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The Write Frame - Poetry by Nab.

AuthorMessage
SicTransitGloria
Bleeding on the Floor
SicTransitGloria
Age: 32
Gender: Female
Posts: 1150
October 23rd, 2009 at 12:07pm
O.o

Wow, Nab. Sick is beautiful.
Keep writing, I only come on this sote to see your poetry!
xxx
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
October 25th, 2009 at 05:43am
Thankyouthankyouthankyou. (:

For reading, for commenting, hell, even for clicking on my little link. : D I miss your own poetry by the way.
kings of leon.
Always Born a Crime
kings of leon.
Age: 32
Gender: Female
Posts: 6213
October 29th, 2009 at 02:22pm
"Sick" was inspiring, really. Dark, and as eloquent as always Nab : ) x
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
November 25th, 2009 at 10:17am
I wrote most of this on the train on the way back from work and I honestly don't know how it sounds.

Jack had the
determination
of a sleepy mule.

There are more than few
who would consider such
gold-crusted static
as a quirk frowned upon
- like most quirks -
it is, in all manners of speech,
and expression, both silenced and bellowing,
adamant and noxious.
It grates on your thin films of nerve;
as though spiced,
as though raw and tender
as it should be.

It’s like paperweight
for all the evidence
you would rather want lost,
not held still and stuck
by the hefty weight of imagination
and all difficult essences.

Jack was that iron statue,
and the veined, ageing rock
on your desk.

He kills submission,
creates risk, and chivalry.
He holds the minions of
conformity hostage in the cellar
upstate, across two roads
and down another. He has
them tied up, and their dire
tedium has a knife to its neck.

The air permeates of anticipation.
Jack tells a parable about
stoic firmness. He often says
things like that. ‘Hang in there’
(when you’re holding by the fibers
of non-existence). It would
be far easier for much of the world
to let go, carry on with the weight-
lessness of falling, void of pressure,
than killing your hands and knuckles
and flesh, on a fragile grip that might kill.

Jack would tell you all this
on his own, and galvanize the situation
with his reality.
But this quirk, like most of them,
should perhaps just stay quiet,
heavy,
old,
and stubborn like the
sleepy mule that Jack is.
misa misa.
Shotgun Sinner
misa misa.
Age: 33
Gender: Female
Posts: 8241
November 30th, 2009 at 11:19pm
hey
I liked it. It seemed very contemporary and experimental, but i liked that lack of firm structure. You had some very nice descriptions. This was my favourite
It grates on your thin films of nerve;
as though spiced,
as though raw and tender
as it should be

very nice.
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
December 2nd, 2009 at 07:00am
Thank you very much. (: <3 Yeah I tend to be a fan of contemporary poetry these days, but I haven't written much in a while so it's one of those ~things. Thanks for commenting. (:
ros.
Salute You in Your Grave
ros.
Age: 36
Gender: -
Posts: 2442
December 17th, 2009 at 01:41am
I really like your most recent one. I think your style has changed quite a bit since the last time i was on here.
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
December 20th, 2009 at 08:28am
Thanks so much Ros. (:

The Virus.

On the outside,
we’re just throwing dices.
It’s all silly, a gamble; there’s not even
real money involved.
I shoulder what you say is
just a galvanizing feat
bereft of tangible formation, or
intelligence quota’d the universally accepted
way. On the outside, this can be trashed and
likened easily to luck, phases, something-or-the-
other.

“You can start to grow up.”
The counter dime sizzles with your spitting acid.

But, you see,

I.
ten years from now, the words
will turn to maggots, bone-white, squirming and
fleshy with the meat of notions I swallowed.
Taken apart interiorly, perhaps,
unbeknownst to those it (should) matter to,
and easily uncommitted by my memory.
Decomposition is a double-edged sword.

“You wouldn’t want that, honey, would you?”
Wheedle. Smile a little.

I can easily change the world,
I just need a little more time.

At most, (I clear my throat), I am
told it acts as a paradigm of verbal decay,
and literature that rots and moulds and putrefies
in your skull; I’ve been feeling the symptoms, see.
It’s how I know. No, it should be nipped in
the metaphorical bud, not until
stage two begins.

II.
It starts off with the lightest, slightest hint of discomfort
that festers over time, from – or so it feels as such –
the vicinity of your ribcage (or gut, depending
on starvation habits).
It can rip at you, and puncture pinpricks the color
of air, you wouldn’t even think that the tantalizing
throbbing is something dying inside you, something
else living and growing at parasitical speed.
The dull thud-thud-thud
just feels like deadened rhythm, lost words
waiting to be found.

I can stop this
from happening.

“You can stop living in your head.
It’s safe out here.
It is.”

