The Write Frame - Poetry by Nab.

Nab, I love how you tell a story with your poems - that was a very enjoyable read; you're great at this!

Oh, Nab. They're all so beautiful.
I've missed your poems.
Please keep writing, you have such a talent. You always help me to find beauty and peace when I'm down.
xxxxxxxxxx

Lack Of Any Particular Romanesque Notions.

My sources have informed me
of enough. There can be no reason
to write what is meaningless in such day and age.
I’m un-strapped from the picturesque blank
paper - I can write for another bastard without
pouring emotion and back-story into ink.
Tight-chained, prayers uttered,
about to dive headlong into some-
thing I am not quite sure of. Against grains.
Against the robots. Against the programme
of wanting to write for meaning.

This is where I start.

Of when Ally had the summer to herself.
She ruled out the possibility of running
humanity as president. She would open
her leaf-décor’d description of piano rock
and torn out the unwanted words, yelling,
“Lousy gimmicks, lousy gimmicks.”
A waste of green. Spaced out. Time to go.
Head out back to the summer and
leave the winter frozen.

And love, if you related to that…

Still,
you can always find something
if you’re looking for it.

But most times, “I want to run with color”
is definitive of drug usage of the poet.
Now you know he likes his speed – there’s
the back story for you.
And "pouring itself some wine to defeat tomorrow"
shows his affinity to the golden bottle.
Sometimes, they are the words of items in a
paperclip drawer. No such meaning. No graceful
poetry. Let’s try to not dig so deep.

But you can always find something
if you’re looking for it hard enough.
So dig out the whole garden,
if it pleases you.

-

Sorta an experiment. I wanted to deliberately write something without meaning (for some odd reason, I know. xD). Just to prove that not everything has to have layer after layer of dramatic emotions and shit.

Um, yuh, ok, enough of me waffling. (The title's not supposed to make much sense).

For A Crust.

The label-maker threw a verbal fit last night
while the printers rushed for the last batch of shell-
mannequins.
There were only three more,
so they knocked, and they
shook; they threatened a retrenchment if fix-up
took longer than sixty seconds.

The tags it churned were too thick,
the ink smudged and the strings were too short to be knotted.

The forlorn attempt to make
a statement for its kind remained pitiful.
The tags too empty,
the ink illegible and the strings were still there.
The label-maker stays a label-maker.

But it kept on with its anthem;
singing off-key but resolute in spirit.
It was spewing out,
"No no no."
And the mantra’s chorus went the
same.
It was saying,
"T hey ha v emin dsof
th eirow n."
It was telling them,
No no no.
Enough with the unneeded classification.
Though printers only did the work of silent copying
and a stance more vocal, of never-questioning.

But only three were left. They were -
knocking
and shaking
and being rather sinister with mutters of
'and into the bin, we'll dump ye.'
They only needed [PRETTY BLONDE]
and [THE DESTRUCTIVE POET].
[DESK CLERK BORE WITH TYPE-NONE PERSONALITY]
was a non-obligatory option (cousin of [CLASS GEEK], printed
days before, an easy substitute).

The label maker was choking
on insistence. No, no, no.
Le tthem h avet he irsay.
It spluttered on,
Tag number five.

M yjob isa mist a ke.
I ex ist to func tion as a ty pe cas ter.

No, no no.
They have minds of their own.

Som etim es yo u nee d t odie
to le tyou rvictims st artliving.
Ag ain.

It wheezed, and from a deep
throaty rumble came tag sixteen,
[MISCELLANEOUS].
And the old men cursed, knocking and shaking,
groaning under the weight of the futile machine.
“And into the bin, ye dump.”

[QUINTESSENTIAL MISFIT WHO EXPIRES IN REVOLT]

I didn't intend to make this rhyme, heh. Not that it does much.

As of now, untitled.

Sometimes you have to give up –

Though despite all over-paid aphorisms
of battling to survive,
sometimes it would be best to break the shell;
let the insecurities scutter around the white room, peeling
your vulnerability into a fruit of something defenseless.
Sometimes an irremovable stain on linen is the best

criminal record. It’s a matter of direction,
or metaphorical bearings, where to give up is a
reputational disaster.
But to give in would be a permanent choice,
and also something unfixable upon your tombstone.
And at times it’s the thin line between good

and rather evil. At times it’s the life of lies and the lies about
living that boggle the dead and bounce off existence.
Sometimes you have to color in the grey

and then, throw the palette across oceans with resolute
finality. Sometimes the world will let you abuse it,

but you take the beatings with conjured pride.

Sometimes you have to die and live again, to stop your
irrevocable death. You have to cry; you have to lose.
Sometimes you have to perform the sin.
Sometimes you have to give up to
never give in.

The Human Bottle.

You express yourself without permission
With little artistic curls of your fingers;
The tinier breaths
you exhaled were filled with just enough meaning
to let the sacrosanct question hang,

limp, like how you like your words sometimes.
To toss up between powerful and
loved; or between practical and poetry. You
balance them upon your fragile shoulders, some-
times over-tipping, but only too slightly
it morphs into a hint of drama. You twist

the emotions into a pretty lyric,
tumbling from lips, some words holding back
taking refuge behind your teeth, but
always managing to flow in unconventional
expression. It should be illicit and
bad,

but you do it too well for it to
be a wrongful addiction.

Option A.

I wasn’t looking.

There is almost a sinless quality to
this addiction – of moments knocked breathless
by the horde of your scent, the rent-free
habitation of butterflies in my gut. Thereafter
my lucky stars would run out of good judgement
(though I could never think of hammering down my own).
Losing it would be a far better option, as long as it
gets me a mile nearer or an smile away from
the timid stares that we act out to be glances,
The glances that we pretend were never there.

I wasn’t looking,
and how could you guess if you hadn’t been
looking as well?

The Waiting Room.

It would be like
sensing the correlation between the dreamer,
and the useless,
sitting like ducks in a pond, making conversation
with time and all of its ways of stealth.
Comparing
the nuances of what we can be
and what we are, to make sure we can let the
confetti lose for that
point in life when everything comes together.

That one.
The one we’re all waiting for.

So you’re stuck glancing at the table clock
knowing what’s coming,
doing little to go about retrieving the little gems you buried,
the claims of a better tomorrow, a far more
exciting tomorrow, a life changing tomorrow.

For future reference.
For delivery when your astuteness is full-blown
in proportions.

And then tomorrow comes; and
you’re glancing at the table clock, knowing what’s coming
Your ticket number still sandwiched in the middle,
no flashing red nor an announcement of Your Name, to head
to the counter for check-out of the parcel.

You waited your whole life for it.
Balancing on the thin line between dreamer and doer,
sitting like ducks in a pond, picking your way
through the ashes and weed of your own messy fantasy.

It could only end up one way or the other.