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ze gold for jhoo |
you want it? |
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33% |
[ 4 ] |
c'mon, you KNOW you want it! |
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66% |
[ 8 ] |
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Total Votes : 12 |
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Posted: Tue Feb 13, 2007 5:12 am
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this is going to be a place for my writing. i'll keep the short stories, flash fiction, essays, and so on out of it, but stick to freestyle poetry and haiku. later on today i'll put some of my older things up. most of what'll go up has already been published, chapbook style.
also if anyone would like a little haiku for their sig or profile or anything, i can write one for you if you'd like. smile you'd just have to let me know how you want the content (funny, serious, smexy, etc) and, how many 'stanzas' you'd want.
*** AN IMPORTANT NOTE *** while my writing does not violate TOS, and is generally PG-13, i will say that some of it is kind of sensitive subject matter. not ALL pieces, just a few. i will mark the top of any post with a sensitive poem with a star, so you can choose not to read it if you are not wanting to be triggered negatively!
thanks, hope you enjoy!
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Posted: Tue Feb 13, 2007 5:13 am
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Posted: Tue Feb 13, 2007 5:36 am
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** batch 1 - "utmost sensitivities"
~ medic-sick : nov 03 ~ (written shortly after i got my EMT basic, and went on a call that's a bad way to start your career.)
my eyes sting from too much trauma-smoking, & too little sleep. mine is a cocaine-conscience birthed by hyper-fear & flashing lights that not even nicotine can soothe.
horror stories stir the girl trapped underwater, still; but here i am, regardless (unable to save her) -- tucked in a room lit by a single bulb that swings (back & forth (back & forth) like a pendulum, silently ticking out what little time is left.
(they call this "debriefing," but really, it's torture.)
but its counting hangs hidden from me while i'm drawn into smoke-screen dreams that burn my retinas with their firely promises of becoming a hometown hero, of saving what couldn't be saved.
stumbling, i count down; i pretend i can't see her, still(ed); a rag-doll ensnared in weeds. tumbling, i trip & fall, i claw for no surfaces, & i'm submerged in sleep...
...i drempt of drowning:
of the girl whisper-hissing that she was taking my body away from me. she was using it so she could kill me - but i would relish the trip down.
~ sky-secrets : nov 03 ~ (written on my rooftop, while watching a lunar eclipse.)
we hang in a canvas of velvet: pin-pricked light suspended in tenebrous ink. we cannot be contained, although They try -- tombs of M-81 and M-92; solitary graves of AI-219 and HZ-103. names like Altair and Nihal, and one bought for Alice's mother, three years passed.
we are souls long gone, hand-picked by Nature Herself, in efforts to sprinkle sugar-diamond drifts on the soured planet we were plucked from.
but trust, what They call HZ-103 is really Alice's mother; the piece of paper they gave alice represents some baby, stillborn; oh, how science and industry mislabel the sky!) i would know -- she and i spend our time and nights together, flying rampant. we taunt Virgo, fearless of his warrior's grip on Spica; we deny him sips of night from the Little Dipper, much like Hydra torments the Crow, lording over a mere cup of water.
but outranking us all is Luna -- a gracious maiden waxing, bearing Her full-milk belly, piece by piece, night by night.
then, waning -- She believes she gave too much of herself. She turns shyly, sliver by sliver, night by night, to the darker side of space, swearing never to do it again: but She will always do it again... even Goddesses never learn.
She forgets that we surround Her, witnesses to Her every mistake; that there's no escape. that, while the dead can speak, no one listens... not even Her.
(we will carry Her secrets until the galaxy dismisses us in a frenzy of mottled gases: a supernovae lightshow for worlds below us to see-- it would be like them to find beauty in the loss of others.)
and even when She pulled your mudball's shadow over Her pure nakedness like a black slip-dress, She was still howling in her decency: totality means nothing when the world below watches what is otherwise overlooked every other once-a-month.
~ Maximum Security : Sept 03 ~ (this was written while watching silence of the lambs!!)
come into my cell. make yourself at home. thrum your fingers along the bars, it will become the drumbeat for the useless symphony that spins in your head.
breathe in the stale silence of twelve men before me. trail your fingers along their etchings of temporary territory.
sit. stay awhile. the mattress is thicker than paper, comfortable like concrete -- the screech of spring-metal is not unlike that of your beloved, mere seconds before i...
...where are you going? i haven't had a chance to share with you the delicacy of her rope-thin muscles! the bread of bricks and water of sewers have nothing on the way she fell apart in my mouth, washed down with wine older than these four walls.
~ knocked out ~ : july 02 (remnants of my first concussion...)
not like the slow, smeared threads of a carbon monoxide blanket, wrapped up in a lexus quarantine, this was three seconds 'til pseudo-death.
step. turn. and the scent of cold soil, the taste of chilled grass that never registered:
i finally found peace and quiet in the numb of concussion.
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Posted: Tue Feb 13, 2007 5:44 am
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batch 2 - haiku/limericks (1)
3/03 (written on the back of a glove in ER)
it is the purging of life-blood, but emphasised: hematemesis.
2/06 (sample for johnny weir's website..)
magic-laced, he skims pearl-smooth ice like an air-sylph, his soul on his blades.
5/06 (..what then later got accepted for his book, yet to be released)
beneath countless eyes, secrets are scribed in spirals for a crowd of one.
to watch is a breach: it aches to the bone, to see something so sacred...
...& i, a sentry, as he breaks his heart on ice for his love to heal.
4/06 (a lame hallmark moment...)
a steadfast beacon whether life be fogged, or clear, is a mother's love.
some silly limericks i sent to johnny when he was down, after the olympics. smile
j-we is a boy some call Tink (though the USFA calls him "Jinx") they feel he's too bold, yet he's taken our gold THREE TIMES, despite what they think!
soul-gripping tales are scribed by his blades on the ice, though they aren't all charades. be it serpentine whispers, or squalls of triple-flip slivers, you will know when his gauntlets are laid.
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Posted: Tue Feb 13, 2007 3:48 pm
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Posted: Fri Mar 09, 2007 1:31 am
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Posted: Sat Mar 10, 2007 7:08 pm
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Posted: Sun Mar 11, 2007 3:55 pm
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Posted: Mon Mar 12, 2007 2:27 pm
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