control the drive. Mix and match will be the task, as the oxycodone can’t be found.
Blood on wrists makes me uncomfortable.
She seemed so innocent. I thought that is what I liked about her. However, when I found out she smoked more pot than I did, I liked her more. Somehow the contrast between her personality and her façade intrigued me to a pedestal. Wanting to be with her was not enough. I had to be with her. I had to come back down to earth. Even in this contrast, we were so alike. She was kind hearted, low-key, and had the same kind of dry humour I have. She was just an all around nice person, beautiful in all ways. Yet, beyond that, she burned my cynical personality - tagging along with jokes and insults. At times, she was even more fruitful than I in such categories. She was cruel, and kind. She was latent with pessimism, but laden with optimism. She lived. She died.
Ropes around necks are too direct.
I would give her gifts periodically. It was never anything elaborate or expensive. There was just times I longed to give her something and hear her words. See her smile in that way. I gave her my childhood teddy bear once. She liked that one. I would sneak into bed early in the morning, with a small sentimental gift, or maybe a gift I made. She liked my paintings. I liked hers too.
</continued>
At 2/1/06 12:39 PM, Dangan wrote: ... so im going to write and share the story here, expect the first chapter in about 1 hour, hope you enjoy it ^_^
Awesome man. I look forward to reading it.
.
So how is everyone doing? Any major works in progress? Anything new?
At 1/24/06 03:21 PM, Andersson wrote: That is a pretty intresting poem... I got to take a better look at it later. =)
thanks... tell me what you think.
I am trying to write like mad as I am applying for a specialty writing course and you need a portfolio of works as only a certain number of people are accepted for the class. *crosses fingers*
the portfolio is due in two weeks, so you can imagine how much writing I am doing right now. haha.
Twenty-Two Ways to Witness a Smile
I
two fingers
tracing smiles
on each other’s
palms
II
pearls without links
hit by stage lights
and ovation
III
red cushions pressing
together
with a hand on a cheek
red cushions rise
together
IV
rose petals augment
a horizon sun fall
V
amid a crowd of faces
westworks seem carved
omit children and a smile
VI
a simple allusion
an act of circumference
I am uncertain which to love
the ready eyes
or the playing smile
VII
only one tug of two strings
was the denouement
to a charming burlesque
VIII
on the wooden-worn porch
in the shadow of a willow
a smile passes
there and gone
the winsomeness
not weary of dogsmen
an ineffable root
IX
I am before yield signs of gold
the type that jump ‘round
on the bed next to my wall
I am, also,
a product of a smile
X
the heart flutters when
a wind can move a man
XI
when smiles travel
they touch the ends
of ears
XII
a child is born
a smile must be born
XIII
in the busyness of a fair
it begins to rain
run for cover
it always rains
XIV
smile
XV
it can be eager
caring, loving, overbearing
sexy, gorgeous, cute
or cuddly
whichever it may be
or twenty things more
I assure
it is always
contagious
XVI
in pure darkness
whether nature or imposed
the soul can feel
feel the warmth
of a sudden sated smile
XVII
between all sheets lays a smile
between all lips lays words of sheets
XVIII
imagine a thousand curtains
shielding the sun
depriving the sun
imagine a clover in your palm
holding your luck
tempting your luck
imagine
blindness
gone.
XIX
at the sight of a grin
mirroring thin eyebrows
dressed with hue and trim
and hung endlessly, tirelessly until
it breeds a smile
at the sight of a smile
like a waist along a bed
or a toy that is unsaid
the motive is honest, and
it multiplies laughter
than curiously, eminently
resembles a Valentine’s heart
or its just Cupid’s arrow
XX
lemon slices cradle on a counter
lick, slurp – pressed within lips
ambience pours through wallpaper
and bodies fluctuate the heat
like bedrooms in the winter
does a smile actually happen?
or does it never disappear?
