wb :

Rustle of lips that meet
brushing past
In the streets -
Lovers deeply drunk
of Desire
Step darkly into the night -
it parts for them
like the gentle yielding
of a coy lady's limbs.


Music burns,-
the air grows thick with
stirrings of poetry
and ninety-nine red roses
drip dew incarnadine -


while hearts unfluttered yet repose
on hearths of love
like ice-glazed obsidian,
still unwarmed
by the fickle furnance
of cupid's platitudes.


Sharon

i watched a train depart
and on it was my love
i heard the whistle cut the air
the sound to pierce my heart

the tears were soon all spent
your burden in a chest
and when the station held no soul
my heart held no intent

so go, my love! be free!
i cannot wait for you
for when i check the table, it
intends eternity

It was one of those moments
locked in an instant;
where our faces met, in the
reflection within


solidifying cup of chocolate.
smoke sylphed off the rim,
Leaped exuberant,
Waxed ethereal...


Then condensed-
And thawed.
You supped the dregs and left
me waiting for a different brew
to fill this empty mug.

Sharon

EDIT: I, the dictator of the blog, demand updates. And don't tell me you haven't written anything. Cheng, put up that piece of prose you showed me. Sharon, the stuff you wrote last year. You all have a week!

This is big news: I've changed the blog layout, Yes!

Things to note:
1. The title of the blog has been changed from the rather trying-too-hard-to-be-funny "Writer's Blog! I swear it's a pun!" to the stylishly ambiguous "wb : " in lower case letters, WITH a colon.

2. The blog is now grey, which is the colour of the FUTURE. Yes. In the future, everything is grey.

3. Due to an accident involving a time machine and a small portable hard disk, our old tagboard is gone and has been replaced with the old defunct tagboard on my old blog which was originally taken down because it got spammed with russian porno ads. It is also futuristically grey.

4. Because my school taught me Creationism instead of HTML, i have been unable to correct the fact that the name of the poster is no longer displayed on entries. You will have to label your posts manually by typing your name at the bottom.

5. THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT. We now have an atom feed, which is hyperlinked under the moniker 'Feed' at the top of the page.

6. We now have a logo on the right which I hacked together in 5 minutes using mspaint.

adam

scritch of computer
conversational
much harder than we thought, a poem
much harder than a rock
tinkle of keys
like the stones on the bed of a brook
burbling in some childhood scene.
breath issuing from a nostril
he's had a childhood illness and only breathes through the left one
an exigence of air like frustration or exertion as he roots
through his tattered soul for fragments of beauty, only finding
the click of fingernails and the roar of a generator.

movement of a chair. underneath his weight the world shifts
infinitesimally
the world moves infinitesimally the floor tiles an immeasurably tiny distance away from his feet
suddenly the walls are strange.
suddenly the air is different from this infinitesimal movement
above the world his weight shifts
movement of a chair.

crickets. The idea is almost laughable. he closes his eyes and imagines them
perched on a gaggle of rocks outside the ground floor window
some demonic creator's plot device
he knows he should laugh but he trembles 'chirrup'
with the crickets.
the bustle of a fan cools his back
gives him air for a sigh
there is no home in the night-time only the creeping dread that with each tick of an old clock the universe shifts an infinitesimally small distance away from him

but elsewhere in the vast emptiness the air aches with the silence


adam

On the road
90 kilometres on kerosene
slow it down, we're only eighteen for now

On the road
is a bright blue sky
the future's a bright blue firefly
losing the urge to keep my hair down

On the road
we'll drive your dreams
into a drunken ditch
and lie back stargazing and throwing up

On the road
we'll have had enough
we'll drive back home and pack our stuff.


adam

"a meeting of minds" is not so apt
to describe the pothole-ridden road of love
more like a smashing together of pies
and seeing if they stick together
and taste just as good mashed up

memories are not so much holding hands
sitting together on a bench in the park
but the sound of ground gladly receiving
the shit of birds, splattering, splat splat
and jumping up, screaming, wiping fervently
hasty apologies to no one in particular,
uncomfortably fidgeting on the way home

not the footprints left in the sand
but getting cut by broken glass
on pristine beaches, feet as marble, streaked
across the sole with a dash of tabasco sauce
and the desperate rush to hospital
to do a test for aids
just in case, its better to know, you see

but when i think of you
(i don't even need to hold your hand)
all this shit is fine by me