wb :

my room-
filled with
magazines- newsweek, popular science;
books, both old
and new- boccaccio, dante,
to goethe, then gabriel garcia marquez,
asimov, nietzsche,

and the bed; beside it,
music through the ages- bach, bach, williams,
the heart asks pleasure first,
danse macabre beside canto alla vita,
but we're all living in amerika anyway.

then the computer.
chock full of useful junk,
useless thoughts,
games and games, and
my link to the other world out there.
my other link to the world out there.

but in my room,
what is really mine

but these words?

Labels: poetry

Directions

Red light green light angry red and orange lights blaring in a traffic jam. Don't walk, walk, no u-turns, slow traffic, 70, end of school zone. They say it's like clockwork, I say it's more like music, with a conductor armed with a giant whip. Tempo is king, if it's your time, it's your time. It's cleverly strewn together; sometimes dancing with fluid graceful headlights, sometimes a moving paradox like 'expressway'. This is the river where the blood of a city flows. It scares me, because a road is a place of mortal peril: always looking for toes out of line to smash-crush-destroy in a spectacular story spanning news agencies. I saw it coming. A road is the place where individuality goes to die, replaced by - they say it's clockwork, I say it's more like music.

So this is it: the smooth new cigarette between tired lips, the metallic click of the lighter, the ghostly, wispy sigh of a tragic collision of karma. This is how it ends; after the rain, the park probably wouldn't burn if I dropped my cigarette on purpose. A civic minded shoe smothers the fire, a first step of a long journey on a completely different path towards the sunset. Maybe the giant 'The End' appears only when you reach it. Lately, I've let myself go, checked my teeth and tie in the rear view mirror too many times. Sultry was the name of your smile, and the showbiz was too much for you to take. Dead-end, no-go, because we've reached the metaphorical place between the devil and the deep blue sea. Where do we go from here?

I'll be walking, running if I have to. I'll be fine, with a briefcase full of manuscripts in one hand, unimpressive scars in the other, and the wind rubbing shoulders (please stay in Lane 1). And when we (inevitably) reach the same crossroads again, please wave hello, because green men get very bored with their thankless cycle.




P.S. Sorry for spamming.

Labels: prose

to think that I would fear the hand of fate!-
and I, instead of faithfully awaiting
death, who then in turn replaces life;

still seek escape from prisons of the soul!-
but as they say, just is the fate of fools; and
death, who then in turn replaces life,

will see to it that I shall meet my end!-
in time; but no-one can withstand sweet
death, who then in turn replaces life.

so am i but another hypocrite!-
but these deceiving eyes of mine will cheat not
death, who then in turn replaces life!

In the room, the women come and go,
But no more is Michelangelo.

Labels: poetry

I was bored.


It happened again, while they stood at his door.
The neighbours were smart, they already knew, and
Turned up the sounds to drown out the silence
Drew their curtains across dusty windows,
Shut their gates, locked and barred. He
Always, always had a smile like sunshine but
A tongue that cut too deep like how his hands would, sometimes.
She wouldn't stand for it, clothes cluttered in musty boxes,
Strewn across the coridoor, five years worth of them.
She stamped her feet, palms crashing across an unshaven face, his spit
Biting her eyes, running down her cheeks,
Like how it used to, between her legs.
What could/would/should they do, other than play along,
Throwing her set of keys on his living room floor,
Next to her/her? earrings from the night before.
His last sight of her will be her torn sundress,
Dior, he spent a whole fucking month's pay on that, but
Frankly my dear, he couldn't give a damn. He couldn't love her
Like she couldn't love him, a four-letter word he swore never to
Say. He knew she'd say yes, if he'd run after some fleeting silhouette
Chasing dead butterflies. But
That could be done tomorrow, after he skirts around the
Broken glass, dead telephones, Dior dresses sunbeam smiles
Varnish on a funeral pyre, stepping and bleeding from
Her set of keys on his living room floor.

Labels: poetry

Sleep

It's on days like this that I sit down and think about it. It comes in waves; I think about how long it's been since I've had a real heart to heart with Someone: pouring emotional truths, stir at low heat until we're simmering and made of glass. It's difficult to share a secret. I'm one of those that don't cry when it rains, because when it does, there's so much more to think about.

I love seeing the city geometry dissolve like this. Not much of a loss anyway, it was Them that outlawed sleep long ago: to Them, I'm just part of the dissolving city geometry, and in the cover of rain, I might close my eyes a bit. Life is good after all - I never expected much - and everyone's trying their best. What the rain didn't cover, the frosty window did, maybe windows have a purpose after all. I can see myself differently now, and I'm different from everyone else. It's the twenty-first century, the age of the preposition.

