The Write Frame - Poetry by Nab.
| Author | Message |
|---|---|
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor  Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | At some point, he’ll be ready for his own nuclear wars. She’ll be thrown headfirst into oblivion and flesh be making merry company with the old jagged cliff rocks she always admired. The children might be choked. We’ll all be hanging limbs on a tensioned thread or passing off jokes for human lives. There won’t be talk of arms race or glass ceilings or commissioners or red threads or, the days when things would get a little better. None of it, really. At some point, the only living thing would be clocks and they would be counting down to nothing and they would be telling us that we came from vacuum. and what’s in front of us is just another black of repetition. Our past is known as minutes. We can be lying on ocean beds and eating raw corpses but time will still be alongside consistency. The marks we thought were left are just overshadowed bases for future upheaval. At some point, we’ll want more and we’ll get more, and it won’t be enough. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Why were you in blue? As if imagination had shriveled in the palms of commercial existence. I remember telling the doctors that something blissful was about to happen, but they didn’t seem to take much notice of my inadvertent fright And nerves that shake too much. Maybe they thought you would die and were coming to grips with your gradual disappearance by ignoring you, you and all of your temporary existence. Because, temporary is not forever and the miracle they wanted lasted forever. But we only have forever to live and when dealing with such subjective a term, I’m sure they can eventually understand that your definition just isn’t as long as they thought. Because you’re not a type. Anyone who loves me that much, they’re not pigeon-holed. They have to at least give you that. So I’ll dress you back in red and I’ll put the tobacco back in your hand; even though you quit a while ago, And I’ll settle you to another power nap and if you don’t wake, well, at least you’re in your favorite color and I’m matching its mood. At least it’s not a uniform – Anyone who loves me that much, they just don’t do well with such a commonplace symbol. And blue - we’ve seen that far too much around this place. We wouldn’t want you to leave with the travesty of compliance. |
| SicTransitGloria Bleeding on the Floor  Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 1150 | That last one was really touching. Is it based on something that's actually happening? Because it was so heartfelt. And sad. Beautiful. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thank you. (: It wasn't actually, my sister was watching Grey's Anatomy and it infiltrated into my mind to write something about a hospital. >.< My sources are very anti-climatic. |
| kings of leon. Always Born a Crime  Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 6213 | Quite the contrary Nab, I think the fact that you can conjure up your standard of poetry from th peripheral influence of Grey's Anatomy just highlights your talent and skill. When i read your poetry, I imagine you stood on a dark stage, with one light directed at you, just reading, and everyone being absolutely rivetted. It's that kind of writing, the kind you really want to listen to. You're on form as ever Nab (Y) x |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thank you so much, Jessie. Your comments always make my day. (: That meant a lot, thanks.  |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Just something I spewed out 5 minutes ago. Teeth. She can only wonder what her skeleton would look like, an ephemeral hope that maybe it would capture all the essence of her life that she was never able to during her own time. It’s always the pretext of being caught up with the grave-digging and getting lost in the goal that all sight of each moment turned mislaid. There’s just too much going on to halt the burrowing for a while, to toss the shovel aside and think about losing heart and spirit and life to build a permanent home for bones and flesh. Disintegrating. Not one that you can call welcoming, either. The earth bites; and she knew that when she first started speaking to it. But she thought of the search for reality and self-actualization and the agonizing hunt for potential and love and happiness and all the other terrible things, and figured that the trouble just doesn’t seem to be worth it. