Writing Thread (All Forms)

[MharcI]

Post things that you have written yourself, it can be whater, poems of any kind, stories, who gives a fuck. ill contribute soon as i get home from school

[weirdnjfan1]

I would, but I haven't written anything worth posting.

[shapiros]

wrote this poem last year, it's gone through a few incarnations, here's its latest one. its more of a spoken word piece, i've performed it a few times at readings and such.

my first sufu post by the way, been lurking for years.

date rape

Brown bottle found ground hollow

But not hollow enough

To avoid accident knee scrape

Or southern belle Thursday evening date rape.

Because dinner date introduction

Falling into vile seduction

Hands like words;

Checking her definition;

Because it was her body that claimed

Dictionary Anglo-Saxon abnormality

And adjectives weren’t ever the

Past participle part-time turn of phrase

To describe distance of herself;

Rather only verbs, rather only subtle sexuality

Rather wooden floors with hidden creaks

She speaks:

I was once a queen but now all I clutch

Is anger; solidified existence, and with it,

The accompanying resistance.

She only finds acceptance in a flask and

Return to innocence lost is all mind grasps

but doesn’t keep.

Regret’s simple sillouette is dark and deep

But has nowhere to go

And never sleeps.

Parked cars with slashed tires dot her vision

Gold glistens like silver urine in pawn shop window

With her body, he’s winning a game of

one sided sharks and minnows.

And she is watching; mouth agape

Like second grader on first day

Or maybe this can help relate-

She is naievity in heels, on first date.

And trash rolls by like tumbleweeds

Blue plastic bags are lenses for nothing, I can see.

Angry jazz music-

Like drug-riddled Yusef Lateef

Hidden with percussion underneath

Reign down; searching for their panacea

While angry mobs scream “Free Mumiaâ€

But do they even know the truth from lies

White or black or aggrandized?

Even now daring hands have touched her twice

gone awry like best laid plans of men and mice

And even when he’s gone she’s still a mess,

Only in destruction does he find success

He only leaves her when her taste has soured

Stoic like white windowsill in witching hour

And this testament is our

Malcontent and I’ll repent

Her sins for only one dollar minus one cent

1900 salvation was always second best

For girls who never came first

And never rode pink bicycles

With glitter handlebars and obscene streamers

Who never flirted with a lonely dreamer

Instead always left the other half or left the town

With confusions and contusions

And as he sets her body down

He whispers the ritual conclusion:

She’ll search her secrets with a three-edged blade

And flaunt emotionally informed angry tirade

Until one day she’ll know of what this life is made

And like all else,

This too shall fade.

[alexryb]

[ content removed due to lameness ]

[mellowbonsai]

any writers out there? casual, professional... journalists?

i was inspired by gotothebathroom to start this threak, here's a small contribution to get things moving, please criticize and share (i know sharin prose on supertalk is opening a can of worms, but hopefully the shit talkers'll get bored and move on)

untitled or cigarrette smoke

tonight we walk (an intermittent fluorescent hum of late summer around us) to a pool hall because we’re all underage cody, dylan and I

cody i guess you should know is white and young (sixteen) with long hair swept to one side and green eyes and dylan (also white) whose hair is somewhat shorter is twenty (but cody is from florida, he is more tan than dylan)

and i am eighteen so we all go to shoot pool because we cant go to any bar and besides the bars around here don’t look very appealing so yeah we walk into this place its your typical pool hall (dimly lit, jukebox with an agreeable classic rock selection and smoke, cigarette smoke)

we grab our sticks and set up on our table

(we grab an ashtray and dollar for the jukebox and share our cigarettes and yeah we know its not very good to be giving cody any tobacco but dylan and i take advantage of our opportunity to corrupt young blood as far as we can tonight)

and i break first, the cue ball cracks against the orderliness of its fellow fifteen (arranged in a triangle) and they scatter across the table rolling one drops into the corner pocket and im shooting solids

the night advances and the kenosha sky (with stars suspended) settles into a familiar midnight respite; the air is still and insects hum in some strange concert with the gentle plash of lake michigan on the kenosha shore but here inside—

here inside cody dylan and i just talk shit and listen to acdc and the beastie boys and smoke one cigarette after another—the butts piling up in the ashtray—the smoke curling under low hung pool table lights—

