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Thread: Pancakes II: The Fiction and Poetry Thread

  1. Intriguing.

  2. I couldn't read Gohron's story. Eight inch thick paragraphs of horrible, horrible grammar kill my brain cells.

  3. I think Lobo just wrote the great American novel...
    - calianaderderajhfjdjjdskk
    Check out my stories: guildlibrary.net

  4. Quote Originally Posted by Brisco Bold
    While the concept is interesting, your story is marred by poor writing. You spend a lot of time telling us the story instead of letting it happen. Show me that this guy is grisled, that the person who called him on the phone is a punk, etc.

    Also, I think your sentences include unnecessary information. You're combining too many unrelated topics into one line. Lastly, you abuse variations of the verb "to be."

    I realized this with a good majority of the intro and tried to make it better towards the end (there was a large block of downtime in between two parts). I rush too much when I write I guess, if I ever get serious about it again I'll have to fix up what I've already written rather then keep going with the story and work from there.
    http://www.the-nextlevel.com/board/image.php?type=sigpic&userid=1739&dateline=1225393453

  5. http://www.livejournal.com/users/tea...11.html#cutid1

    Something I wrote. Needs editing and I'd like to expland it a bit but I thought I'd post what I have so far.
    I thought you were gay.... i guess not.

  6. In a dank dive, in a sallow room
    Under jaundice lights, in a sanguine mood
    In the curling smoke, ten cigarettes down
    And the patrons choke, and the patrons drown
    In the spirits they invoke and the ones they caste down

    In a corner stall at the edge of sight
    Where the shadows fall and the only light’s
    The cigarette glow, like a candle lit
    To keep a face hid and a promise kept,
    The darkness shifts and a figure sits

    And a house band drones as their pixie-boy sings
    And the clash of the tones is a useless din
    As the serpents writhe and the iron bell rings,
    The collage of undead is a mescaline dream

    In a flutter of wings she rises to leave
    But the heft of her thoughts is chained to the seat
    So she’s pulled back down and made to fight for it
    And she’s fighting to breathe as she struggles to hit
    The ghost that she wrestles and the years of its shit

    On a slickened street in the pouring rain
    Beneath a flickering lamp and a conscience weighed
    Four stories up, craning to see
    Four years of torture and a slate wiped clean
    Four steps to the edge in four minutes flat
    A perfect square hell where he is trapped

    At the end of a corridor three unmarked doors
    Hiding their heaven or shielding their horrors
    The sound of steel drags on cinder block walls
    As the sound of silence crashes down the dark hall
    And he stands there still listening for the call

    In the street below the cars form a line
    With their headlights on in slow motion time
    Like blood through a sieve or a spoon through an eye
    And they’ve nowhere to go and no reason why

    A memory like a mantra sung
    Or a machine churns, or a cross is hung
    When the hammer falls, or a child hums,
    Or footsteps down a hall, or a heartbeat drums

    ****

    ashes

    ashes blow across her eyes
    burning incense embers die
    moonlight stretches like arched wings
    silhouette against the sky
    a murmured wish, a solemn lie

    she plead to take it all away
    begged for hope, given pain
    and in the end they’re both the same

    shadow shifts the silhouette
    a bent note drifts upon a debt
    the price paid to remain kept
    is two-fold less what grief is spent

    a shaken grin, a quickened glance
    the folding hands a secret dance
    whispered words, echoed chants
    as darkness swallows circumstance

    a walk upon a twisting road
    bearing the weight the night holds
    amidst youth, sorrow feels so old
    can memories warm acts so cold?

    lonely is a hollow tone
    in muted songs, a metronome
    of feelings gone
    a deadened beat droning on

    god is baubles upon which the wicked bet
    sanctity futility bred from regret
    demons doubt hatched from fears finally met
    hell the ties that bind and gag you
    choking your last breath

    ****

    process

    The blooms sway in the metal grey-
    a machine for the botany,
    where scissors descend and resend
    to snip them into suffering;
    a conduit blows recycled breeze
    that smells stalely moldy,
    so to sweeten it they extract
    perfume from the glands
    of rodents no one keep as pets-

    a liquid screen projects its images,
    propaganda and paraquet pandering,
    the volume down, the lips to read,
    imagining the message means:

    Sit the watch, wait the cock,
    guard the flock, wear the frock,
    raise the scythe, cut the stalk,
    bundle it and go to market…

    Dreams of silo skylines stretching,
    the flatfields housed are so depressing,
    the Rainswitch hopes there’s not a glitch
    or there’ll be no bundles for window dressing-
    a button pressed is god in action
    the pulleys pull and cogs retract and
    open gates to fill up lakes
    to soak the soil for propagation
    through zygotic irritation;
    a hand removed the job is done-
    praise be to St. Irrigation
    and to holy gene mutation

    Push the button, wait the rain,
    depress the button, wait again,
    push the button, wait the blades,
    depress the button, wait again,
    push the button, rake the grain,
    depress the button, wait again

    The liquid screen projects its images,
    propaganda and paraquet pandering,
    the volume down the lips to read,
    imagining the message means:

    Sit the watch, wait the cock,
    guard the flock, wear the frock,
    raise the scythe, cut the stalk,
    bundle it and go to market…

    Put upon a track it’s taken,
    ground it’s bleached and nutriated
    and put in capsules for the masses,
    sold in designer color bottles
    labeled as the one quick fix;

    the reaper is a button presser-
    sworn to uphold the corporate credo,
    ‘Conversion by Subversion,’
    the harvester of salvation;
    and plebian pushers smile and sell,
    and family dinner is popping a pill