It’s not, though, I’ve tried –
that’s the oldest trick in the book.
Also, it is stage

III.
when the victim
falls under the bubbling duvets, cinched to
be a safety net, and asphyxiates. It isn’t pretty.
The weight of the world is there, really,
the whole universe. Everyone who fell off,
let go,
stopped thinking,
stopped wanting,
died not trying,
forgot to believe,
lives in reality,
lives in fear of distance,
the unknown,
the known,
everyone’s there. Everyone. They lie there
under illusions that it is safe, and well, and neutral, but the web is
spittle-like, fragile and it’s breaking (and has been for centuries,
only Cummings, and Wilde, and Eliot, and
good man Orwell, all the others: only they
found out. So they kept on climbing and they didn’t
fall, so, why
should I?).

You don’t want to be there, honey,
trust
me.
It isn’t pretty.

A sigh.

“We built birdhouses together, backyard
hammocks, a life in two years,
hopes, dreams, and things,
and your sodding
pen, and your
godforsaken notebook,
are what you keep from it all.

Irrational thoughts.
Adults
don’t do this.”

But I’m
still building.
Mental worlds and muse and it isn’t
luck or a phase, something-or-the-other,
what it is, is exertion, though perhaps not
under the conventional category, where
it falls in your face, like sappy banter
of which time doesn’t quite rid.
And it’s fine
if this is filed under Ridiculous Notions, but
we’re not throwing dices. We extricate our-
selves from the beatific deceptions; practicality
is just a short-handed criminal, trying to
find his other half. Though if the dices
are polished, and the stones are carved, thrown
and read, well, at least I’m trying to win, love.
You just stopped
trying completely.
misa misa.
Shotgun Sinner
misa misa.
Age: 33
Gender: Female
Posts: 8241
December 20th, 2009 at 07:41pm
wow i really liked this.
It was very powerful, and such an interesting idea.
You have such a distinctive style, and a wonderfully unique way of describing things. I really admire that.
I can easily change the world,
I just need a little more time.

genius.
I can't wait to see what you do next.
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
December 22nd, 2009 at 10:21pm
Thanks so much Nadiya. (: Your comments mean a lot.
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
December 31st, 2009 at 02:50am
I really hate trying to write these past 2 weeks because all I come up with is imo shit, so this was a half-hearted attempt. There was more in my head but it got stuck somewhere and I couldn't write it properly. xD Feedback's always appreciated. (:

-----

Ten.

The new year bellowed in moss-green for Antoinette,
clocks and capers and provincial ruins on her feet.
Her fist full of butterflies,
staunch lines dig at her skin.
She says, everything is a debacle in cold, thin bottles
of liquid quests that we lug down in hopes of slaying our fears.

So swing in the crevasse of tomorrow and
yesterday, and do not fall on either.
Let’s not believe in time until we see it for ourselves.
This was her magnum opus,
And it is yours,
in many or so ways: the color of leaf, alive but shackled;
single in its lonely passage from twig to twig to
field.

She picks up each shard
and builds her kingdom. From twig, to twig,
to field.
misa misa.
Shotgun Sinner
misa misa.
Age: 33
Gender: Female
Posts: 8241
January 1st, 2010 at 12:24am
if this is what half-hearted attempts are for you, then i am truly jealous.
i liked it.
She says, everything is a debacle in cold, thin bottles
of liquid quests that we lug down in hopes of slaying our fears.

i loved these lines. Kinda fitting being New Year.
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
January 3rd, 2010 at 04:22am
Thanks so much. (: Your comments are always appreciated.

______________

A Woman and the Twenty-Sixth Army.

INFANCY

Six years ago,
I crafted you by knocking
my fingers, and stretching the
tautness of fawn smiles.
You were tall, and thin.
Or,
you were meek,
and I could color your insides
with molten gold and odd grammar.
Sometimes you started as a number,
and ended in ways that surprised me.

Back then, it played out without effort.
Coal black fishes were just
coal black fishes,
and the terrain of dreams that resulted
burgeoned and died in my sleep,
They never came back,
and I never went searching.
We both took little
from the idea of scrutiny;
having no tools to investigate failure,
I stood with ignorance.

VOLUMES

We reached the labyrinth of
both existences. I took the path
often taken, knowing little of its
inclinations and hooks. I acknowledge
the beaten down grass blades, grown submissive,
after generations of bad journals and
dead ethics.
I acknowledge the sickly mustard color
of parched fields, bones both broken and whole,
even the weeds that tickle the lines of
my ankles. I acknowledge that more
doesn’t always liken to a panacea,
and less
doesn’t always lack.
But for a while, I plodded straight through
while forgetting the soft paws
of your ditty.
And for a while,
it was fine.
There were blinding epiphanic bursts
that halted the streams, and eroded some youth,
but mostly, really,
it was fine.