I like to watch people sleep. It's as if they've built windows around themselves, a sanctuary from hot-off-the-press and moral-of-the-story. Inside, they're looking at themselves differently, at peace and dreaming, searching for that emotional truth. I also hate it when people wake up. When they stop sleeping, it's only/always the P.R.O. talking. Maybe it's rude to want. Maybe etiquette has outlawed silence too.

Do you remember the morning? You were sleeping on that uncomfortable bench, and you asked me to join you. The uncomfortable bench prodded at my back, but I didn't notice. Because I was in your cube of windows, two dreamers, reaching for emotional truths, until we were made of glass. You stirred, mumbled something about being happy, curled up into a ball and continued sleeping.

You stocked up on midnight oil - I miss the dinners, I miss walking past mall after mall, two drifters in a sea of sensibility and stocks. I miss keeping each others' secrets, I knowing what you know, you knowing what I know, talking over coffee and under moon, while angry shapes with headlights cram in two straight lines to nowhere. I miss feeling sad when the androgynous voice on the train puts an end to the conversation, watching you until you dissolve into the geometric crowd. I miss the feeling that the moment right now, even in silence, is worth more than sleep, and telling myself that "so what if I'm tired tomorrow, because it's completely worth it"

Because every single time it was.

Labels: prose

just to clarify some terms writers often use and which are woefully misinterpreted.

Word or Phrase:

"was/is inspired by"

Meaning:

"Would not be outdone by, and therefore copied"

More to come.


sixtimesnine productions.

Labels: other

Haiku Love Song, by ryan d.

A short, poignant vignette about love in a field under the night sky. RonHermione. Rated T for mild adult themes.

Labels: other

Song-based prose based on Damien Rice's "The Blower's Daughter". Was aiming for semi-melancholy, bordering on vague angst. Pardon the atrocious syntax. For those unfamiliar with the song, the lyrics are in italics.
------------

I watch her standing by the sea, just slightly beyond the borders of dried, sand-abraded grass, swaying in time with the crash of the dark-blue glass-waves embracing the shore, embracing the sparkling spirals of quartz and shell and the aged rocky-cliff faces of the limestone towers.

I taste the cold sea-spray on the tip of my tongue, but I am not sure if it is the dead salt on the white-foam crests, or the remembrance of a memory of the taste of my own tears.

She is still as beautiful as ever. I know that. She always has been, and always will be, standing by the ocean while her hair fans out, caressed by the zephyr breeze. Yet I wonder if she still sings, sings for me.

Did I say that I loathe you?

I stand beyond the borders of the sand-abraded grass. Beyond the gold light of her hair, the soft crying call of a voice.

I can't take my eyes off of you.

I feel the same path on my gaunt cheeks being cleared, by the same acid tang of the same substance that flows from the oceans into the heart. The heat of summers long forgotten and the catch of autumn air burn my skin ochre and red and blood-deep as it always has; maybe if I close my eyes I will stop the rivers from flowing back into the sea.

I feel the soft crush of sand beneath the soles of worn leather shoes, the border grows ever closer, and the sand-abraded grass brush past unfeelingly against calloused, torn fingers.

I can't take my mind off of you.
I can't take my mind off of you.

I want to touch
You.
Again.

The blower's daughter
The pupil in denial.

I can catch the scent of calla lilies and soft vanilla. I wonder if her skin still tastes the same. I wonder if she still thinks of me, like I think of her. I wonder.

Did I say that I loathe you?
Did I say that I wanted to leave it all behind?

Did I say that I wanted to leave it all behind?

The sky turns pale sepia, like an old photograph, stained with rings of old, cold coffee. I want to reach out for the gentle slope of her shoulder, like I used to, but I am afraid that if I do she will disappear like the fragments in a dream.

Fragments that flow with my tears to the sea.

I can't take my eyes off of you. Most of the time.

But I know she knows.
I know she knows that I know.
And I know that I
can't take my mind off of you.

Did I say that I wanted to
Leave it all behind?

But now she stands facing the dark mirror of the sea and she is her own river pouring the waterfalls of her heart back into the ocean where they become my own lake of sorrows.

In the distance of two feet, in the distance of years long past and an aching void left in repayment, we've both forgotten the breeze. The kiss of the wind atop the same limestone cliffs we used to overlook. The breath of our faces close together, in sweet silent bliss.

She is beautiful.
You are beautiful.
You have always been beautiful.

No more promises, I can promise you no more.

No love, no glory.
No hero in her sky.

Just like you said it would be.

Not one of my better pieces, so, R&R!

