wb :

another attempt at poetry. Please critique. And since it's poetry and I myself have a particularly negative view towards poetry, you have greater license to flame.


Evening at the Institution by Adam

Just dark enough to send the

building of voices bounding the hard walls,

wordless spirits,

behind the trickle of pond's water.

Crossed the shadows of fronds waving

at the retort from a drain grille echoing to the open sky

orange firmament cracked with the reds, the purples

apocalyptic above the swaying of shadowed boughs.

Miasma under bluesky encroached with apocalypse

orange footsteps, fronds waving beneath

the voices whispering beneath the

hum of the generator,

someone approaches

my solace.

sorry bout the formatting, it just sux. Word-processing, the spacing is neither important nor intentional.
I tried to cut down all my language to just imagery in this poem, and I took a different, much much more analytical approach to the writing which I think has worked kind of better than previous attempts. ><.

On another note, the next project for yesit'sapun is... *drumrolls*

Haikus! Go read up on what haikus are and should be, how to write them, and post them here. I've tried a few in the past, and they are MUCH more difficult than you'd expect. Very, very difficult in fact.

Post your stuff here!

- adam

Labels: poetry

K, there's a writer's blog gmail account.
yesitsapun@gmail.com, password writersblog
There's a tagboard under the same name, details can be found in the email inbox.
Any long reviews and responses to works can be sent to the email.

Labels: admin

Just a few things. #1 : we need a tagboard. will somebody do it?

#2 i'd like to see more comments on the pieces of writing we post up. Especially the people who're contributors: your resposibility is not just to write, but to give criticism. Even if you can't find anything profound to say it would be good just to state your opinion, whether you thought it was good, etc. Feedback is good in itself.


p.s. We're all currently busy with tests, but expect to see some stuff soon.

Labels: admin

'Yea, for e'en as we speak, the world doth collapse, shaking the very timbers and foundations of existence.

On this day of fiery damnation and hellfire, only the truly faithful shall be saved. The Ark of Salvation shall stop, sprinkling only the believers with the cleansing power of Our Master, soaking and staining their lily-white garments with red, salty blood.

On this Day of days, yea, Son of Man, ye shalt be put on the rack, and called up for the Reckoning. Gehenna shall begin on the face of this very earth, and only the Blessed and the Chosen shall be spared the Reaper.

Rise, my Brethren, raise your plowshares and your rakes, turn them upon your fellows, just as Cain did unto Abel, so Man shall reap Man, sowing the ground with the Blood of the Sacrifice. Torch the humble dwellings of filth and poverty - they shall be purified by the touch of the fire, to become offerings which are pleasing unto the Master.

Slit the throats of the dozen cursed knaves, who corpulently sit. Nay, their blood shalt not water the earth, nor their flesh feed the soil; they have shamed their Birthright, shamed their Family, and are thus, to be cast out of the Divine Cycle. The ripping of their souls will provide no delight, no respite form the torture of Mortality.

Remember well, my Brethren. For as ye wilt reap, so shalt ye sow - the smallest child, the sweetest babe, all these are pleasing unto the Master, and it is thy sacred duty to satiate His needs, that He might render unto you, the things that are due you.

Remember this, and weep.'

- Excerpt from The Book of Nazal

Labels: prose

lol. Since I failed at finishing my month, I might as well post some of them here.

In the morning, we file down onto the astroturf and arrange in neat rows for flag-raising ceremony. We mumble through the national anthem, the pledge, groan through the announcements, and subsequently file back. We're a little weathered and a little jaded from the last nine years of this. It is meant to inspire pride and confidence; we are simply too tired, too accustomed to the morning calisthenics to twitch even an eyebrow. We are a cynical generation, wind-tossed, battered, white mice for each new experiment. We long for sincerity. No solutions will do, only something to fight for.

-adam

plz comment. Thanks. Any comment at all really, I'd just like to gauge response.

Labels: drabble, prose

"leaaaavin' aawwn a jet plaaane, don't know wheeeen ahh'll be baaack again..."

Fritz muttered as he pressed "next" on his music player.

That old song had been in the player's hard disk for seven years now. It had been one of those which came pre-loaded on the Sony Walkman, those you couldn't delete or copy to your computer. Everytime he selected "Random Play All", it would inevitably hit that song sooner or later.