XXI
A man
sees a woman
XXII
aqua tinged cheeks in golden rays
tend to drug the mood of company
though not the same as sighting’s stupor
but rather that of bed ridden legs
and with a stop by a white office
and floating heads of compressed information
advice was not sought, but taken
“smile more, my friend”
Twenty-Two Ways to Witness a Smile
I
two fingers
tracing smiles
on each other’s
palms
II
pearls without links
hit by stage lights
and ovation
III
red cushions pressing
together
with a hand on a cheek
red cushions rise
together
IV
rose petals augment
a horizon sun fall
V
amid a crowd of faces
westworks seem carved
omit children and a smile
VI
a simple allusion
an act of circumference
I am uncertain which to love
the ready eyes
or the playing smile
VII
only one tug of two strings
was the denouement
to a charming burlesque
VIII
on the wooden-worn porch
in the shadow of a willow
a smile passes
there and gone
the winsomeness
not weary of dogsmen
an ineffable root
IX
I am before yield signs of gold
the type that jump ‘round
on the bed next to my wall
I am, also,
a product of a smile
X
the heart flutters when
a wind can move a man
XI
when smiles travel
they touch the ends
of ears
XII
a child is born
a smile must be born
XIII
in the busyness of a fair
it begins to rain
run for cover
it always rains
XIV
smile
XV
it can be eager
caring, loving, overbearing
sexy, gorgeous, cute
or cuddly
whichever it may be
or twenty things more
I assure
it is always
contagious
XVI
in pure darkness
whether nature or imposed
the soul can feel
feel the warmth
of a sudden sated smile
XVII
between all sheets lays a smile
between all lips lays words of sheets
XVIII
imagine a thousand curtains
shielding the sun
depriving the sun
imagine a clover in your palm
holding your luck
tempting your luck
imagine
blindness
gone.
XIX
at the sight of a grin
mirroring thin eyebrows
dressed with hue and trim
and hung endlessly, tirelessly until
it breeds a smile
at the sight of a smile
like a waist along a bed
or a toy that is unsaid
the motive is honest, and
it multiplies laughter
than curiously, eminently
resembles a Valentine’s heart
or its just Cupid’s arrow
XX
lemon slices cradle on a counter
lick, slurp – pressed within lips
ambience pours through wallpaper
and bodies fluctuate the heat
like bedrooms in the winter
does a smile actually happen?
or does it never disappear?
XXI
A man
sees a woman
XXII
aqua tinged cheeks in golden rays
tend to drug the mood of company
though not the same as sighting’s stupor
but rather that of bed ridden legs
and with a stop by a white office
and floating heads of compressed information
advice was not sought, but taken
“smile more, my friend”
At 1/18/06 04:57 AM, weirdoo wrote: Writer's Guild: Writer
Writer's Guild: public (we can be both right?)
sure you can... we havnt really followed that in some time though. = )
hello there fellow writers :)
I look forward to reading some of your work.
..........................................
>>> Sorry I have been scarice again lately... school/social stuff never gets easier, or less time consuming it seems. Did the collab halt again?
Nearly all my poetry takes visual style into account, so I ask that if you truly plan on reading these poems that you go to me dA page (link in sig) and look for the titles of the poems i nthe left column a bit down the page and view them there as the NG BBS doesnt allow me to take advantage of space and poetic visual style.
thanks for reading.
people still want maple
promptly, “out of date”
the begging palm
cedes to the ceiling
“of course,” a nod
out the window sodden
willow ripened worn
“exchange.”
watchful strides
sway in concert time,
“rearrange.”
(oh, timely)
“replace, of course.”
“of course.”
the room is conjured completely
like faces taut with horror
the décor, a passing phase
“no, no” sudden erudition
“that’s in style” reveals
the Bauhaus of the two
(with windshield fingers)
“just watch that show,
you know” the words
of western thought
“yes, that show,
(in turn, a look)
of course.”
“we better not divorce”
an eyebrow crawling
like the opening
of the umbrella
“no, we better not,
(lemon slice smile)
because I get the whole
caboose.”