Cheers!
Bern

Labels: prose

“For who art thou mourning?” the western wind whispered
To me while I sat on the rolling green grass;
And day took its wings, and then nightfall had landed,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last;

The spring and the summer, the river rebirthing
Was parched from the toils of the land it had passed;
But there in the river was blood that was flowing,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

The autumn and winter, Demeter’s lamenting
Was warmed by the cold that the streetlights did cast;
And there on the trees, not a flower was blooming,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

The forests of green, and the rivers of azure
Had faded to memory, a faraway lust;
And all was just grey, where I once saw the colour,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

And streetlights were burning in somber resplendence,
The blinding bright beams, and my limbs they held fast;
And there sat my body, in bitter despondence,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

For Death and for Dying my heart then was bleeding,
The garden of green in a city of dust;
The last of the life in dystopia undying,
When I saw the answer, the answer at last.

Imperator Sancti, you know of my weeping,
O tell me; I know not the beautiful past;
And say why before me was just a grey ceiling
When I saw the answer, the answer at last?

Labels: poetry

Getting there would take a while, when you're running your paws off. It's a cycle, from dawn to yawn, bed to bed, kiss and tell. With fluctuation comes monotony, it's in anomaly and concerted variation that breakthroughs come forth. Saving the world, climbing Babel high enough to hear the choir is a lovely idea, but as you climb higher and higher, you'll find that the ladder sinks beneath your feet, maybe faster than you climb, you'll also find the sweet tinkly laughter of the stars, and the delight of Mars as he nonchalantly goes in Virgo's court.

How does it feel, way up there? Up in space, where no-one hears your cape flutter. Maybe up there where things are as cold as you are, you'll find home. Maybe it's because you're so high, because no-one hears your song, you can sing all you want without the underestimated danger of interpretation. Idiot; when you've seen the planets' singing,

can't you see them fade into silence?

I can see that it's just another discrepancy. You want results, you want games, you want your childhood, you want up, you want out. I'll just have to swallow my ambition and lose my head remembering the echo of your guitar. Nothing to worry about, even up there, even if frostbite pinches your face like a butcher at a slab of pork, you'll pull through. Because you're strong, because you're a big damn hero.

Labels: prose

Three by three they come intent on walking,
And three by three they go away again.
And in pairs keeping up their chattering
To hide their tortuous sleeplessness; their pain.
Talking to hide their agony; in vain.
Fighting for an unimportant label,
And trying till their death to catch a train,
And they dance around an upturned table.

"I'm different," they all keep insisting
Till all of them enter the human drain.
Then on and on all of them keep swirling
Nameless entities that we can't sustain -
Some leave to try philosophies arcane.
Towards a dreary future they scramble,
Going through rituals over and again,
And they dance around an upturned table.

On the sea of life their heads are bobbing,
Necks crane to look at outliers; disdain
Evident on soggy faces frowning,
Though in their hearts all of them still maintain
A little spark of what once was humane
A little child with innocent babble -
But they all reek of maturity feigned,
And they dance around an upturned table.

PRINCE, save them from a straight and narrow lane,
They're locked in their own straitjacket - mental.
They're manufactured one and all the same,
And they dance around an upturned table.

-- comments plz. written over 02-03 Oct 2005 --

Labels: poetry

The spring of life whence came Demeter’s child
Brought warmth and joy to all the barren land;
Where flowers blossommed in the weather mild,
The beauteous fruits of Nature’s loving hand-
The overture to Life’s symphony grand-
But now is grey where green once made its home;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

The summer, warmth and beauty undefiled
When Hades, cold and lifeless, sought her hand;
No more the youthful innocence so mild,
The solemn silence where the trees now stand-
The empty plains, without a foe or friend-
Out of the land the happiness has flown;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

In autumn was Persephone beguiled
By six small seeds, by scheming underhand;
As woe upon woe in her heart was piled,
The falling blossoms yearning for the land-
The age-old round, beginning and the end-
The schemer for his sins will now atone;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

The winter cold as Hades’ heart defiled
A bleeding wound which time could never mend;
Where frozen sheets of snow the earth once tiled,
The haunting wail as life comes to an end-
The death upon which rebirth does depend-
Now all is warm where wind once chilled the bone;
And now lies dead in forests made of stone.

//I know the rhymes sound ridiculously contrived. I was writing with twice the number of lines and half the number of rhymes, and this was the best I could do without consulting a thesaurus or similar tool -_- It definitely has loads room for improvement! Suggestions plz.

Labels: poetry

i vote that this month's project be ballades. cool things. shall write/post one asap.

http://www.noggs.dsl.pipex.com/vf/ballade.htm

Labels: other