It had been a song from his parent's generation; and even the other pre-loaded songs had become classics over the span of a decade. Rock, punk, metal, emo, all went out of vogue at some point. The classics of yesteryear lay mostly forgotten in museums and private collections, enjoyed by an outdated minority.

The next song filled his ears as the old player strained to bring to memory what lines of code governed its behaviour.

The more I fill it, the slower it becomes, he mused.

The player had been a gift from his parents, on his 18th birthday when he had finally come of age. A parting gift, something to remind him of the reason he existed in the first place. A memory of his nurturers, his caretakers, something to keep with him once he broke every other tie with them.

In his century, children were considered independent of their parents once they reached 18 years of age. Conversely, parents were not obliged to take care of them after that age. In that century, one usually saw the child break every bond and strike it out on his own; a few stayed for another year or so, and even fewer took care of their parents for the rest of their lives. Keepsakes like the venerable player were not uncommon.

"to be more like me and be less like you..."

His ears caught those lines, words his parents had listened to a whole generation before him. He looked at the scuffed black player, the sweet irony glistening on the thought like sweat on a lawyer whose conscience hounded his dreams.

He shrugged. The world had no place for such thoughts.

He changed the song again, the song of the Volga Boatmen. Something old and eternal, something to stay with him as he went back to work on that temperate afternoon in the gray city under a dying sun.

Labels: prose

All I remember was the earth yelling at the top of her lungs. I doubled over, felt the biting ozone give way to... what? There was nothing. No, there was light, pretty, unbearable light, attractive like the glow of an angler fish's beckon, only turned on to full. My win - what the fuck happened to my wings? I was walking, leather straps in my hand and destiny in my gut, both too big for me to handle. I remember a loud, fiery sigh, his flesh burning me, simplicity, irresistability, dadaist. No, it was a whinny.

BANG. FATHER!

Eyelids parting, revealing Scene 1: INT. DAY, a temple, hangover gnawing at my skull. I rub my head... no tired locks. My hair's all gone... where? I hear tok tok tok tok ding ding ding ding, stench of iron and sweat inescapable. It's the turn of the century, the age of repression, where the hurried naked feet try and find release from the wheel.

BANG. MOKSHA!

My eyes are getting used to the light. I'm too tired, there are so many people. I can see green, yellow, blue, red, purple, and a lot of golden thread. Everyone's looking at him and screaming his name, the next thing you know he might be crowd-sailing. Backstage passes into the puppetshow in heaven. There are so many people. My job is to dangle the Carrots of Prosperity, Knowledge and Sex in front of their oversensitive, detestable noses.

BANG. 1/3!

All I can think of is that man. I need to get him back. "What is your name?" he says. No. He saith.

"Have you got a name for me?" I answer. He looks at me funny. I know my name. My name is

My name is Icarus.

Labels: prose

As the brook swelled with icemelt in the springtime, as the trees bloomed with their first flowers, so did his heart burst with the joy he felt.

With newfound energy, his weary heart soared above the grey world below into the blue-gold glory of the open sky. He felt not even the wings that held him aloft, seeing only the vast expanse of freedom stretched out before him. That burden- weariness- fell from his shoulders and tumbled towards the earth.

Earth! It held no meaning now for a soul thus freed! The chains of gravity, the shackles of existence, all snapped in that instant of liberation. Liberation! The feeling flowed through his blood, thick as honey, smooth as quicksilver, chilling him with its fiery embrace. Oh, how could the heart long for anything other than sweet, sweet liberation!

He soared above the world, free from the petty concerns of the rabble.

He flew, flew, for what seemed like eternity-

-TWO HOURS, read the display.

He blinked.

-TWO HOURS, it read. No mistake about it.

He blinked again.

His aches and cares met him as Death does life- slowly, inexorably, suddenly. They crept up on him, snuck their roots and tendrils into the edges of his consciousness, took hold of his mind and chained it to the earth. They broke into his thoughts as a flood, carrying away all the visions and leaving in their place a brood of monsters, clawing at his mind, eager to trap and roast the struggling bird.

He blinked for the third time.

"That'll be two hundred creds, sir."

He turned towards the voice, saw someone standing at the edge to something. A cell. He took off the helmet.
Realization had taken its own time today.

He paid the brainjack's owner, and went on his way.

He would have to stop soon. He was getting hooked, and the world never waited for the dreamers, the simulation-addicts. That indescribable pleasure, that momentary release, would have to come from elsewhere.

