thread for writers
 

Okay I know there are a ton of writers on this board and I want you allll to share some of your wonderful work. Prose, poetry, reviews... whatever, just creative writing.


I guess I'll go first then, this is a poem I wrote a few days ago called "And The Wounds Shine Like Diamonds":


where people reek of near death,
smoke cigarettes and set off hand grenades
to the days of youthful adventure.
and to retreat to a comfort zone would be a safe bet
but it lasts as long as your candle to a burning match.
i often find myself in a state of denial for days
hoping everything would turn back.
but our clocks are manual, and turning them back would make
living lose it's flow.
we put our heads under water to obscure voices and their
expressionist tone.
i'd like to think my mind is so clean you could eat off of it
but days of endless TV advertisements and listening to people's phonecalls
have left my brain dry and seized.
dirty minded from even the most prestigious of their words,
it pushes me into a vegetable life,
like an ice cube,
sitting there melting away.









okay now don't leave me hanging and post some of your own writing :)

slowly, he carefully chose each key; a bead of sweat dripping from his metal brow.

"I must respond to this thread for whores", he thought, typing faster now with confidence.

squinting further, he realized with horror, this thread for whores was anything but. it was just a trick. without his glasses on, his fevered dreams leaked into reality.

"my glasses", he croaked, frowning.

his glasses were in the other room; a room that had long been boarded over to keep in the zombies.

"time to break out the chainsaw", he cackled, smiling for the first time all week.

I actually just posted some of my writing on another forum, song lyrics for
a tuneski I want to put together with Pantophobia. So fuck it, here they
are.

Arise with bright eyes
Ready to venture
Fervent fingertips ready set flip
Choose your own adventure
I thirst for a mindtwister
A genuine brainbender
So I can flash my smarts
In the presence of a pretender
Who waxes witty as we cross paths
I'll refuse to laugh or nod
Delayed repentance can always help
To defuse the wrath of God
If I'm wrong

Reading in the tub
Pruned up
Wishing I'd made a date
Forget hopes and wishes
I roll with a gang of expectations
That live to flash their colors
Would die for sisters and brothers
But never the others, not at all
We who are not as them
As dumb, as smart, as fat, as thin
As stern, as silly, as straight, as queer
As sad, as happy, as foggy, as clear
Not us
Knot us together, tie us down
Toss us into a crowd
In the most pious part of town
Better ravage than rust

I'm not happy about this
You aren't either
You don't want me in the crew
I don't want you as our leader
Just lay low and hoard your rocket fuel
Adjust your sights and pocket tools
Mask on tight to repel toxic fumes
Relief may come one o'clock or two
Till then we sound off like cockatoos
We ape our command and mock the news
We're gonna tell the whole world who to sock it to
That's our thing
Hands all smudged black
I'd almost rather die here
Then have to trudge back

When the book is completed
The story begins anew
I always rush to read it
See what I put myself through
If my actions are absurd
My thoughts imbecilic
I live by the word
Till an empty page kills it

My signature contains a link to my blog, where you can see much more of
my stuff. www.trapperjennmd.org, for those who have sigs turned off.
I'm proud of a lot of the Peanuts stuff I've written.

woohoo!


this piece is called 'Swans' (I was listening to them when I wrote it)



aspiration;
oppressed by those who bound us down,
raped only by our sole interaction.
it's the last vestige of drawing your eye.
i'm blind to lonliness and regret.

upon this tabletop was when i first cried;
a soul left to wander amongst spirits,
all united in the chant of
"never enough".
i slept upon that table for days in a seamless dream;
swans passing in their infancy,
the sun slowly kissing the clouds away.

scenarios reek of youth,
where hours are spent in a daze,
where my slumber is scheduled,
where the mind is not impeded by the world.

and this is where i ask,
why can't i shake the hands of God?
our creator is not shy.
we spend forever travelling to his garden.