    Push the button, wait the rain,
    depress the button, wait again,
    push the button, wait the blades,
    depress the button, wait again,
    push the button, rake the grain,
    depress the button, wait again

    Sit the watch, wait the cock,
    guard the flock, wear the frock,
    raise the scythe, cut the stalk,
    bundle it and go to market…

    ****

    and now the flood waters recede and land we stand on seeps and sinks,
    and now the air is filled with ash, and now we breathe behind a sash,
    and the night is cold as winter though it is just mid july,

    where’s the crowds who used to wander
    down these streets now deserted, desolate and deteriorated
    by the storm that we created, sucked into its unholy eye?

    there was a child on that corner every morning half past nine
    selling matches and cloth swatches and week old papers that would blow by
    is she paper now blown about or incinerated as the sky?

    the paper dolls all burned to cinder blown asunder on the wind
    rise like angels dancing lightly, billowing as they ascend
    will the sun stay hiding long? will the rain come every day
    soaking ash and caking us in several layers of black and gray?

    ****

    atrophy

    The hate I push won’t satiate
    The need I feel to break and shape
    The boundaries that fall around you

    Your situation dictates
    You habituate barbiturates
    They lock you into manic states
    Of catatonic rage

    A self-induced blue delusion
    Lucid as your soiled bed
    The visions flying through you
    Aren’t sugarplums dancing in your head
    They’re morphing nymphs with forehead glyphs
    And sharpened teeth,
    Wielding bone-saws in blackened claws
    Raised to strike you dead

    Six shades of sanity retreat
    To catacombs deep within
    And sanctity would be so sweet
    But purgatory will always win
    Even though you’ve disemboweled
    The beast who feasts upon your skin

    A twitch is all you’ve left to show
    You’ve still got life enough to know
    When to run and where to go
    And who it is that pricks and sticks you
    Pimping imps to keep you breathing
    Long enough to steal your soul
    And strong enough to dig the hole

    Mesmerized, I watch and writhe
    In the thin disguises that hide despise
    And nine lives down a stitch in time
    Saves the eight for suffocation or
    Supplication in supplies
    Of morphine and a needle’s eye

    All the marrow’s disappeared
    All the tissue’s been removed
    All the muscles dwindle quickly
    All the blood’s infested sickly
    All the flesh will dissipate
    And the mind will vegetate

    Religion is an I.V.
    A catheter therapy
    The drip and piss a yin and yang
    To feed and bleed the atrophy
    Last edited by Scourge; 06 Jun 2005 at 01:58 PM.

  7. Working on a psudeo sequal to the story above entitled "The Party". Will post when done.
    I thought you were gay.... i guess not.

  8. Something I'm in the process of working on... I haven't written poetry in a few years...


    Empty Parking Lots at 4a.m.

    The lights of the city diffuse in the a.m. dew
    The car moves in slow motion, the radio whispering a long ago tune
    The streets are all empty, the city is sleeping
    Even the ghosts have all gone to bed
    You pull into an empty parking lot
    And stop ‘neath the skyline towering overhead

    We’re still stealing glances, three years in a lifetime
    Together, but what lies ahead?
    You ask, “What are our chances?” and I stare
    In the gloaming silent and sadly
    The clock on the dash reads 4a.m.

    Overhead a plane full of strangers flies, taking them all
    Where their destinations lie, and the airplane so high
    Is nearly silent in the black of the early morning sky
    From there we walk down a boulevard downtown row
    Of Townhomes where few amber lights shine through
    Windows of other people’s lives

    Back at your place, you’re glowing
    In your bedroom, July Christmas lights of blue
    And we lay without talking, but I’m holding you tightly
    Afraid to let go too soon

  9. I bought an Idiot's Guide to Creative Writing book from work recently. I have all sorts of ideas but feel that they suffer in the transition from my brain to the paper, hopefully this book will help a little.
    I thought you were gay.... i guess not.

  10. Here is a very short story I wrote after I got some antique clock:



    An life-long enemy whom I had hoped had perished sent me a reminder... A cursed clock!

    After I picked up the mystery package at the local mailoffice I took a shortcut across the church grounds. Bad move! Instantly, as I walked on the sacred dust beneath my feet, the still wrapped package started shaking and rattling about. At first I suspected there was some kind of animal inside of the package, then another more serious thought strikes me; "could this be another bomb?" (and old favorite trick of my enemy)... Then all of the sudden (!) the package breaks open and shatters hundres of glass shards in all directions! (luckily not my eyes!).

    Stunned, my first instinct was to throw this package to the ground, but some strange force made me hold on to it, even while I in panic fled the churchgrounds! No sooner had I set foot back on the mainstreet as the package settled down again! I peeked inside an there it was; An old wooden, wormeaten clock?

    "What happened?" - I still ask myself? Was this divine intervention? Did god with his fist try to destroy this unholy object? What luring power made me act against my common sense and bring this home, instead of throwing it in the gutter? Was I possessed by this curse already?! I have no clue! The clock now lies on my alternate workdesk near the panorama window. Package ripped open, the glass plate cover obliterated! Yet... It is still churning out some odd mechanical, and to be frank; quite diabolic sounds!

    I am 31 years old, and for the first time since childhood, I fear the sunset.
    nocturne:
    "I view terrorists as freedom fighters."

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