wb :

If happiness comes with forgetting,
grey matter is a small price to pay.

The Inability to describe
Whitewashed hopes in denial.
In denial of love
too afraid to risk all in a folly's embrace
too impure to hide the truth
Putting sugar-strained smiles on display
But only in gibe
too powdery to see the pink vibrance of life beneath
too thin to taste the sentimental yearning
Of a heart without a soul
adrift and separate by the madness
The madness ingrown
too many times before
too many times before
too many times before
oh! the discombobulate
emotions in a verbal manner

bodies entwined in smoke and dancing
writhing desperately –
clinging.

dusted visages, titian sanguine lips
painting smudges
on collars and
burnished cheeks

careless whispers of love and desire
hearts twisted, tangled
and reason has stolen
fancy’s painted wings

the phantom shapes that haunt
sweet reveries of
lives,
seemingly on filmstrips

What cruel vices poets do inflict
upon the fright, unknowing, youthful world;
upon an early morning interdict
with Language's faint and frivolous curls
a flower I find I can no longer smell
without immediately thinking of a bell
and rhyme's tyranny I patiently bore
until my coffee turned a metaphor

what beauty justifieth this torment?
in time each word must surely lose its power
a symbol of some artist's discontent?
i much rather call a flower a flower

this was written one disgruntled night
by a poet short on sleep and sight.

Each sliver of disguise
that peels away from you
I treasure it contentedly
I nurse it in my eyes

That when you fall apart
and flippantly entombed
You float in faint eternity
Preservèd in my heart.

"What use are hands on a clock?", he said; "You can't hold on to time. It slips away, it crumbles like a weather-beaten rock".
"That's true", I replied and smiled at him, "fingers on time have just the use as stones on the graves, on those who have died".
He laughed and sipped at his tea and stirred it; "Not consolation for those who've kicked it".

I write for you. It has to be
better than feeling like a worm,
while wallowing in increasingly
melting goo. So I shall mow
down any feelings that show, peeking out
like sprouts in brightly
green rows. Spring came early
and uninvited, that is true,
but everything I do, I'll
later rue. However, it's an easy
matter to glue a letter firm and
tight so I won't squirm,
and I'll never remember.

It should comprise things about
the universe and seas, then go
on to curse and wheeze. Perhaps
some metaphors comparing love to
war, or to unidentifiable black fungal moss?
Why, that might help to close some
doors. Not that you really care,
of course, but even if we never
watched the sunsets in a breeze, or
languidly together fed the fish, which
sounds quite boring, and probably
is, shock and horror, I think I'll
gladly? miss? whatever constitutes "all this".

____________________
comments v appreciated, especially if it's too prosaic?
eli

is the time to shed your old skins
like a snake. Pack rats
should not be cowed
by the mountains of memories
crammed in boxes, but be ruthless
as the tiger. Out with the old!
And tomorrow, as the rooster crows,
you can pig out on cakes and civilities
til you're hoarse. Pineapple tarts and
rabbit sweets are particularly good for this.
Just don't behave like a bull
in a china shop when goaded; only children
get to monkey around. Your thrice-removed
cousin's cat stretches,
yawning like a minature dragon.
Even it is dog-tired.

eli

_______________
(extremely unseasonal post. well, i wrote it before cny! and please tell me you guys know what a pack rat is. half the people i showed this to didn't!)

freshly basked, make you toasty
when it's cold, or so I'm
told. These just
look at me quizzically.
No, mustn't act rashly.

Must it be none? Not even
one? The browned and crisp
crowns seem to frown
at my indecision.
Outside the sun winks - almost,
I think - and I say "Nuffink."

eli

On a Monday on a bus
as the road whizzes by
I sometimes wonder to myself
if my soul can fly
at the speed achievable by an internal combustion engine.

adam

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

is just a way of saying that
the number of fingers on your hands is something that I sincerely miss
four is a great way to have a family
four is just the number of countable ways I could've said 'I love you'

3

is the number of holes in the front of your face
I guess I'd say that I miss each one
Three is the number of sunsets I actually enjoyed
After three it started to get
a little overdone.

2

Is how we count your eyes
they are almost too large, and slightly fruit-shaped
Two is when we take stock of the number of people
it takes to hold hands
Two is the number of minutes I could rest my head on your shoulder
without cramp

1

Is what we say for romance
as if a person could possibly have two hearts
One is the number of times I will let myself look back
Once more and I'll break your legs.


adam

on a night such as this -
how are you? good day,
what is the time?
may I? you may

let's go for a walk
i'll take up a ride
on a bicycle!
we could walk or we'll fly

to the moon don't be silly
i want you right here
it's enough that you're over
it's too much that you're near

let's give up (let's not)
i think of too much
i think of too little
maybe we've lost touch

with what we wanted to say
took too long in the thinking
the moment is now
the poem is inking

slowly but surely
(let's just take our time)
there's only one moment
and that is now, we've done it, it's over, we've made our
rhyme

it's too late it is gone
the moment has flown
what did it look like?
could we have known?

or just grasped like a straw
it didn't exist
it was in illusion;
moments are mist.


adam

he built a castle of roses
and watched it sway in the breeze;
the moonlight would wash
over petals and leaves

on the midnighter's table
next to an empty glass
then he sighed with the wind,
slumped over a letter

like all the works of man
toppled in the end
by nary more than a breath
and a wave of the hand