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Something different, I guess. (: Stockholm. I imagine that we were dragged along this thrill-ride with as little inclination from the party as our willingness for it. They never put their muzzles to our temples when we threw those little tantrums and (though I might’ve imagined it) even pulled my hair back when I hurled into the ocean. I thought I saw fishes, but they looked dead-eyed, like everything else in this place. I’m not sure if that damn Derringer is even loaded, or if these dogs’ve even shot anything before. Though let’s not put it past them too soon: they may be the head-spade kind, or the types to dig old-school chainsaw massacres in a half-lit locker room. I thought we were here for a classic torture session? I’m barely scratched. Have I seen the worst yet? I’m not even sure why we’re picked, really, we’re just two lonely poets writing about horror; wouldn’t the everyman feel slightly flattered? All I know is that while the pistol’s being waved and my gag is still knotted, we’re eating up time: my agent has a deadline and I bet you my foot it’s more risky to miss hers than your definition of a cut-off. And here comes your solid back-up – what do they feed you here, I’ve seen more meat on gutted seafood – and they’re telling us not to ‘try anything funny’ (saw that coming from a mile away) and to keep our hands behind our heads. We shuffle along and I started thinking of another word for ‘sleeve’. I might as well make use of the mental silence. But it’s distracting: you people smell off. Like gin and tonic gone bad, but with this odd fusion of suspicious odors that remind me of farms and some other reek I can’t put my finger on. And oh, we’re seated, and our gags are pulled off, and we’re told to speak. Speak? Like with our mouths? And our tongues and those other things? You must’ve got the wrong people, my partner says, so predictably it’s agonizing. We’re poets, we’re not speech-makers. Were you looking for those debaters next door? – we know where they are, they’re on holiday in Fiji, we could give you their number if you want? But no, it’s not them, it’s us; they even had a hurried discussion, turning their backs, for a few quick minutes. Yes, yes. There was no mistake. Your initials are here and so are your blood types. I tell them that O is terribly common, and everyone knows a Wilda Barrington. My partner shoots me a look and I quickly add in, Of course, you could’ve gotten the wrong Xander Pariut too – they’re horrendously conformist names. The Derringer was waved again and this time, the red man shot it against the window. I wasn’t paid for this! He had a temper. The others cowered. Alright, alright. Let’s get on to it then. They shushed him and waited for us to speak. Go on, now. Tell us a story. I see what they mean now. They’re serious aren’t they? I never would’ve guessed it’d be this grim. Our breaths are shallow and I think I’m seeing fireworks explode in my line of sight and, oh Lord, my heart is pounding – they really can’t make us do this, they’re not that heartless, are they? Maybe they’re playing. Maybe it’s still just the average kidnap. Speak, or I’ll shoot. But we’re the people of words, the ones you can see! And read, and immerse into. Why didn’t they want those damn debaters? They yak on and on about the elaborate details of financial investments; wouldn’t that serve these monsters well enough? We're not right for this, we don't speak, we have dust in our throats. It'll kill us. I’ll give you two minutes. Pariut was trembling, it is almost funny, if not for the graveness of the situation. At this point, the Derringer bullet is most welcome through my skull; it’s all a matter of stalling just long enough. Keep shut. Keep still. Madden them One minute... Any second now. |
| City Lights. Salute You in Your Grave  Age: 31 Gender: Female Posts: 2374 | It's a sad thing to think that your work has not been shown appreciation. I can actually think of a time when this place was more alive. But, alas. At Stockholm; I haven't been able to read one of your pieces in a while, and it was a good refreshment for me. Very good, actually. I read through it with ease, and the story fit together perfectly, with no pieces missed. Your touch has yet to fade, darling, even though your style has most definitely changed. My favourite, here; "I’m barely scratched. Have I seen the worst yet? I’m not even sure why we’re picked, really, we’re just two lonely poets writing about horror; wouldn’t the everyman feel slightly flattered? All I know is that while the pistol’s being waved and my gag is still knotted, we’re eating up time: my agent has a deadline and I bet you my foot it’s more risky to miss hers than your definition of a cut-off." I'd make a comeback only to tell you that you are the most exquiste writer that I have ever seen, without a doubt. I believe we're friendly enough with each other that I can say this without seeming.. overpowering, if you will. If I could have even an inch of the talent you posess with your words, I would be grateful. I have, and will always mean it when I say you are a great writer. This just further proves it. Wording, imagery, structure. Everything to the T. Splendid work, nakama. My commendations to you. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thank you so much. (: <3 <3 |