“go for it cody†dylan says about a girl he met on our sail down here (cody i guess you should know is an intern aboard the sullivan and dylan the cook and i a deckhand

we got to kenosha for some tallship festival, sailing from milwaukee with some group aboard with us the whole way here they were all wearing yellow shirts reporters from the local kenosha newspaper asked us questions one of them had an eyebrow pierecing I couldn’t help but look at it sometimes he just— — i don’t know)

“yeah youre only so young, I mean, youre only with us for a few weeks anyway, what do you care what dan (the captain) thinks?†i add, flicking ash from my cigarette

“maybe youre right†is all cody can say

he lines up his shot and misses

maybe he’s got a little too much on his mind: girls, american spirits, a career in tallships, or how exactly he’s going to get that six ball in the corner pocket

so the night goes on like this and the jukebox goes on like this: acdc, led zeppelin, pink floyd, beastie boys, nine inch nails,

and somewhere amidst that smoke (escaping through vents, ceilings, windows) drifts a phosphorescent vitality, barely tangible.

it burns hotter in the air than it ever did inside our lungs, and expands and dissolves into the greater scheme of things until it becomes little more than memory, but it still smolders like a charcoal inside our hearts,

encrusted with an ashen melancholy knowledge that it ( (this, this: youth)) won't last forever

(((no )) )

[dismalfuture]

I might contribute to this thread, depending on how sexy I'm feeling at the time...

[mellowbonsai]

this is a sexy story... reposting "The Moment of God's Destruction" by gotothebathroom

The Moment of God's Destruction

by: gotothebathroom

I recline the seat in my old Buick and lay back, this is how I spend every lunchbreak. I don't like being around people, or animals for that matter, for too long. My mind wanders, I begin to contemplate the things they may be capable of, the thins they are capable of.

I hear in the distance a dog, and instantly I am transported back to that place, that place to which I wish I would return.

The two bears, fishing. I remember the exciting feeling, the wonder at all of God's creation and the thought that God had given us a gift today, he had allowed us a window into his power, to view these grizzlies fishing in the river. Out of respect we stay a hundred yards out on the ridge viewing them through the binoculars. Everything seemed perfect at that moment, being there in the wilderness with my father camping, the warm sun on my shoulders, not even the flies buzzing around my face could bother me this day. The mood was about to change...

I am back in the car, my eyes open, I realize I was there again, I was in that moment from which I fear I may never escape. I start the car and turn on the air. Why can't I forgot, oh god, why won't you let me forget.

The first glimmer that something is amiss... the bear catches the fish and carries it over to small puddle of water, holding it down with his paw and then watching the other bear. This continues for minutes while the other bear continues to fish. I remember it felt colder suddenly, a gust of wind. I noticed the smile left my fathers face, something was wrong, something was about to happen...

I turn the car off and walk back into work and sit down at my desk. I check my schedule and remember I have an appointment with my therapist this afternoon. I am not looking forward to it, I am still unsure if rehashing it over and over does anything but create more turmoil. The screen is blank, there was a power surge apparantely a storm is coming in. I stare blankly at the screen and I notice my reflection in the black monitor, it reminds me of the look on my fathers face that day.

"Son.... what is that bear doing"

"I don't know Dad..."

We both stare through our binoculars in silence now. The other bear catches a fish and the one that was holding his in the small puddle excitedly gets up and carries his in his mouth over to a small clearing. The other bear follows.

The sun is covered by a cloud. It get colder still.

The first bear places his fish on the ground facing the other bear a few feet away, he orients the fish towards the other bear with his fish. I get a distinct feeling in my stomach that these two fish are related, CLOSELY related. Something is wrong, something bad is about to happen.

"Josh!... Josh!"

"oh hey, sorry I was drifting off... did you need something?"

"yeah... I was just going to remind you to get your food out of the fridge... it's Friday and they are cleaning it out today... are you ok?"

"yeah yeah I'm fine... he he, sorry I know I was zoning there for a second..."