I had already posted it in the "I want to get beaten" thread, but here is a text I wrote a few weeks ago

City Chronicles #1

I was on a car, alone
They were back
I am reading something about deafening darkness, which is interesting, so I try and remember the page
Fourteen
Will I remember it forever just because I thought about it ? Will it disappear ? Will it vanish?
[stop pointing the blinking strobes at me]
The car goes on, so do thoughts:
A disordered flow or flood of ideas crossing my mind at every second
"Short stories now!"
"Is this the point where city ends?"
"City landscapes melting"
I would like to have my notebook but I'm trapped in the streets
"What has it to do with 'black&white' pictures?"
"Is this really... ?"
Two young people, probably like ten or so, are walking on the grass, getting to some rust ancient industrial shapes in the distance, which reminds me there was someone walking right below my window - though on the opposite sidewalk - earlier today, around 11am possibly.
"Black, grey, blue"
"The head one's the closest", I remember subconsciously.
The train does not stop.
The camera does not fall.
The window does not close.
"Why should they be amiable?"
Is this the point where city ends?

Is this the point where city ends?
Rust iron melting with grass,
Grey fog melting with the blue skies
Everything fading into one sheer thing.

Should I stop? How am I supposed to know? It turns out I can't look above.
In my ears, I reckognize those chimes from years ago, a dissonant symphony, a few notes that might have eventually lead to a widely spread masterpiece in the past future
I like the point where the atmosphere of the piece fades out; I try to understand what people that used to be in the room could think at the time.
Is this the place where city ends?

Now half an hour later, I'm listening to a recording from the early eighties; no one knows who it comes from, no name is linked to it; it lasts for two minutes and fifty seven seconds only.
Exchanging immaterial flux, abstract electronic signals about abstracter mental signals, I think back to the bluish stain that was visible in the fading sky yesterday, around 19 o'clock. Was it the sight of a distant beam? A reflection of light at sunset?
Will it vanish?

(oh and by the way, I don't mean to shameless promote myself, but you can hear the musical version of this text there: http://blogs.myspace.com/index.cfm?f...ogId=477124739)

Isabnormal conformal anomalies. The diluvial? I conformed till the isogeotherms of our eyes bled blood. It was so egalitarianistic but now I know that we can, in fact, blow each other up and still be connected to the fideism of fatalism and hedonism. Sacramentarian solitary confinements and sleep deprivation patterns: we came together on that day for an eleemosynary hour of "I'm going to get up in a minute". It was beautiful. Then, cherry "swimming trunks" acolouthic and Fazoli's aeropleustic. Despite my ixiodic and interstitial instincts, I was proven lamiaceous and.. well, that's how it is.

Intercrural!
Intercrural!
Intercrural!
Intercrural!

And so begins another vespertinal trek on the scarabaeans of ebay. The pascual adventure meant I snagged Landstalker. Patibulary rations and rational realizations aside, I guess you can say that life is okay.

Job? Sucks. Sex life? Great. Music? Medium-rare. Video games? Mystagogical. Taste? Absinthe. Leonine sign. Can't find that margaritomancy Paper Mario for xenomancy Gamecube but oh well.

eatyoutosurvive: There is nothing more embarrassing than watching a nearly 70 year old man prance around onstage at halftime of perhaps the biggest event of the year.
PimpDadAC: i hope mick jagger whips his cock out.

Prick Jagger.

I'm feeling somewhat oestrogenic today. Pyogenic and such. This week was fun. My friend doesn't like the Pixies. How spodogenous is that? I know he governs a monarchy, but come on, I love you and all, how can you do this to me? "I Bleed". Pigmentocracies aside, I can't complain.


...

There.

I'm writing a book called; "Lorenzo, the Mexican Bean!!!" But it's not finished.

This is a poem called Relationship

I had a relationship once
With a slapper
Who was seeking reform

It ended well

The End

Cool shit.

I'm taking a break from working on a story now. I doubt I'll post it though, I'm not sure it'll turn out well.

I'm currently reading JG Ballard's Crash and it is completely inspiring. It's marvelous the way Ballard makes his characters as mechanical as the machines they fester their sexual fantasies out on. I'm going to aim on writing a short story as cold as Ballard's book.