| kings of leon. Always Born a Crime Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 6213 | Stockholm was...incendiary. Believable. I felt like I was watching a film. Even though the imagery and focus was on the characters and their thoughts and speech, I could imagine the surroundings, the colours and the atmosphere. City Lights pretty much summed it up but I'd just like to concur with it really. I have envied and admired you since the first time I read one of your poems. And I always will : ) x |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thank you so much Jessie, that means a lot. <3 And the envy is mutual, I think you're wonderful.  |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Work's been keeping me too busy writing about career and profile features; this is, sadly, the only thing I could come up with. (I think I should add: I love my job. xD) __ There’re the moments when (I) drudgery is almost welcome, embraced like an old friend, like tempting a breeze in parched landscapes. It would, surely, be the end of these cyclical dramatics? Surely, something is bound to even out, or (II) when the merriment of calm is The Last Thing we need – to leave the eye of storms, and head back to the whirring, painful, broken avenues; our heads bereft of hope and our homes on our backs. The people around us red, flinching, or white and unmoving. It’s like asking for change when we least deserve it; then hoping change would be veracious, true to form, imaginable, predicted. Gloom’s come a long way since archaic times. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | And often, upon sitting on the white pockets of sunglow, the wanderers would find something to talk about. I’m playing with my vocal chords like they deserve callous treatment of fork against black flesh. There isn’t much to do; but to tell yourself that some things will grow, while others tend to shrivel, and the ones that remain the same are not worthy of your time. So when you’ve told yourself that your idiocy is natural, we’ll remain vigilant to those who stay behind the doors. You arm yourself with egotism, I’m armed with this brick wall. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | While the earth is fresh. I tried trapping my head between the feathers of memories, or softer things like bleach and sun-dried rags that broken arrow, the guns, those crying, empty barrels. Television aerials and quasi-official paperwork and papercuts that don't heal for days, I tried thinking about all of these, settling for a thrilling pre-empted hollow ride in my makeshift fairground of old, tired, skeletal things; distracting things. Hinders to our bad ghosts that wouldn't stop haunting. But the bleach was your phase from last year. The rags had once been your dirty green shirt. The arrow - remember? - and the guns, the way you emptied them because of the neighbours, The late nights with Double Jeopardy, and your shoddy freelance commitments, and how you kept saying, They need better resources; might do best with a stack of name cards, how your laugh had sounded rather stupid, and you had water all down your front, and it had rained, we both smelt it, and then - - you kept the key, and brought it back to the soils, glued me to the sharp things, the dull things, the things that wouldn't remain just Things and choose this time to have souls, to bring back so much of you, but even that is hardly enough, And I'm trapped between the feathers, remembering to forget and, forgetting to remember. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | I am an addict to self-reflection. While they plough on, I thunder in printed introspection, The winds can send us forth and leave archaic times as archaic times, but old spirits might linger, and the sand might gush back upwards. I dwell in the bellows of the highbrow capacity. Then we can speak, perhaps in softer tones, or a primordial language, and when we tie up the loose ends of our yore. They can strut, and unravel at the seams in an ending passion for finality. |
| kings of leon. Always Born a Crime Age: 33 Gender: Female Posts: 6213 | You've probably guessed by now that I'm running out of adjectives with which to compliment your work. So I'll just say, again, that I really do think everything you post is brilliant. I enjoyed these four immensely, as usual and just wanted to let you know that : ) Seriously though, have you ever had anything published? I would love to find sme of your poems somewhere someday. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Thanks so much Jessie. (: I honestly haven't been happy at all with what I've been writing these days (they're all starting to sound the same to me!), thanks for the vote of confidence. And no, I haven't had anything published. Hehe. |
| kid from yesterday. Bleeding on the Floor Age: 35 Gender: Female Posts: 1265 | Sick. (PART – The chapter always begins with a muzzle in a mouth, but with words that scarcely paint the kind of image that inflicts disturbance. Carefully picked. I like to think of it as mental escapism, or some form of seasoning to reminiscence. Wherein, instead of playing with twigs with our torn fingers, to distract ourselves, (myself, rather), or shutting eyes and thinking of dead dogs and drowning babies and the earth blowing up, I plant and paint a mosaic of muzzles – Derringers, Smith and Wessons, Magnums, any kind, really; in a mouth – perhaps mine, perhaps someone else’s, but mostly mine – and the wet, loud squelch, a sonic resultant of a pulled trigger. The flora of grey matter, skull powders, catapults of ripped teeth and gums and tongue, what frames we’ll have left, physical or otherwise, and what titivates the human psyche the most. But that’s how the chapter has always begun, and despite easy prediction, it has been a rather effective choice, en route to two quick seconds of sadism, then a blank, black in the head. Power down. – ONE). |
Options
Go back to top
Go back to top