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Thread: New writing

  1. #1
    12pm's Avatar
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    Default New writing

    He: Mrs. Colbert.

    Jack: Taught French. But the short one was hotter.

    She: The other one? You boys. Anybody who lifted their skirt.

    (Jack smirks.)

    He (earnestly, now): Yeah, but the real deal with Stacy...

    Jack: You smell.

    He: I wasn't gonna say anything.

    She (hastily): It's the pheromones, boys. I got the right ones.

    (She sniffs her armpit, exits to restroom.)

    Woman (to newly arrived biker): And this time time you'll pay for it.

    Biker next to me: Hey, picnics. I went to three picnics today. Effing hot. AND YOU'D THINK RIDING A HOg would cool you but, no, it gets cold. Between picnics. You sweat and then you get on the bike. It's cold. That's how you get sick.

    (She returns. Strokes Jack's back, once, vigorously.)

    Me (thinking): Am I sick? I love beauty.

    Exeunt. Fade to black.


    Me (thinking): Okay. Okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. You're only a day away.

    Fade to black.

    He: You wanna really know what hapened to those King Kong cards? Missus Shaneussey confiscated them, sure, but then me and James Horschel broke in and stole 'em from her desk. Then he goes to find em like on a Thursday and they're not. There.

    She: I knew it, knew it, knew it. Is he coaching now? James, I mean? At Lower Dauphin.

    He: They got spread out all over my bed. They might be tacky. (laughs) THE TRUTH!!! Or dog-eared, I mean, beat up. No good on Ebay. You guys are coming with me to New Orleans. Three months. Inna Peace Corps.

    She: I LOVE FIELD TRIPS!!!

    Flash frame.

    Me (almost dreaming): Red microsuede. Knits up the ragged sleeve of time. 400 thread Egyptian cotton. Wh

    She: Wh

    Me: Wh

    She: o?

    Me: o[/list]

  2. #2
    lucynymph's Avatar
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    Default miraged amigo oh, so today

    it doesn't really infect
    if you don't bathe
    me - in buzzed, moustache, balding, bearded, lipped lotions
    western tonics and tempting brown bottles
    i long for the empty apothecary of your bathroom

    it seems so irrelevant
    if you cover me in taupe shadow or put me on an easel
    easy
    i still ease right into your chair
    the smell of your hair is everything to me
    so lily rose irreverant sumptuous

    at the shoal, the french-easy-kiss, the Atlantic, the foam
    i build you a fort, a castled home with a soul
    i lick you, a grain, i kiss you, a flag
    i kiss you and lick you and kiss you and bastian in you
    such a mouth, a voice, an entry, the longest breath i'll never suck.

    hail holy queen, our king is in trouble, your princess wanes
    the pink moon rises, disguises pumkin-gather
    clocks and noise erase the lips, of ill-equiiped boyscout, bunnies
    thunder here - i am a speak-easy target, so clement, so loving, sweet
    i can't command she who commands the waters; her call folded your palace walls?

    we erase.
    we chase.
    we spin like cans and brand new, ancient cars
    silver, glov-ed hands
    i will hold your hand on a green, velvet couch
    till her grace affects my reason.


    bronte
    Deep in Blue Dog's eyes will always lurk the hopes and longings of a melancholy people, but, like the Cajuns, who always trained their eyes on the future, Blue Dog must move forward.
    ~George Rodrigue fr 'Blue Dog Man'

    He must have a truly romantic nature, for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about.
    ~Oscar Wilde

    From sumthyngness into givyngness unto the given.
    ~fr 'DAR' m.s

  3. #3
    12pm's Avatar
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    Default

    I totally, like, suddenly, miss guard rails, dude.
    I mean, like, they were there, and then they weren't.
    And then there's the disturbing fact that
    "Cage-free" eggs aren't.
    For the hens, at least.
    It means only that they may live
    In cinderblocks, with an egress
    (This way to the egress, dude!)
    That leads to the sun, clover, worms, pebbles, warm.
    Which they often are too dull to find.
    And I keep hearing my bar buddy tell me
    How all those years in prison without a guitar
    He wrote a song in his head,
    Until the day he walked, dude,
    Fell in love with a Fender,
    Bright as a robin's eye.
    It needed only the instrument.