In reality I wasn't fine, I was in my moment, my horrible moment, as soon as she leaves it comes flooding back, my eyes glass over and my arms begin to tremble. The bears claw slices cleanly down the belly of his trout and the other trout held watching begins screaming "God NOOOOOO GOD NOOOOOOOO PLEASE GOD PLEASE GOD" thrashing fruitlessly against the bears grasp as he washes the insides spill out of his sister. At this point the gut feeling about the closeness of the two fish is so intense that I am made aware with 100% certainty that they are kin. I watch as the fish witnesses his sister writhe in pain, garggling blood, seeing all her organs fall beneath her. Now it is sure, she is descending into the abyss of death.

I slump in my chair, my shoulders shaking as I weep. A few coworkers notice but are afraid to say anything. I am weeping now clearly and everyone within a few cubicles can hear my sniffles. I bury my face in my arms, I beg god to let this memory go, to destroy it, to turn back time.

The moment is here, time stands stall and everything goes quiet. I can see the brother trouts mouth move as his captor smiles and grimaces but I can't hear his screams. His eyes are wide as saucers, every muscle in his face taught and flexed screaming so hard I'm sure his mouth will rip wide open. When recounting the story in therapy my father says at this point I was muttering "no... no... no" at this point but I don't remember anything but the tingling light headed indescribable feeling that everything I thought I knew about this world, this life, good and evil, was about to be shattered.

I am on the floor now in the fetal position beneath my desk, I am hyperventilating but I may as well be dead and gone because I am back there, I am out of my body and I am back in that moment again.

The beat lays on his back with his shoulders sitting upward propped against a stump.

He slides the trouts sisters body over his erect penis, and begins to vigorously and angrily masturbate using her hollowed out body. Everything in my vision goes fuzzy as I see the brother stare on, doing something that the word "screaming" just doesn't do justice, until he finally loses consciousness and goes limp. The other bear is beating more and more furiously and just as the brother fishs body goes limp he finishes and the bears ejaculate erupts inside the fish and a sizeable amount squeezes out the top of her mouth trickling down and inside all the crevices of her now mangled and deformed body. Just before he tosses her aside I see something that makes me vomit in my mouth a bit: she blinks. She is still holding on to life. Her brother is groggy and muttering "no... no...." as he lay with his eyes half open, wishing this were all just a horrible dream, wishing desperately that they could have just been quickly dispatched like every other trout caught by normal emotionally healthy bears.

It isn't over. I have urinated on myself underneath my desk and my sobbing has stopped, I am now just biting my fist as hard as I can and my face is held tight in a grimace. Blood trickles down my knuckles.

The bear holding the brother walks over to a tripod that I have now just noticed half concealed in the bushes. There is a red light... my god, they are filming it. The bear reaches in a black leather bag beneath the tripod and grabs a latex Mr. Rogers mask, but the eyes and mouth have zippers across them. He giddily slides it over his head, he is trembling with excitement. The other bear reaches into the bag and grabs a length of rope and binds the masked bears paws behind his mask the kicks him to his knees. The other bear unzips the mouth on the mask for him, then feeds him the mutilated bear sperm covered body of the sister trout which he eats with absolute joy letting out a barely audible squeal as he finishes the last bite.

The rest I cannot remember, I know that my dad had to carry me back to camp. I woke up a few hours later in a hot sweat, swearing up and down that god was a lie, that's all I would say... "god is a lie"

beneath my desk, I feel a dark black surround me, my heart seems to be seizing, my breath is short, through squinted tear filled eyes I make out the figures of my fellow employees looking on. I see an EMT.... I see my grandma and grandfather with open arms, and I walk towards them... I finally leave my moment forever.

[jwied82]

is this open to poetry too?

[fade to black2]

oh shit this is my thread, the thread i've been waiting on since i discovered the internet.

i'll contribute once i get the inspiration. maybe i'll go watch a coupla porn flicks now, you know, some jenaveve jolie and ice la fox. see if that gets me going.

[DüM]

Naked in the Woods With Chocolate Jesus

VICTORIA, BC - MARCH 28, 2008

Chapter 1

A scream comes across the sky. It sounds like a young child, he probably just stepped in bear shit. Anton looks at me as if to say "what the fuck was that?" but I don't care to respond. I'd get up to investigate but moving is too hard. We're about three days into our journey and I've already given up all hope. It sounded like a good idea at the time, surviving in the woods for a month off nothing but grape soda and a chocolate jesus statue. Boy were we wrong. Our Jesus was made of solid chocolate too. That's 485,460 calories between the two of us.