Perhaps he would just give it up. Stop smelling the roses, for the thorns pricked him. Stop loving- if he never loved, he never would have cried.

Pleasure had been the ruin of too many a good man. He wasn't going to let himself succumb. He would be the last man, if the whole world went mad.

Labels: prose

Haha adam flamed this already but I think it's not dead yet. Time to make it deader. If I get universal criticism I'll discontinue it as a poem and write it as prose instead.

The thin black line

The thin black line, marking the start
Of the race; each man running
Different lengths, different courses
The end point remains the same

The thin black line, on textbooks
Drawn in by their owners, for study
To what end? When will the study
Or the line, ever draw to a close?

The thin black line, a scrawl laden on top
Bearing witness to the law, crime,
Failures, successes, losses, profit
Hopes, fears, the line goes on

The thin black line, marking the end
The finish, the race run, the distance
Measured, and found wanting
Counted, and found short

(A start to a never ending poem)

Labels: poetry

Does this count?

No it's not the line from the noble start of Red vs Blue. Incidentally redvsblue.com was recently featured in the ST. First season is definitely worth checking out, but you know the series is in decline when the highlight of the second season was a robot making a spanish music video.

Why are we here? (a student's lament)

Why are we here? Not why are we typing at our computer in the middle of the night, but why are we here, on earth, in school. School, where we spend approximately 12 of our waking and 2 of our sleeping hours every weekday. Looking at it that way, we spend more time at school then at home. Shouldn't it then become our home? No. No, because one is a place we go to willingly, while the other is one we have to be dragged kicking and screaming out of bed by the alarm clock to face. Because at one we can relax and feel comfortable, while at the other we devote ourselves to a wide, government approved plethora of subjects and topics, 90% of which we will never use in the future, but 100% of which affects your ability to choose that future. Do not damn the lawyer who cannot do math. Perhaps the most disgusting thing is that one life extends its dirty tendrils into the other, school making its presence plainly felt in the house by the sheer amounts of homework students have to contend with every day.

Glance into the past, and take a peek into the future. 6 years to a major exam, then 4, then 2, and then every year. And what comes after that? Working nine to five every day, with work taken home as well, if the worker wants to excel and make something of himself, that he may rise higher and do more overtime. Sounds familiar? When does it end?

Perhaps never.

-JX

Labels: prose

Modern society is worrying.

It's so much easier, so much more cathartic to just give up and shut yourself out and rant about it outside its fortress of steel walls and glass domes. Many people do that. I know many people who do that.

They label themselves. "Freak". "Born loser". "Boliao". It's fashionable to label yourself, stigmatise yourself, discriminate against yourself. Heck, self-deprecation isn't the exception now, it's the norm. People swear at themselves like there's no tomorrow. They trip up for no apparent reason, because it's the in-thing. They look normal but no, no one's normal any more. Nothing is normal.

Not even ranting. Ranting nowadays is about a mass of angsty self-contradictory phrases thrown together like, I don't know, flour, sugar and eggs?

I'm ranting now. I should stop.

Labels: prose

The world is changing. The Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, the Golden Ages, all those are things of the past. We don't need no creative thought, no smart asses, no rebellious self-important bastards.

We don't need no fucked up brats in society. We need good, loyal, dependable workers. Stuff that comes out of schools nowadays just don't make the grade. Too much creativity and you get a bunch of artists, advertisers and anarchists. Society is more fast-paced than ever. Slow down and the guy behind you runs you over and keeps going. No time for rest or relaxation, and your recreation is going to come from working. The world is going to eat you. Rebel, and you are like the shipwrecked sailor screaming against the relentless ocean. You sail on the stormy seas, or smash yourself on the rocks. There are no safe harbours, and even the strongest ship sinks someday. Learn to love the lash of the whip, or walk the plank. Any sounds and thoughts are drowned out by the roar of the hungry sea and the beat of the drums: one-two, one-two, row, row, row.

The sharks are hungry, so keep rowing or feed them.
Your choice.