    What am I trying to say?
    All mattresses, over time, shape to bodies.
    My springs are different now,
    The lumps elsewhere,
    All that weight I fought so long against,
    Wakes me with its absence,
    And I wake up a stranger,
    Wearing black and white striped pants,
    Looking for a guitar, dude.
    Or I wake up a chicken with a suspicion of light.
    Or a Chevy, way too fast, banked wrong,
    With temperature dropping, dudes,
    Like suddenly, dudes,
    Icing up. Icing.
    But no rails in sight.

  4. #4
    spiderman's Avatar
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    Default fey sunrise

    I didn't flinch
    until I showered and saw the red clots dissolve to pink
    even today I turn from the water,
    expecting the sear, the tears
    But I shook so hard
    they had to hold me down
    I will always cower under the fey sun,
    that bright light directly over my head
    that swung back and forth and back
    Led Zepellin held me down, some drug
    held me afloat, slightly tilted to the left,
    numbed, mostly.
    But I felt what they were doing.
    I didn't cry, not then.
    I concentrated on oxygen,
    my most immediate need.
    There were ten of them, maybe,
    one on the phone, so cavalier, smiling (?)
    while I was spread left to eagle
    and up and pinned for all to examine.
    Some lined the walls for their turn
    to see.
    I guess I was a special case
    with my history.
    It wasn't the three who cut me
    that made me dizzy, or even the one who
    sucked my blood, who made me weak.
    It was the guy who held my arms down
    Why did he have to wear a mask?
    And later,
    when they sewed me shut
    and the 'surgeon' removed his latex
    I threw up myself, again and again,
    eight weeks postpartum.
    Scarred for life,
    It never ends.

  5. #5
    spiderman's Avatar
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    Default Gotta run.

    Interpretation, the window to the soul
    refracted blues and pinks,
    a glorious sunset
    to be savoured
    or oncoming firestorm - run!
    Feel lucky? play the odds...
    The butterflies are still here.

    The shake of a hand, the toss of a blonde,
    honey and whiskey,
    cupped hands soft like frondes
    Salvador, El or Dali, pity and painty
    brushstrokes in life
    react. proact.

    Hello,
    Hello,
    Hello,
    Hello.

    FIGHT.
    Lickity split, defense rests.
    Interpretation: a fine art.

    The Christmas blend takes my breath away,
    right next to the bins of nuts and fancy sugar treats
    while Mozart dances down aisle 4 to find flatbread, un.
    Next to the butcher's counter, I smell blood and
    wonder, what do you think I am?
    Your answer tells more
    about you than me,
    your station in the relay...

    Are you a play on words, or
    just a player? Van Morrison or Eric Clapton?

    Think you can read me?
    An orchid, aisle 7, or a daisy,
    down the road a ways
    Life's interpretations, post
    about a, traumatic
    leave my, stress
    life in, disorder.
    Make me fold?

    (Maybe
    or maybe not.)

    This country suffers more than ever,
    our hearts as shaky as California ground.

    What shoes do you put on me?
    What vitamins do you put in my hand?
    When you peer in the keyhole, what looks back?
    Violent rape, or a shock victim in surgery?
    Myopic 2x2 view; don't trust it.

    Search yourself for interpretation,
    open your heart to how you truly feel
    for therein lies the answers.

    Not with me, nosirree.

    Truth, a proactive interpretation
    Answers, your reaction
    Reality, bites.

    Life is just a poem.
    It's just a poem.

  6. #6
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    Default tempes fugit

    I can't help but notice
    you invited criticism
    when you moved,
    but got none.

    And you, soft maiden, you
    spoke volumes with your mouth.
    How does truth taste, salty or sweet
    or that delicious elixir of both?
    Fair enough.

    Fair enough.

    Empty your burdens
    on figurative paper;
    grip that Mont Blanc tightly
    in hopes of righting your song.
    er, wrong...
    er, write...

    Who among us is not addicted
    to something?
    sex? drugs? rock-n-roll? praise?
    sugar? pills? fast food? malaise?

