“‘Sir,’ she said with a quiet smile, ‘you’re blushing madly, and I can’t imagine why.’ John Stone did the following in this order: Looked at the ground, smiled, looked at her, shrugged, giggled, darted his glance away, and attempted to say the word ‘thanks’ but only mouthed it, letting out an airy breath drunken with a promise of laughter.”

“Mr. Stone, you see, having seen many streets in the city by way of meandering (less by account of wanderlust and more for homelessness’ sake) had rarely had another soul hold their place on the sidewalk near enough him for some kind of mutual connection to be made, let alone one such chance meeting of himself and a fourtysomething with a smile like a hanging red candle, and just as warm. Naturally the man had little idea of what to exactly do with the newfound opportunity.”
Keep on Readin’ on?

Slowetry, Part 1

January 12, 2010

After reading something beautiful the past couple of days, I decided I should try and write some slower poetry, with more focus on each word carrying a lot of meaning. I also wanna be able to use (but not necessarily stop using) words I love to use and use all the time, so none of the following allowed for the following five days of poetic practice: World, Love, Gentle, Dream, Horizon, City, and Wanderlust. (Strange of me, you say? Poetry might be limitless, but it isn’t until you feel around for the glass limits that are already there.) So! Here’s one:

Song of a Wary Monster

None shall look to you for beauty
But there is screeching art
Like churning silk
Curling beneath your wingspan

None shall seek your solace
But the deep gaze
Of your flattened eyes
Only looks to embrace

None shall run to you
And yet you would sprint
Across Earth to no end
If you could not destroy
A thousand by feet
To reach a single friend.

None see your goodness
And yet, if they would listen
They could hear the booming of your heart
They could hear your bellowing,
Knowing it is not crafted from anger
But from weighted, lofted longing

Worlds! Worlds beneath the edge of your grounded vision and yet your fingers try to cling to flat earth–they cannot!
Is the pinning safety of a sky-blanket so soothing? Is gravity so severe a fear? Have you forgotten your leap?
Your worries may run rampant–apparently they sap your energy to sprint in like,
But know: Horizons are not won by throwing a rope over the precipice!
Can you hear me down here, your estranged echo?
I am beneath you, flying in faith,
Yelling in curvature.

(Dunno if I like this or not. Kinda didactic. I enjoy the last line, at least.)

Quick Story

January 7, 2010

Despite the world collapsing around her and directly throwing its debris into her spirit, there was something beautiful left in her voice. Something still there, hidden to her but present, even if barely discernible, like a birdsong filtered through the echoes of a winding tunnel. It was there, and he would find it.

More poetry experiments

December 29, 2009

So I oneword-ed today and got “birdhouse”:

Jail being a “birdhouse”
Does that mean that prisoners can fly?
Does that mean that they can sing?
(Though I have no idea why.)

And liked it decent and didn’t get much out of the word besides, so I looked at other people’s entries for birdhouse and found:

“Bad word followed by another and yet an other. What complete nonsense.” (Hat tip: TiganMurda)

Which is much more fun and made me write this weird rhythm psuedo-Alice in Wonderland knockoff:

Another, another, another! These words wander aimlessly despite even rows,
Hustling along through meaningless space, enduring no ends! Oh, but a line ends,
Does it not? And a poem ends, at least not accounting for a reader’s thought!
But you’ll have no end as such yet–No, words are not done with you,
Though you may do away with them. Go on, stop! Defy your eyes from this page,
You should find yourself hardly in a position of power, for these lines do exist
Far past your life’s in like! The poem means no evil, friend, in knowing it will outlast you,
Knowing it can grow and frolic unending in new childrens’ minds; you may well be immortal with it,
For its gloating is only known through the eyes of your own thinking eyes!

A little chiptune…

December 26, 2009

Just messed around a bit the other day. Nothin’ crazy. Enjoy!

Quick Story

December 23, 2009

“Table it,” he said with a smirk. (She gently pushed the paper over to the side.) “The platters ain’t silver here. They ain’t even tin.”

And then I did this: (Kinda rough, might touch it up some and lengthen it later. I like it, though.)

Hands of horror! The stricken man knows not the world
That holds him so fearfully in the grasp of their minds,
For what could be known but such unnatural curvature,
Staggeringly jagged, beautiful if made by man
But not when partly man himself! “Know your home!”, they screech!
“Find your way to a refinery! Know smoke, know fire!”
If he could cover up his face with hands he would,
And yet he is indestructible but by feelings.
He takes their stones better–harsher things, words,
They may well be cast in steel. He once raised a hand to quell them.
It seemed like he had just halfway uncurled a fist,
But eternally held in the position. They opposed his cling to life with horror.
O! If only you could be a noble statue to be beheld!
He has wished many times for his fingers to be burnt, melted,
And then molded to hold another close–
But then he thinks on the pain of heat for them, and like times before,
Knows the sadness of walls.

Some wallpaper poems

December 22, 2009

Because I’ve been bad about updating during finals the past couple of weeks, here’s a few short poems, too. I went to oneword.com and got the word “wallpaper”, and in sixty seconds wrote this:

There’s nothing left
But the wallpaper
I couldn’t rip away

Even the walls have deserted us

But I didn’t love it and thought it was kinda depressing, so I wrote a couple more. Here’s one in meter:
Keep on Readin’ on?

“We’re not done yet!”

December 22, 2009

{A Phonograph Recording: Part 1}

[Kinda gimmicky, kinda rough, kind of a test run for doing more. But that’s part of the blog, I guess.]

…”We’re not, and you know why!”

Holiest of hells, I muttered to myself in my head. The guy’s not going to let me jump this proverbial boat, is he? Promptly after yelling that like murder down at me from up on top of the sewer pipe, he grabbed the top edge of the pipe, swung in, and dashed down with a misplaced sense of heroism. I just stood for a minute, letting the words sift through me, before confirming with myself that, yes, the guy was nuts. Maybe one of these days he’ll run into a pillar somewhere, I thought once again. That’d be a nice sigh for me.

I should say: My business is strange, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned from it, it’s that strangeness is a relative concept. Keep on Readin’ on?