n o t o m o r r o w
the crowd around me is a phasing burning bridge
their faces are a weary fire
swarthy-tired is their attire
shoes are dusty
s h o e s a r e d u s t y
all their feathers drift like broken limbs
the entire community is coated
now birds have really floated
broken pigeons
b r o k e n p i g e o n s
eroding sewers carry wounded crimson tears
like drywall in a flood
pant legs sponge the blood
close your faucets
c l o s e y o u r f a u c e t s
through a speaker stands an awkward silence
after the sun has risen
no words as students listen
blowing papers
b l o w i n g p a p e r s
in slow procession she looms in my direction
feeling the beat to her heart
I know forever we must part
not forgotten
n o t f o r g o t t e n
and all of this chilling
it is cold beneath the ground
I only wish that all I hear were not those final chilling sounds
dieing for you
d i e i n g f o r y o u
seconds connected
leaning nature of wondrous far sight
two life times over of generous tension
and little to show for the perseverance
but a dancing petal of ill fortune
then all is lost as it passes under the sand
never miss a beat of pure colour
and have us slide again some time
not tomorrow, not next week, or month
but maybe in a lifetime or two
recognize my step like you do
but know my notice will be slim
skin against the tanning floor-sand
one sandal was in my left palm
the other for my Dumbo ear
the ocean orchestrated the foliage
juicing the wind as my sandal swayed
the healed pass on, they say; I can feel it
nothing could take me back from it
except my reason I wish I had purchased
and then I heard my ear was missing
a splash against my ankle was realization
there floated my ear on the playing water
it cried away as I squeezed my other sandal
that world unto my mind is without company
the devastation was no destiny or fate
they influenced with what they could
and swallowed that petal with the sand
now whenever I pass the beach
I listen for it; maybe we will hear the truth again
there and then
his childhood kitchen
there
he wept in a stew
a cold stew
then
a rotting kitchen
Benevolent Wind
I swim across the azure waters
dancing for no one to see
I carol with fragile songbirds
melodies for no one to hear
I carry the scent of every flower
sweet aromas for no one to smell
I play tag among Mother Nature
no one can touch me in her dress
I travel the thickest forests
leaves brush my shoulders
branches caught in my stride
the ground swells beneath me
I journey the widest open fields
dodging the blades of grass
picking the weeds as I pass
and the sun warms my back
I am a benevolent wind
but as I rush on through the sky
I rise and fall in haste
the speed
the flight
watch me dance
and hear me sing
here I go
and here I’m gone
all I want is to touch the sun
and touch the sun I will
feel my calm
feel my beat
call me love
call me love
I weave through city buildings
teasingly knocking on windows
sliding through opening doors
exploring entrances and words
I gently lift hair from faces
fresher skin alongside me
pairs of hands cuddle me
in the affection I lay
but as I rush on through the sky
I swiftly jump and dive
the tempo
the voyage
smell me pass
and embrace my palm
here I go
and here I’m gone
all I want is to touch the sun
and touch the sun I will
let me last
call me love
call me love
I am a benevolent wind
a wind for the moment
a wind for your heart
Nearly all my poetry takes visual style into account, so I ask that if you truly plan on reading these poems that you go to me dA page (link in sig) and look for the titles of the poems i nthe left column a bit down the page and view them there as the NG BBS doesnt allow me to take advantage of space and poetic visual style.
thanks for reading.
people still want maple
promptly, “out of date”
the begging palm
cedes to the ceiling
“of course,” a nod
out the window sodden
willow ripened worn
“exchange.”
watchful strides
sway in concert time,
“rearrange.”
(oh, timely)
“replace, of course.”
“of course.”
the room is conjured completely
like faces taut with horror
the décor, a passing phase
“no, no” sudden erudition
“that’s in style” reveals
the Bauhaus of the two
(with windshield fingers)
“just watch that show,
you know” the words
of western thought
“yes, that show,
(in turn, a look)
of course.”
“we better not divorce”
an eyebrow crawling
like the opening
of the umbrella
“no, we better not,
(lemon slice smile)
because I get the whole
caboose.”