    Just for today, look around.
    The person sitting next to you
    could be me. It could be
    YOU.
    Extend a hand, people. Do unto...
    Stop judging.
    Each deed counts.

    When it comes down to it,
    the only judgment that matters
    is what you think of yourself.
    So? how you feeling?
    Do you seek shelter or shelter those who seek?

    Every word matters now.
    Our country hurts.
    Write a new song.
    Right your wrongs.

    I'll go first: I hope you all hear the beauty in the notes...

    I'm sorry.

  7. #7
    12pm's Avatar
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    Default silk hates corduroy

    I am too corduroy for this.

    At the airport, wherever it is,
    The large black man is speaking into his cellphone.
    He wears an expensive gold timepiece.
    His shirt says: EFFENDI EFFENDI
    All over and I think: doesn't that mean friend?
    And I hear him say distinctly:
    "What she is doing is almost akin to witchcraft."

    And, even then, that was before.
    When I still thought I knew how to sleep.

    Long before the Michigan sisters, pointy in black,
    Took my Matilda waltzing to the White Stripes
    And the Knights of Columbus,
    And Crazy Shirley's and champagne
    And the one with her autistic son at home
    Said to use pillows (at first) to pretend you.
    And the other knowing just how to move the small
    Of her back enough to sway me.

    Long before the nights in the Blue Note Motel,
    With the catfight next door,
    And waking up uncertain what blood
    I'd sweat from my cheek.

    Long before she called with her exodus
    And cuts and cops and jeopardy.
    Before I sent popcorn or danced the puppets
    In my head with her bad guy.

    Long before my total eclipse,
    Or the other one's sunroom,
    Where I blanked, knowing so few
    Safeties or food and only harvesting
    Bourbon and black niches.

    And certainly long before the white rose on the door
    And the children surprised at birth's brutality
    And her praising her infant's fingers.

    Long, long before all that.

    I still hear him saying:
    "What she is doing is almost akin to witchcraft."

    Even tonight, while my eyes
    Are hermaphroditic snails,
    And the sisters' touch is still on me ripe
    And my regret for her sidling mouth rings
    Burnt for the wanting of my oblivion
    And I know that you know there are angels
    That walk on the brows of all sleepers and fugitives,
    And the dispossessed and the bail-less,
    But I have lost the neat trick of seeing.

    Lost, swarmed with that black silk
    And the rancid waters at the heart of us,
    Rising steadily, rising so.

  8. #8
    marty4044 is offline Needs to say Hello! marty4044 is an unknown quantity at this point
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    Default Walk upright into the future..

    Go for it 12pm, Bronte. Leap. I'm out.

    Best of luck. ~ Cecilia

  9. #9
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    Default Looking bubbly now...

    Pirates vs. ninjas?

  10. #10
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    Default

    How I wish you could have heard
    the choir singing this morning
    because it's just the beauty of the notes
    that gets me to return

    and how I wish you could have
    felt the words
    of our pastor, just thank you thank you
    and one step at a time
    and seek the light
    don't give up there is hope for everybody

    How I wish you could have heard
    the sopranos' descant on the
    fourth verse of holy holy holy
    it would've changed you, I'm sure
    Music has a way of reaching the places
    words don't find

    See, it amazes me that you don't write at all
    and you do, my two moon-scudding friends.
    That you don't feel what I feel
    and can't see what I see
    It just amazes me
    because you two are the most
    beautiful intellectual gifts
    I've never met

    And I have to believe that you
    are spectacularly beautiful somehow
    because you haven't given up.
    Every time I read, I note:
    you haven't given up.
    (finding the light, on me)

    May the words, the word, reach you.
    By verse, by song, by right or by wrong,
    I wish for you two to someday feel
    (to the point of tears)
    what I feel
    when that descant soars.
    Comfort, hope, temporary surrender

    Three bells rang - I heard just
    Des, Paul, and Kat
    I prayed for you all today,
    and for what it's worth,
    I was moved to tears
    on your behalf.

    Thinking well of you tonight,
    wishing you well forever.

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