Hooks

"lighters tend to walk away
with people, Alex."

there is a pause

"let's say our name at the
end of every sentence
when we speak, Alex."
-I'll try, Alex.

we have the same
name. she likes that.
it is her hook into my skull.
it is smoky chess and tug of war.
strength. strategy.
we must know each other
conquer each other

it is hard to see that when you are
stoned.
harder to see when you are
not.
we all hook each other to play
social.

there are people
strangers and friends
on mushrooms, on ecstasy,
of course on THC
and on other chemicals,
the lingo of which
will date too quickly
to immortalize
in ink.
they're a part of society. this
society. tin bomb shelters
from the conquest.

despite extensive small talk, I
really can’t tell how high they are.
or who's winning. or if anyone
wins.

in general, the room is
lighter-spark yellow.
my lighter
stolen, I figure,
maybe lost to the clutter-décor.
cavemen did not have this problem
upon domestication of fire:
“who has a lighter?”
what a sophisticated problem.

Alex and her friend
go outside to smoke
cigarettes, and some people
smoke inside anyway.
move on,
on to new people.
heavy and empty,
their talk is
cage-like
lead.

"how are you"
"I haven't heard a word out of you."
"how are you"
“how are you”


I can't tell
how I am
nor anything else.
the way I sound, look,
my eyes...

but Bridget says,
based on seconds of nothing,
"you're a really nice person."

Rastaman tells me, though
I don’t believe him about the first part,
"she's a lesbian for sure." and
"there's too much dick in here."

I remember being in my
often empty backyard
of my rarely empty house
sucking off cigarettes and
brown-gray coffee
like teenagers do,
looking for inspiration
on who I ought
to be.

how did I end up
here with the street-hip
socialites of this building,
where trendy books,
semi-exotic candles,
strings of sky light
on the wall, and
my new walking lighter
all bear silent witness
to silent parties?

an announcement:
"you guys can
drink
the
beer.
that's what it's there for."

a rumble through the door
from the porch.

"is your full name Alexander?"
-my birth certificate just says Alex, Alex
"guess my full name, Alex"
-I don't know, Alex…

hurt silence

-Alexandria?

the hook
hooks deeper

Eric is here
dressed, inexplicably,
in a suit. He
does not know why
either. but he believes in it’s
cool unique (attention-hungry)
virtue.
"would I be a martyr
if I die?"
-you mean when you die

hurt realization

-you would be a martyr

for suits
for the 40s
for blue Christmas lights as normal lights
for matches on the coffee table
for unread books
for smoking on the porch
for "fuck it - I'll smoke where I want."
for a simple mess on the floor
for the artistry of pipe and bong glasswork
it all has worth.


Everything in her
apartment, number seven,
a result of so many
nothings.

a television turns on
it says:

nevertheless
most of the mass
in an atom
is in the nucleus.
the electrons are,
by comparison,
just bits
of
fluff.
atoms are mainly
empty space.
matter is composed
chiefly
of
nothing.

Quantifiable

There are infinite romantic ideas
that might be called poetry.
And when it get's right down
to their literal denotative,
no questions asked,
redundantly detailed,
unambiguous meaning
they're no different
than an equation,
a set of numbers,
a chart of data,
chemicals in beakers,
molecules in the air,
molecules that are air,
the vacuum of space.

Is it a cynical thing?
To say on the cosmic scale
everyone is meaningless?
It's a fucking truth for sure.

There are infinite atoms
in the factual universe.
But when it comes straight up
to unprejudiced,
all encompassing,
purely aesthetic,
and untamed beauty
each and everyone
forms a complex sculpture;
A sublime painting,
the waves of sound,
the sun and the sky,
the human face,
the human body,
flowers and trees,
the universe itself.

Tangible Ghosts

Early this morning
(so early that some call it last night)
you might find yourself in bed
wondering on the molecular level
why your sheets aren't rigid
or how anything moves
or how a science class might make the universe
more mysterious.

Solid transparent objects as tangible ghosts.
Hair underneath your leg as uncomfortable art.
How things exist without sentences.

People who enjoy the controversy of being a bitch
might like what I have to say about them.
But I can't play out those scenarios in my head
because I can't play it out in theirs.

The difficulty of thought
is a flaw of the brain.

Last night I dreamt about why the day starts at 12:00 AM
and how I wasn't dreaming in real time
and how it was probably early morning
and how tomorrow (today) I would start a story with
"Last night I dreamt..."

