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NickCueva |
we few
yet
again
again
we can reach
fight
again
the skin is
damp and cold
again
got it?
go it
is again
we fought
reaching for
limp bits
damp and hard
soiled
solid
light bits
decayed
punching
punishing
crawling
damp and earthy
we fight
again
thin
slender
solid
sleek
open
chilling
fat and soft
dripping
shaking
rolling
solid and cold
dried skin
lips
lashes
beating
with every beat
beatings
lashes
gold
nails
cars
eye
iris
I
Labels: Nick
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|
DrewTM |
This trip is a wish for ultimate beauty.
My plane will not approach the sun.
She will crackle and say I am boarding,
But the push will be as strong as the pull.
Zap in and zep out to a starched parking lot
Will be a pip of thought--less than that--
As yellow midnights of numb, buzzing plans
Washing, white wakings in borrowed-sheets beds
Build to succulent days and perma-press nights.
Ten years pause on ten slow breaths--
For ten days, time can trail my temples.
A renaissance may be had, but not at my own hand.
My mouth will inhale what harmony approaches
on the open hush of measured hiatus.
* * *
[someone should remix this]
Labels: Drew
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DrewTM |
There will be one more stanza. Please leave comments.
Enjoy but don't just try to make me feel good : )
Enjoy but don't just try to make me feel good : )
* * *
This trip--A hint of shining in the window behind me--
This trip is a wish for beauty.
She will crackle and say I am now boarding,
But the push will be as strong as the pull.
(My plane will not approach the sun.)
I'm going to incandescent yellow midnights on numb stomachs,
Blinding, white wakings in someone else's bed.
Jgarr-zyarpp in and jiarr-gziyarp out into starched parking lot
Exchanged for succulent days, perma-press nights.
Ten years pause on ten breaths--a ten-day Olivet.
Labels: Drew
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DrewTM |
and Fred
dream of crushing spiders, dream of tasks undone
dream of shouting awkward comments, palsy at the dawn.
reams of rushing pylons, reams of axes unspun
reams of pouting wards of comets, dying at the sun
Labels: Drew
1 Comments
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Fred |
As it turned out, there was nothing particularly revolutionary about wanting to write a novel. He was not even sure that there was anything particularly shattering about actually completing one. Whether this was disappointing or not would take some more thought, some time when his eyes could focus and the tips of his fingers didn't feel numb. As it was, there was no sense of release or accomplishment associated with it at all. Nothing other then a mild sense of relief. The closest analogue to the texture of the feeling was last week. He had briefly panicked when he realized that the garbage can he put out for collection was overflowing, and he needed to take out the trash in the kitchen. Then he relaxed when he realized that the trash was due to be taken out the next day. A terrible disaster averted, obviously.
Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he had not written the novel in a manner even approximating chronological order, instead writing a bevy of fragmented vignettes, then drafting little bits of connective tissue to fill the gaps and make it all cohere. There was thus no satisfying closure after writing the final sentences, as the last sentences he had written were rather utilitarian ones, a transition paragraph about three-fourths of the way in. He rolled his chair back from the desk and leaned back heavily, pressing his palms hard against his eyes. He wasn't entirely sure why he was still awake, or, for that matter, why he had been awake for the past 5 hours, picking up and then putting down magazines, repeatedly checking his email, vaguely tidying some papers on the side table, clipping his fingernails, running his tongue over his teeth. At least running his tongue over his teeth had reminded him to floss. Flossing. He really needed to go to bed. The unprecedented desire to voluntarily slice his gums with a piece of string should have been his cue. He got up unsteadily from his chair and sat on the edge of his bed, head down and hands loosely clasped. He was a bit hungry, probably to0 hungry to go to bed. but not hungry enough to walk to the kitchen, yet. He could wait for the hunger to build a little, enough to prod him down the hallway.
It had been 16 days since he had finished the novel, and he had not mentioned that it was done to anyone. He hadn't even read it. He didn't want to think about it for awhile, and he certainly wasn't in the mood to edit it. He was tired of thinking about metaphors, tired of trying to prod and pull the plot into the realm of plausibility, tired of typing the names of the characters. He needed a bit of emotional and psychological distance from it, and telling people wouldn't help that, and returning to it with a fresh mind would allow him to see things more clearly.
There was also the fact that his wasn't sure if the novel was any good at all. In fact, he could think of many entirely plausible scenarios in which it was completely unredeemable pap.
Labels: Fred
0 Comments
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DrewTM |
From this point forward, and retroactively, all authors who desire active status (inactive authors may still post but will not be listed on the authors list) shall produce an original artwork representing their own head. This will improve the uniformity of the system by making all heads unique, and will improve functionality by increasing each head's representativity of its author.
Please feel much freedom in exploring the best way to represent your head, and do not feel as though you should do a line drawing. The only restriction will be that your image should have a white bordering background so that it blends with the white background of the site.
Enjoy!
Labels: Drew
4 Comments
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