Fuck. I'm pretty angry with Anton right now. His friend Devlin was all set to come along, that was the plan. Besides obviously helping us eat Jesus, I thought he'd also be a useful offering in case we ran into any horny mountainmen. Devlin was a very pretty boy with soft holes and a wet enough mouth to keep even the most ruttish lumberjack occupied long enough for me to escape. Well, the day before we decided to go Anton got mad at Devlin and set all of his Ann D ablaze. Devlin wouldn't talk to either of us.

I ate his face first, chuckling at my Jodorowsky reference, Anton didn't seem to get it. Anton went straight for the penis, it was small. His left arm was next, then his neck and one set of toes. It was great fun at first but Jesus was rich and heavy. My stomach didn't agree with Jesus and wiping my ass with leaves didn't make it any better. We have about 3 cases of soda left and I'm dreading the day we run out. I hate drinking water.

[jwied82]

just wondering DUM, do you realize thats roughly a 200 pound chocolate jesus?

[DüM]

he's hard to carry.

[fade to black2]

alright just finished off a cigarette and i'll give this my best shot...haven't written anything creative in a while, i'll just type this out as the stream of consciousness hits me and i have no idea when or where it'll end...

SKIN: A Revelation

Cindy, Cindy, Cindy...the word bounces off her soft, pillowy lips but it doesn't even register. I stare at her in all her depraved glory, arms and shoulders slightly bruised, rail thin legs decorated with a denim miniskirt that stops just so, toes imperfect on those cheap strip me heels, like claws holding onto some kind of pedestal. Bruised? Or were they mosquito bites? Anyway, hallmarks of a life less desired. I had taken the pill about 30 minutes ago and was starting to feel the Glow...flashbacks of a youth when I was impeccable, hair, clothing and fingernails all gelled back and the first thing they thought was "Hrm, well that man's got the world going for himself. What a fine young lad with a bright future..." on and on they talked, all of them, until the world seemed to put a blanket over my comfortably numb existence and I had no choice but to break free and degenerate into what I am...now...

Pause.

I look at myself in the mirror, dishevelled, jesus christ I haven't shaved in days, my hair is getting long and I look like whiskey and cigarettes. For the past ten years I've settled into some kind of rumple that magazines and stylists spend hours trying to perfect but it is something I can conjure up waking up every morning on the street corner, clutching a bottle of Jack in my hand. Where am I now...Cindy, that's right. Focus on the present...this girl is the culmination of every broken down cobblestone I've walked on this downward spiral into filth, the Being that lie underneath all those cinema seats, with the crusty tissues and dirt covered footprints, those cheap magazines you used to sneak from your brother's bedroom chest and fantasize about one day attaining this Being, and the idea was always there, it was, but nothing ever felt so good like holding on to an elusive figment of imagination that still gave me hope for the future. At one point, the only joy I needed was standing between me and the toilet bowl, 60 seconds of perfection, they call it. Not now, not after all those women to whom I promised forever, and the creations I manufactured with them who no longer recognize their maker and spit and curse and kick on me with hatred and disgust, I no longer recognized the carcass in the mirror...

Cindy...she envelops me, engulfs me in this tight squeeze and the motion keeps going even as I lay emotionless. The sound of the room suddenly goes off, my eyes and mouth expand until they are on the verge of bursting...I suddenly feel as if the big bang and all the cosmic wonders of this fucked up universe emerge and collapse all at once in my intestines. I feel like this is it. It's been many such nights, nights which have turned into days into weeks into months into years, what am I still clinging for. I see Cindy's angelic face and picture the boy who broke her, parents weeping as they sent their only hope out of a desolate existence, all those countless men who exploded into her crevices and in this tiny 5'4 frame I see the innocence that I once had, but have now lost myself. Perhaps, I am so drawn to such Beings because they hold up a mirror to which I can see the reflection of soullessness that I have descended into. Everything goes black.

Having fell into the abyss and shot back up to ground zero with a rocket, I am myself once more. Now, where was I?

[mellowbonsai]

is this open to poetry too?

theres already a poetry thrak

use search function

[englandmj7]

I love you, you love me. Going down the sugar tree. We'll go down the sugar tree, and see lots of bees: playing, playing. But the bees won't sting, because you love me.