...

I have a gang of poetry I haven't committed to the computer yet. A novel
trilogy, each in various stages of development. A tour journal I'm putting out this year. And the blog. I thought about this since my initial post, and I'd like to put here links to my ten best entries, ones that I think cover the
spectrum and give any curious a good idea of what I'm like as a writer.

My father's death and the fallout.

A preview of the tour journal.

I'm a sports fan.

The best of my Peanuts reviews.

The second best.

I posted this here, but here it is again.

The most emotionally pinballing concert review I've done.

Schulz and Peanuts.

My Top 20 Albums.

Women and the Men Who Hate Them.

And...call this 10b:

This is the first of five total posts on the discography and legacy of
Shonen Knife, for my cash one of the most under-appreciated bands to
ever make a racket.

ry vanitying yourself against someone else you know. These settings involve Registry editing. Definitely worth a look. It started way back in a second year computer course.this is perfect where the XML is actually storing XML content and you don't want the parser complaining.
try and match features.
However, the real improvement is in the multi-tasking. which isn't too strong.
This was especially important when lots of people actually see your desktop.
Well I took the first option.
which you'll then need to strip the executable name of the end. try and match features.
anyone who uses a bunch of applications at once. because it came with a free glass.
well at least two years.
Even something as simple as a virus scanner in addition to whatever you're running will be vastly improved.
He didn't bother to get dual citizenship? if it gets too popular it might loose it's edge.
It doesn't matter if you're turned off by sci-fi, or think it'll be cheesey. minor splashage rather than complete spillage. He didn't bother to get dual citizenship?
The show is laughing at me, adrift in their world, as much as at them.
Surely if I'm listening to a CD, I likely own it.
minor splashage rather than complete spillage.
However, the real improvement is in the multi-tasking.
and they claim something. some of it's completely messed up, some of it's brilliant.
Worth a peek if you're in the market. it's got to be the last city course to open this year.
Definitely worth a look. It'll perform admirably, but not as well as a single high-speed chip.
Or maybe he just doesn't count the Canadian citizenship? this is perfect where the XML is actually storing XML content and you don't want the parser complaining.
lots of people in the world respect Wired and the knowledge and opinions it forwards. some of it's completely messed up, some of it's brilliant.
there are these executives, there's this guy, there's death metal on the radio.

stretched upon these
finish marks
are mechanical
expressions. cold
and distant, yet
inviting. "Ride me,
ride me." it taunts.
we kiss the cold
breasts of our machine.

"CRAVE CASES MAKE MEN POOP"
A limerick by Dr. Eugene Felikson, P.H.D.

I once met some dude at White Castle.
Diarrhea sprayed from his asshole.
It got caught in my beard.
Boy, that guy sure was weird.
Cleaning it out was a huge hassle.

catchy

:) Thank you.

Everyone's stuff is really good. I love these threads where people share their talents. I am addicted to Jenn's blogs. She is genius I tell you, genius!

*snoopy dances till her heart rate goes up to like 187*

I'll be in Cali for whatever shows SY play out there this summer, it's about
time we actually meet! Hopefully Patrick can come, dependent on his
job. He's a pretty big deal at the chocolate shop.

Oh we are SO hooking up! I plan to go to as many of their gigs here as I can. Hope Patrick can come too. We could all go to Knotts Berry Farm/Snoopy's house too, its cheap. :)




Back on topic, my contribution to this thread. Song I am working on, hoping to record soon; each line is opposite of line prior, hence the title, etc...
Contradiction
BY: KARLIE GRAY (KEGMAMA) ©


Needing you more, but wanting it less,
Feeling content yet my heart’s not at rest.
Satisfied and happy, but confusion sets in,
Knowing where to start, but not where to begin.

I’m found and surrounded, yet lost and alone,
Feeling so little, but I know that I’ve grown.
Eager and helpless, yet patient and strong,
Knowing what’s right, but feeling so wrong.

Contradiction, Affliction baby- Afflicted, Addicted… (chorus x2)

My heart beats, yet I’m dead inside,
I want to be out, but instead I hide.
Masking emotions that rage within
Knowing where I’ve gone, but not where I’ve been.