n o t o m o r r o w
the crowd around me is a phasing burning bridge
their faces are a weary fire
swarthy-tired is their attire
shoes are dusty
s h o e s a r e d u s t y
all their feathers drift like broken limbs
the entire community is coated
now birds have really floated
broken pigeons
b r o k e n p i g e o n s
eroding sewers carry wounded crimson tears
like drywall in a flood
pant legs sponge the blood
close your faucets
c l o s e y o u r f a u c e t s
through a speaker stands an awkward silence
after the sun has risen
no words as students listen
blowing papers
b l o w i n g p a p e r s
in slow procession she looms in my direction
feeling the beat to her heart
I know forever we must part
not forgotten
n o t f o r g o t t e n
and all of this chilling
it is cold beneath the ground
I only wish that all I hear were not those final chilling sounds
dieing for you
d i e i n g f o r y o u
seconds connected
leaning nature of wondrous far sight
two life times over of generous tension
and little to show for the perseverance
but a dancing petal of ill fortune
then all is lost as it passes under the sand
never miss a beat of pure colour
and have us slide again some time
not tomorrow, not next week, or month
but maybe in a lifetime or two
recognize my step like you do
but know my notice will be slim
skin against the tanning floor-sand
one sandal was in my left palm
the other for my Dumbo ear
the ocean orchestrated the foliage
juicing the wind as my sandal swayed
the healed pass on, they say; I can feel it
nothing could take me back from it
except my reason I wish I had purchased
and then I heard my ear was missing
a splash against my ankle was realization
there floated my ear on the playing water
it cried away as I squeezed my other sandal
that world unto my mind is without company
the devastation was no destiny or fate
they influenced with what they could
and swallowed that petal with the sand
now whenever I pass the beach
I listen for it; maybe we will hear the truth again
there and then
his childhood kitchen
there
he wept in a stew
a cold stew
then
a rotting kitchen
Benevolent Wind
I swim across the azure waters
dancing for no one to see
I carol with fragile songbirds
melodies for no one to hear
I carry the scent of every flower
sweet aromas for no one to smell
I play tag among Mother Nature
no one can touch me in her dress
I travel the thickest forests
leaves brush my shoulders
branches caught in my stride
the ground swells beneath me
I journey the widest open fields
dodging the blades of grass
picking the weeds as I pass
and the sun warms my back
I am a benevolent wind
but as I rush on through the sky
I rise and fall in haste
the speed
the flight
watch me dance
and hear me sing
here I go
and here I’m gone
all I want is to touch the sun
and touch the sun I will
feel my calm
feel my beat
call me love
call me love
I weave through city buildings
teasingly knocking on windows
sliding through opening doors
exploring entrances and words
I gently lift hair from faces
fresher skin alongside me
pairs of hands cuddle me
in the affection I lay
but as I rush on through the sky
I swiftly jump and dive
the tempo
the voyage
smell me pass
and embrace my palm
here I go
and here I’m gone
all I want is to touch the sun
and touch the sun I will
let me last
call me love
call me love
I am a benevolent wind
a wind for the moment
a wind for your heart
I love random and unexpected comedy.
that gave me a good laugh. = )
-Doctor- that was the most important thing I learnt while writing my last novel. As I wrote, I tried too hard to preciely plan each scene and thereafter - somehow I thought an intricate plot would strengthen my story. I gave up on it when I realized exactly what you just said. Just write.
I wish I had of read that book two years ago. but it is never too late... I am going to go pick it up.
At 1/6/06 11:36 AM, Coop83 wrote: So that means we roll around to Scribbler's turn. I await my go after him :D
Sorry I have been gone so long. The holidays had me scaricely by a computer.
I am glad the collab is still on, because with (major) refinement, the story is quite good and can go so many places.
A poem to get some lit in this thread:
Burning lungs, Itching noses, and Throbbing arms
open your sight
[I am the colour not in your skin
now the haze that toys]
static along the couch
[I fade in seven, six]
the stucco ceiling is tranquil
your ripple eyes along the roof
like the whispering wind
of mountains
[I fade out six, five]
discovery is effortless
[I fade in five, four]
the tingle in your arm aches
and stubble limbs pour heavy
as slowly as heat washes
and rises
[I fade out four, three]
and washes
[I fade in three, two]
pulling at your neck
the sweater is restraints
tiny fabric irritates like bracelets
[I fade out two, one]
your mouth is a cave
for flies
[I fade in one]
awaken in white mountains
[I am everything
but routine
and mirrors]
I assume Ng will screw up its format, so if you are further interested... go here:
Not exactly about the elements per say, but each element is referenced: Water, Fire, Air, and Earth. Instead of using the elements as the topic, I used them as a tool to elaborate on a poem about death. The original poem was 5 lines longer (more explanitory and less vague/amiguous), but I had to edit it in order to meet the requirments. The message is still there, just hidden.
Liquid eyes are in the cold
while the sun drips downward
and stains your worsted-wool
a grey and burning red…
Frozen asphalt of private remorse
contains your every facial decay
and echoes the lines in a ballad
of birds and a single bed…
Footprint slabs augment below
“to mark my home in your life”
and deliver the black suit man
a news clip of the dead…
Can you choose an element? Or mix and match?
Or does it have to be all four elements? Just curious.
I am in.
How many people can you choose et ctera?
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