Labels: prose

you know what? it's okay, i don't care if you told me or not. questions, questions, all these questions, where/how/who are you areyouokay est-cequetum'aimes don'tyouknowiloveyouso

like the whirring of a shaver as it vibrates, or the death grunt of a bee, like radio static sshhiivveerriinngg sshhiivveerriinngg

IT WILL SHAKE YOU

answers answers written across your brow. Every faux angst leaves a line somewhere (between your eyes) (above your nose) (every time you frown). So obvious, so telling except

i don't recognise your face anymore. you're overdeveloped and underdeveloped, I detest you. however pretty you get, your heart will always be that rotting, miniscule lump of flesh beating to your whim and fancy [badup ba badup dup badup ba badup dup] the sound of crash collisions.

i met someone who said that the heart that beats for others is the happiest, and that makes all the difference, a complete stranger has the capacity to care. you're just all about yourself, number 2 for a year, superstar for an hour, yourself for a minute. you're trapped in your own little box of medals and badges, I label you Tin Man, the Faceless Being who Means Well.

get back here, i miss you so.

Labels: prose

See title. I don't think we're getting enough criticism, so if you have time, and you damn well should, try and at least say something about what the rest of us have posted. Especially if you haven't been posting.

cheers,
adam

Labels: other

Most writers predict mankind to be a nova - consuming itself in a blaze of jaded nihilism and fuck-the-world.

Most writers paint worlds that have been devastated and ruined by the pushing press of people, shitting and squatting in their own filth.

Most writers depict our future to be one where death's hounds roam the streets, whilst Death sits pretty in ivory towers of netcreds.

Most writers create hardass characters with claws for hands, bullets for words, and a tough cybernetic substitute for a personality.

Most writers..

Most writers...

Like me.

Labels: prose

They said that it was for the suicidal. They said you'd have to be crazy to play it - stark raving mad. They said (the ones who'd survived the trip, tapping their noses knowingly) that it was the greatest thrill a person could, right before you were dead. Crushed insect at the bottom of some metal canyon in an expanse of city, and nobody would glance twice. He was headed straight for it anyway, shake heads and move on. Nothing to see here.

It was all that. The socio-psychologists were having a field-decade, giving talks and writing articles about this hyper-counter-culture. Nihilism, they called it - super stars for a day, then wasted.

Bander was a nihilist. It wasn't obvious; he had eye-bags, below eyes greying slightly from the use of stims, black hair, spiked punk-style. He had a reinforced, two-millimeter steel plate beneath the skin of his forehead, and the bridge of his nose was entirely a chrome rod protruding from the bit of his face between his eyes. That wasn't it, and neither were the black leather jacket and jeans he sported. He stood loosely, but completely still.

The greying eyes peered downwards through the transparent window at Earth below. He'd seen some pictures in the museums about how it used to look: vast and green-blue, topped with an icing of swirling white clouds. No such luck this side of the millenium. The swirling currents looked closer to silver, on a backdrop of almost uniform grey.

Practiced of experience and sheer instinct to survive, the eyes swept the clouds, taking note of the movements. He knew the grey cloud-cover wasn't actually uniform; the silver currents pulled at the clouds, swirling them into incomprehensibly complex vortexes and eddies, pushed one way or another by incoming streams.
Humanity had given up the surface a century ago, battered by the endless sonic boom of a hundred million aircraft, personal craft, liners and military jets tearing across the sky at once.

Bander took stock once more, visualising the descent silently. In five minutes the adequacy of his preparation would be at the greatest stake.

Labels: prose

For those of you who appreciate satire, check out 'Yes Minister' and 'Yes Prime Minister' edited by jonathan lynn and anthony jay. While not really a work of high literature, certainly well worth a read just for the sheer hilariousness. Hilarity. Whatever.

adam

Labels: other

i got two cents once.
i didn't even ask for them.
someone just put them in my hand
and said, "there you go, sonny boy".

i looked at the coins.
two shiny pieces of metal
reflecting the sun into my eyes,
blinding me at times, when i wasn't careful.

so i put them into my pocket.
there, i knew i wouldn't lose them.
even though i was one of the forgetful ones
i savoured the feeling of them jangling in my pocket.

knowing that in a few days,
i would forget all about them.
lost in the wash, left on the table,
out of sight, out of mind, out of luck.

one day, i met someone.
and i thought he might need
those two cents more than me.
so i searched for the shiny coins.

i couldn't find them at all.
i looked in my pocket, my wallet
until i found one, pitted and tarnished.
it didn't reflect the sun as well anymore.
so i fished out my own cent
added it to the old one
and gave him two cents.