[Hogtown]

I don't think any other threads covered this specifically. I've always been a fan of words. Lyrics to me are the most powerful parts of songs. Words hold weight. Books linger in your mind. Imaging a world without poetry, expression or literature. Imagine no Chekhov, no Tom Wolfe, no Bob Dylan, no slam poetry, no hip-hop. That would suck.

So I created this thread for people who wish to share their literary work, in its own genre and space. Feel free to post anything you have made, it'd be cool to read some.

[Hogtown]

to start things off, here's a bit of poetry I wrote a while back:

On a cold and still day i happened to recollect

taking the bus ride of the deep conscious, in fact

my brain safe in a carcass of glass and sheet metal

all wrapped up as if in a blanket or encased in the thin paper

of a cigarette, my mind happened to be the leaves and ash

growing hotter and more undone and lit up with the thought

falling softly, burning, my questions, the end of my mind tumbles

onto the cold hard pavement

I'll make no changes for you

I have resolve as rusted iron,

seemingly wearing away and weak, but strong

the jagged edge of metal,

song and word is mine

some things are meant to always be worked as tools

I'll drill the words into your head

these will, with their own power, penetrate flesh and bone

and anything that happens to lay beyond, not yet apparent though..

The weight of you is free,

no

your weight is free of me

and buckled legs and hunched back gone perhaps for now

and maybe I can once more jump on my bed, or walk

without pain and laborious trudging,

lurching. Maybe I can run like I once did,

and not look behind to see who I am beating,

warm feet pressed against cold stone, laughing

no

I am not so young anymore.

[jyoni]

bold

can't rep but will

[alexryb]

hedi's kids

une.

who is cobain:

explain, explain..

our

rhythm pushes till

ten a.m.

who is you:

i wanna, i wanna..

( see you lacking all moral standards.)

deux.

information is available

to define the terms in which

we self-destruct

e.g.

"so much:

tar, ethanol, rock."

e.g.

"past times:

driving drunk, gettin' lost, ending up pregnant."

youth culture–

transcend all morality

& well-being!

[alotmarc]

Learning

We know how far from fire

We have to be to keep it missing

That doest mean we'll listen

Lessons learned and earned

Knocks the old school way

Thats how I was taught to play

Throw him in he'll sink or swim

That was the way back then

Let him touch it

Dam thangs hot anit it boy

Told you once not to touch it

Still got some scars

From trying to jump that car

Told you it was to far

This was the line of thought

On how I was taught

[alexryb]

6.11.07, 1:43AM

please,

i need this stylish incest

of melody

gravel roads / i will

endure

i will fall back to the

glass i depleted & divided

into countries in the dark.

oh, the concrete

arteries

(here: capillaries).

please,

i (don't) need this sideways

display of

neon affection / i will

endure

The spacing is all fucked up on my poemz because

I'm posting them on here. Originals by request.

(Yes, the spacing does matter that much).

[bouwnt]

if they are that short, why not just edit it here?

[alexryb]

Can't get the spacing to work right on a message board.

Fuckckckckc.

[Halifamous]

Writing is pretty fun.

The streets were great grey canyons, dry and clean as a bone. Winds caught in the corridors and whipped against the walls, carrying nothing. Where the picture called for old newspapers and plastic bags, the detritus of the city life, the city responded with cleaning crews. Taxes bought enough men to keep every inch from midtown to the water clear of refuse. The people were happy to pay for their spotless streets, the people were proud of their sterile city.

A boy walked across the clean street under a blinking stoplight. He cast spindly Gorey shadows on the green glass of the bank buildings he passed, blocking the beam of the sidewalk spotlights pointing at company signs. The boy saw the streets, clean as a whistle, quiet as a grave, safe as Sunday service, but his mind was elsewhere. Downtown in his head, he strode through a jungle of exposed piping. Empty glass vials crackled like bubble wrap beneath his feet, and stamped to every lightpole were crude Xeroxed flyers in ransom note type, a thriving, throbbing underground. Fast food wrappers formed great drifts where the wind patterns deposited them, and on these glistening piles the homeless and destitute made nests and beds, emerging only to beg change, or stagger drunk into traffic. The streetlights flickered sickly sepia where they worked at all, and in the dark islands where they had failed muttering groups of dark men smoked and plotted their plots. The boy was walking fast, he was late.