Sexy and strong, yet ugly and weak,
I’m a virgin whore, an exciting bore, yeah.
Sick and tired, yet well and awake,
How can something real, be so fake?

Contradiction, Affliction baby- Afflicted, Addicted… (chorus x2)

Running and screaming, while I walk quietly along,
This is the beginning, to the end of my song…

My short story. DOn't steal it, fuckers!

"Are you done in there?" Carl rapped at the bathroom door and whined, "I’m lonely."
"Aren’t we all?" Suzie quipped, "I know sweetie. Almost done here. Be a doll and get me a drink please?" with all the sarcastic yearning on "please". Carl didn’t answer and walked to the kitchen to pull out some bottles he put away five minutes ago. He paid no attention to the brand names and labels and poured based on color. He tried it and grimaced. Still, it was alcohol; greedily he drank some more, walked back to the family room and stretched out on the couch. Suzie emerged grinning.
"You’re very smiley. What did you do?" Carl suspiciously asked.
"How do you know I did something? I could just be happy."
"My son is all teeth when he’s guilty as sin; nothing serious, just stealing and hiding something of ours." Suzie fell onto the couch, almost on top of him and replied innocently.
"I never took anything."
"Not this time."
"What do you mean?"
"You really thought I wouldn’t notice you wearing my wife’s shoes? She grounded our son because she figured he did something with them." Suzie’s face drooped.
"I feel terrible, Carl. Poor thing. Well, it’s a good thing I wore them today. I’ll just put ‘em away now. Tell your wife you found them, I don’t know. Someplace weird."
"I’ll think of something."
"Ya know, from what I’ve heard, she’s kind of a bitch." Carl’s face twisted in offence, but softened to a stern expression.
"She is not a bitch. She’s very sweet and I love her."
"Then why am I here?" An offended Suzie demanded.
"Because you’re fun."
"She’s not?"
"A different kind. You’re outgoing, sociable. Like me. She’s quiet and sometimes she says I can irritate her. You know, with my 'loudness'."
"If we have so much in common, why didn’t you marry me?"
"Well, I didn’t know you then. And two, I’m in politics. Politicians marry Jackie, not Marilyn." Suzie crept off the couch to her feet to look down upon him.
"I’m not classy enough for you?"
"I wasn’t that harsh. Besides you don’t even like politics. It drives you crazy. You said it yourself!"
"I know, it just upset me that you think I wouldn’t be respectable to be seen with. But you’re right, I would hate it. I’ll go and put these shoes back." Suzie twirled and walked to the back of the house. Carl sat staring, wondering whether he made a mistake bringing Suzie to his home, to his life. Weighing the outcomes of breaking up with her, he took a gulp of the drink Suzie ignored.
Suzie emerged grinning. Modeling his wife’s red dress, shoes and tight bun hair, she strutted down the hallway to the family room. Carl sat staring.
"Jesus Christ."
"Guess who I am." Suzie cooed. Carl pushed himself off the couch to be face to face with her.
"Suzie, this is not normal. Go put these back," He glanced at the wall clock. "Damn! She’ll be home any second. Hurry up!"
"Who will be home? I’m your wife. Do you have another woman in your life?" She jealously demanded.
"I’m warning you. Put the clothes back."
"They’re mine!" Carl’s hand flew and made contact with Suzie’s face with a crack. She stood stoically erect, the tears welling up belying her defiant stance. Unnerved, Carl began stammering.
"I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I just lost…" The garage door opened. "Damn. Please Suzie. I’ll call you. You parked across the street, right?" Suzie nodded. "OK, the back door will be closest."
"What about the clothes?"
"She never wears that. Just go, I’ll think of something." Suzie walked to the back door as Carl rushed to meet his wife at the front; she opened the door just as he did. She heard his warm welcome and his wife's loving responses and how he repeated her name in their talk. She slammed the door and listened. Suzie heard a "What was that?" and strutted back to the family room.