Labels: poetry

we're all waging a war against a hypothetical 'self', against verbose french-sounding labels, against the fantasy of a daydreaming mind. middle-class, altruistic, asian, ambitious, dry clean only. they want a smile, you want the world, simple conflict of interest. does orange have to rhyme with door-hinge, does it always have to be i ____ you, you ____ me? very soon you'll find that life is but an exercise in vocabulary.

i'll continue pretending i know what you're talking about, and you'll be there to balance the equation, like a witty-conscientious-responsible-diligent-godfearing-leader. testimonial? no thanks. i want to be remembered. till then, take a number. have a seat. have a cookie. multiply, divide, convert to euros and yen, and tabulate this thing called Love that you boast of. would you like some fries with that?

Labels: prose

"Why is the sky blue?"
A little girl once asked me.
Well, I didn't know the answer,
And I told her thus.

She held it for a moment, her little head in thought.
"But you must!", came her reply.
"You're a grownup. You know everything."
And I chuckled.

How could I bear to tell her
That I do not know what I know?
And so today a little girl
Still thinks it's painted blue.

Labels: poetry

so you think that you got it on? doors open, hair tied up, yellow brick road all the way? there's beauty in uncertainty, imperfection, complication. the world has no place for rigid bricklaying. we live in a whirlwind of colour and contour, just a passing cloud underneath the rainbow. follow your asymptotal life in your little shack, that's all you're gonna get.

alternatively

one could learn to open the windows and trade mildew for briny breeze. embrace distortion. new smiles, new handshakes. the delicious pain of a fresh puncture. brilliant exchange, the glisten of teeth. testing wet paint signs for yourself. the downfall of the powerful.

let the jazz take over. this is the real utopia.

Labels: prose

Morning

The humid dawn
oozed
like soft, half-baked clay,
through the hands of a
soft, half-assed sculptor.

It squeezed,
like spiders,
into every nook, cranny
and
hole.

-Terence.

fuck hot humid mornings.

Labels: poetry

http://hboff.bungie.org/viewtopic.php?p=26821
This is a contest to write something Halo-based, in 117 words. Thought I'd go for it.

1: Faith
++RECORDING RETRIEVED
++SGT A. JOHNSON, TIME: UNKNOWN
++AUDIO TRANSCRIPT BEGINNING

Faith!

To some of you, it is a mere word, to be uttered when a man pleases! To some of you, it is nothing more than something airy-fairy no sane soldier possesses! And to the rest of you who ain’t listening to me, you’d better pray that God loves you!

We fight the Covenant! We fight billions of alien bastards, with a few popguns and toy cars!

What keeps us fighting? We are real MEN of the UNSC! We will not let any obstacle put us down! We will not let a playground bully smash our noses into the sand! We have something in our hearts the Covenant and their Prophets can never hope to understand!

Faith!

2: Redeployment

Two plasma mortars whizzed by the Pelican’s nose as it swerved left, narrowly missing a tower which decided to join the party. Fate decided to toss a couple of Banshees into the bargain, which left the Pelican’s cargo extremely unhappy.
“HQ to Charlie 213, you read?”
“HQ to Charlie 213, redeploy twenty miles south-south-east of your position, over!”

“… WHAT?!”

Static cut off Sergeant Jiffy’s witty reply. Perhaps it was for the better, as south-south-east happened to be back the way they came, past the Banshees and Wraith emplacements, and a Scarab which just came into view.
“It’s your call, Sarge.”
“We’re going in. The worst we can do is falter. Earth needs us now, more than ever.”

Labels: prose

Easy to get lost in the night time; that feeling that settles in around nine thirty and won't let go, like an oversized mosquito that latches on, withdrawing your lifeblood, leaving you sleepy, anaemic. Dizzy.

Easy to let go with a yawn, falling into the heap of songs and lyrics and la la la; it seems like a good idea at the time. You've maybe (an inkling might suggest) had a bit too much of this fluff for the previous decade; but for the moment (and I stress, for the moment) everything is smiling and hazy, floating awkward-like in a bathing-pool of temporary memories.

After that I'll go splash some cold water on my face, remind myself not to think about the silly stuff, and go to sleep. Good night.


- adam

Labels: prose

crap i can't post this yet. does anybody know how to make sure blogger doesn't automatically delete any white spaces to the left of your text? it's screwing me up.

adam

p.s. tell you what, just msn me and i'll send you a txt file if you're interested in reading it. it IS a poem, so feel free to flame away.

Labels: other