[RAISED BY WOLVES]

Writing is pretty fun.

The streets were great grey canyons, dry and clean as a bone. Winds caught in the corridors and whipped against the walls, carrying nothing. Where the picture called for old newspapers and plastic bags, the detritus of the city life, the city responded with cleaning crews. Taxes bought enough men to keep every inch from midtown to the water clear of refuse. The people were happy to pay for their spotless streets, the people were proud of their sterile city.

A boy walked across the clean street under a blinking stoplight. He cast spindly Gorey shadows on the green glass of the bank buildings he passed, blocking the beam of the sidewalk spotlights pointing at company signs. The boy saw the streets, clean as a whistle, quiet as a grave, safe as Sunday service, but his mind was elsewhere. Downtown in his head, he strode through a jungle of exposed piping. Empty glass vials crackled like bubble wrap beneath his feet, and stamped to every lightpole were crude Xeroxed flyers in ransom note type, a thriving, throbbing underground. Fast food wrappers formed great drifts where the wind patterns deposited them, and on these glistening piles the homeless and destitute made nests and beds, emerging only to beg change, or stagger drunk into traffic. The streetlights flickered sickly sepia where they worked at all, and in the dark islands where they had failed muttering groups of dark men smoked and plotted their plots. The boy was walking fast, he was late.

Your influences are clear. But. This is good stuff.

[pavlova cakesworth]

He was waiting for a train to sweep him off to through the dark suburbs. Had been waiting. The ticket in his back pocket read "8:30" and it was now 8:58 - he'd passed twenty minutes worriedly considering how much time would be afforded the latecomers, how fashionable he could afford to be without wasting money. He stood at the station alone, for reasons of difference of taste between him and his girlfriend and friends, reasons which he'd manufactured. Why, though? Couldn't think straight in this cold. He was of the disposition that would have had him called it "a cold and indie night" if there had been anyone to quip to, or if he were a reviewer or something. Windless though the night was, the cold stole into his jacket as if it were cheesecloth; yet again had he sacrificed function on the gilt altar of form, and yet again would he be made ill, waking after a twitching sleep, throat raw and nose dully blocked. In this regard he imputed his (admittedly high) metabolism with supernaturally curative effects, falsely believing it capable of warming him from absolute zero. He lifted his shoulders into a sort of extended shrug and lowered his chin into the hollow they left, gazing at the shining steel ribbons stitched into the gravel between this platform and that. An idea. Someone had once told him - a magazine? His physics teacher? - that a coming train was easily audible if you just hopped down onto the tracks and put your ear against the metal just like th-

[Leeacto]

Bad Movie Haiku

Sequels weren't needed

We knew Neo would do it

Rather seen Point Break 2

Instead of the Jews

Mel Gibson fights aliens

What about the rain?

[C0C0]

The Bodega Store Beyond Amsterdam Avenue

The lemon drop and strawberry bodega store fronts

where I first

began an eternal search

of quenched thirst

Coconut candies detanned under

the plastic glow of fluorescent lights

A cat in the corner clawed along

the beer refrigerator

and caramel cubes

and we accept W.I.C. sign

Outside the hustlers were blind to mothers' cries

A firefly had burned away the moon

A boy stomped out

His palms were balled up

His tiny eyes clouded with droplets of hate

Outside the hustlers were blind

their pupils whispered

Get out! Get out!

(inspired by the pennycandystore beyond the el by lawrence ferlinghetti)

[Halifamous]

Your influences are clear. But. This is good stuff.

What would you say they are?

I really don't have many good tricks, I bust out alliterative runs at least once a line.

[gramps]

"Standing in the hallway, he tried, for what was seemed like the first time in ages, to determine what it was he felt. There were glancing things: the feeling of his mother's disappointment, a plum-colored bruise on the frayed lattice of his nerves. The distant pressure of his father's love for him, obscure and unused, like an inherited chest of books. But mostly he felt the violent, prismatic force of his own fear. He felt the presence of the people in his life only in the way they reflected his fear, as though they were mirrors that showed his own aberration. Or rather, like lightboxes, so that every detail they showed was incandescent."