I've been agonising about my relationship with hyphens lately. I had a period of being overly fond of parentheses (y'know, like this) but I decided they lack balls. Because balls are very important to writing. Now a hyphen - the little line things - they're good; the problem is using them too much. You can't go wrong with a semi-colon: brilliant fuckers they are. But I use the everything-hyphen like I think I'm Shakespeare-incarnate. It's doing my own head in. I probably think too much about writing to actually write. Better, some might say, than writing something bad. I think I'd agree with those some.

Anyway, you all carry on, you seem like you're having so much fun.

The single best sentence in the history of messageboards...











































































































ever

abstraction in f sharp


big claws&rabies spit.
bite bite bite.

its all you seem
to do.

well sir
now that i'm sick
i'll foam at the mouth
too.

&we'll see who
kills who.
be it teeth to the neck
or knife to the chest

i'll make a ruin
out of you.

I wrote this on a sunny day while sitting on a sun-warmed granite slab with a picnic basket and a treacherous whore:


And that was when I learned
About lying sluts
With dream worlds that fucking hack
Your meager ego
Assail the vulnerable with
With pretense and whoreific
Sales

Hang sluts with diamond
Barbs
Chained bitches
Chop chop
Them up and feed directly to
The motha fuckin’ Tarrassque
Fuck you

Four Poems:

I.

I got spit shine
in my eyes
making the world
sparkle like diamonds
in the headlights
of an oncoming
steam roller.
Slow slow shimmers,
shattered under weight
like the skulls of
more interesting wrecks.
Spin shine is still spit
and you have to be rich
to find out if diamonds
really shatter.

II.

Shoot myself through the cheeks
with candy bullets.
Youth is
dwindling
into the future.

III.

A moth out side my window
struggles against the pane of glass,
trying to get to an old touch activated lamp.
It is brainless,
it is inconsequential,
this moth,
and yet there it is.

IV.

On weekends, the house maid
comes to clean the houses.
She doesn't speak English,
sadly, naturally,
but there is no awkward
chit-chat.

I find the loneliest spots
in this home-owner association
bull-shit,
to escape something about her.
Her detergent dry hands
probably work another job too.

I get back, and she's finished up.
I ask the poor lady,
can I give her a lift anywhere
she needs to be?
Another job, or her home?
And she accepts.

So I took her out there,
to a crowded trailer park,
and I guess I felt horrible.
I got back to the home,
clean as ever,
and continued to be a mess.

hey you -
you look like someone i know
from long ago
the hands were writing
warped soul tedious creations

hey you -
let me sing songs into your vagina
the dark despair in between your legs
i'm leaving this place
i'm leaving you

Listless patina:
A whistful smattering
Of whimsy
Despoiled the chair, leg.

APRIL 20TH

Today we went for a
picnic
and
you
put a daisy in your
hair
and i wanted to
shag
you


APRIL 20TH PT. II

We were in Tesco
and saw
Keith and his son
in the
DVD section
they
were
probably buying
something raunchy
to watch
together
because they are
weird bastards
aren't
they


APRIL 20TH PT. III

I have needed
a piss
for ages now
but I can't
be
arsed
getting up
and going
down the hall
so I'm just
going
to
try and
forget about
it

great lines there, didn't care for most of the rest

Thanks :D

Shaka - I like the start of a verse narrative, more people need to be doing this rather than relying on lyrical verse etc. but I couldn't follow your thread

danny, can you simplify all of that? cut a bunch out and i don't think you'll lose the point

I disagree Kloriel. I think the simplicity of the subject matter mirrors well with the long, almost drawn out lengths of the peices. like, he's saying 'my 4/20 was long and the only parts that are worthy of their own line are subordinate clauses'

this may sound like i'm being a bitch, but i really really liked it, Danny, and i think what you wrote goes really well with the structure.

yes, I agree 'bout simplicity, but would it be possible to convey the long/drawn out lapse of time without the long drawn out chopped sentences? Can the passages be condensed and still carry that sense?

You're not a bitch for disagreeing with Lord Kloriel. I"m just happy people are posting writing.

I'm just going to repost this here, if you don't mind:

Evol poem.

"Find it in a girl."
From a thousand years ago.
She knows how to make love.
In panic, I forget it.
And then I kiss her stomach.
My mother used to say,
Over and over,
"Find the meaning of feeling good."