CRYSTALLINE

Six months ago, I looked back.
Now, they talk about turning points,
pivotal excuses to drop what we
already started, and turn on our heels,
into history, into transcending worlds,
into the psychedelic abstract.
I’ve grown wary of reason, logic, linear
methods of thought;
your bereavement only brought me
to a guttered venture. I’ve tired myself
with each hard fact, stoic and aching,
less than a modicum of heroic style
or undulation. So I craft you again,
this time with willing fingers;
this time with the knowledge that dexterity
isn’t the best solution, and sense
is hardly the road to take.

(Tall, or thin, I take you apart,
or stout while I color your insides.)

misa misa.
Shotgun Sinner
misa misa.
Age: 33
Gender: Female
Posts: 8241
January 3rd, 2010 at 04:31am
I always look forward to reading your work.
You have such interesting concepts for poems and i really love the contemporary structure.
well done again.
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
January 17th, 2010 at 08:47pm
Thanks very much! (: (:
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
March 13th, 2010 at 09:22am
Eggs/Basket.

My form of counselling is self-
driven, and the state of the dashboard speaks for itself.

Because articulation is not the strongest of virtues -
when what is written dilutes in wood and ink -
the sovereign has his throne cerebrally.

We can, I suppose, talk.

Consonants and vowels and vocal inter-
jections slipping stupidly from our mouths;
our secrets undermined by lack of vocabulary;
our depressions in a pretence, modicum of carelessness.
Sounding only as gargantuan as
the most obscure synonym we know.
We’re now

‘disconsolate,
and tuckered out’.

Victims of our own creativity.
We try and end up like stories we’d want to read,

but keep it small.
Neat. Some things are ineffable
and often, best left that way.
MyChemicalBlack
Salute You in Your Grave
MyChemicalBlack
Age: -
Gender: -
Posts: 2351
March 13th, 2010 at 01:33pm
Victims of our own creativity.
We try and end up like stories we’d want to read


Unfortunately this is so very, very true.

Loved this poem, it's relatable in a way. Smiley
Awesome work on it. ^_^
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
March 14th, 2010 at 07:22am
Thank you so much! (:
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
March 20th, 2010 at 10:57am
Bottomless Bottles.

Your chorus of flirts dictate my weekends,
my quirks complement the Italian suit you’re in.
Your rhymes have no reason, only redundancy,
but I speak in tongues only you can decipher.
You’ve sifted through bodies to find my fingers,
I’m taking peeks of monochrome lives in what-if.

What-if all trains arrived
at impeccable timing,
or the night
gone by too fast,
or mistakes had been eradicated.
You would be flirting with marriage to the heavy-hearted;
I would learn to live with (only) myself,
and we’d both still be dreaming.

___________

Unrequited.

He’s not a friend, he’s not a lover,
only marshalling for an army of nostalgia
in the nutshell of three years.

____________

Kill The Mazes.

I’m not where we lead to,
The road forks and twines in visions blurred where
timing has everything to do with fate,
but nothing to do with love.
I’m where the stasis meets the flurry,
caught in a relentless percussion of rivalry.

I polish every ragged emotion whenever given the chance,
every rusty tin-shade,
the broken arrowheads in blackened algae that have
burrowed and established a nest internally.
Picking a bone with the ones in charge
is no longer an option.

I’m told answers aren’t given,
only teased with. Even the answers themselves
aren’t quite sure of their initial state of matter.
Why wait, we ask. Why bother.
I’ve long given into the valid notion of
using legs to guide me forth, rather than
the muscular fist in chests far too
tangled with sentiment.
Why wait, I ask. Why bother.
kid from yesterday.
Bleeding on the Floor
kid from yesterday.
Age: 34
Gender: Female
Posts: 1265
March 29th, 2010 at 12:12pm
Canisters.


Keep the pills, they're
ordered to slice off
the portentous errors.
You swallow them, you let
them lick at your flaws,
tongues silk-like, all pink flesh and
acid spittle, woven
romance and chemistry to
dissolve your system’s mistakes
into slivers and ribbons.
You make-believe disintegration.
Neophyte fingers bind around
yellow canisters, sliding down innards
that only pretend to fill,
but functions with little
disparity from the questions
we throw out at sea: Dear
cosmic void, would thoughts taper
with digits piling on these years?
The answers don’t boomerang.
They aren’t illustrated, just yet.
So you write your own ending -
a clean demise, the one you
have exercised foresight upon, holding
true to modern legends – by accident,
in the hands of another; in the hands
of your own. Mother earth plays
only a supporting role, and
it cloys you. It goes well with a platter
of smiles. And then you’re safe
in the rut of seduction of
your own imagination, an avid quasi-reality
that you set out to densify.
The next capsule would seal the deal,
a clockwork of death in the catapulting
emergency of extending life.