Jump to content


Photo

Rorschach Blots Out The Sun


  • Please log in to reply
13 replies to this topic

#1 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 21 August 2013 - 11:37 PM

Hello everyone. Some of you might remember me posting lots of stuff in the now extinct M-rated content board in the ODB. I loved sharing my personal poetry and my "darker" stories that I didn't feel comfortable showing to anyone else. You guys offered valuable input on everything I wrote, and since that board went down I've had little inspiration to write much of anything. I returned to school recently, and for one reason or another being in the city and being around the group of people I live with down there really makes me want to express myself through writing.

 

Well, the thing is that my writing often tends to deal in the mature or obscene, often to the extent that censoring it and posting it here wouldn't really accomplish anything besides complicating what's acceptable under SSLF's rules. With that in mind, I decided to create a new Tumblr to focus exclusively on my writing. The site is called rorschachblotsoutthesun.tumblr.com

 

So what's this topic for, then? Well, I know just posting this stuff on Tumblr isn't going to get me any feedback, so I'd like to use this topic as a host for discussion and criticism. I'll post here whenever I update the blog, and if you fellas have anything to say you can put it here. Hopefully they're nice things.

 

My first piece, titled "According to Plan", can be found here. It's a short story about a couple of criminals trying to lay low after a successful heist. It's a decent length, at about eight pages in Word. I'm quite proud of it, having drawn it up in just two days. If you ever read my story "The Writhing South", you might see a bit of that in here.

 

Below is a list of links to all the writings I post. BE FOREWARNED - FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR OWN INNOCENCE, ASSUME ALL WRITINGS LINKED IN THIS TOPIC WILL CONTAIN MATURE CONTENT. Non-mature stories and poetry will probably be posted directly here instead.

 

Short Stories

According to Plan

The Mark - Act One

Respect

The Trees Make the Forest

 

Poetry

Birds Perched

Winter

Homeless

Blood and Tears

9/27/2013

10/2/2013

Going Somewhere

Off to War

Footsteps

Without Feeling

Temple

Love is Rich, Love is Poor

Global Giants

Red Hair

The Lizard and the Sparrow

11/21/13

Phantom Minds

Snow

Looking Forward

Feather-Bird Poems

The Next Year

Licks

Colombian Fructose Love Potion

Blood and Bone and Accumulated Moss


Posted Image


#2 Klaykid

Klaykid

    Super Dooper Paratrooper!

  • Nova Member
  • 3,273 posts

Posted 22 August 2013 - 04:20 AM

If you don't mind, I'd like to keep posting feedback in the form of a series of thoughts that ran across my head when reading. I feel it's more fun that way XD

 

  • As soon as I read Toyota Camry my head nearly hit the keyboard. It has nothing to do with the story, but in my region, people who drive Camry's are referred to as "Those People". It makes me laugh every time I hear it XD
  • It reminds me of Reservoir Dogs, of course anything these days involving heists without the actual heist reminds everyone and their mothers of that film. Could Pink's name be a reference to/homage? Totally imagining him as Steve Buscemi.
  • I like the mannerisms of the robbers. I know it is a small detail, but things from Pink strumming his fingers on the wheel to his reaction at almost getting into a collision make the characters feel more 'real'. More human than robots, if that makes any sense.
  • At first I liked Pink's eccentric and over reactive personality he had going on, from beating that guy to terrorizing the woman. However, it felt a bit strange for me that he asked if she was a mother, then telling the woman to go home. I wish I could tell you why. But him smashing the rear view mirror remedied that. I always enjoy character's whose archetypes/personalities are exaggerated. It brings more flavour to the story.
  • And then they went to McDonalds XD After pulling a heist, avoiding the cops, beating a man half to death and scaring a woman, they went to McDonalds for a bite. This is pretty funny, especially with Chuck shaken up, Dean on the phone, and Pink attempting to find something suitable to eat. I'm just picturing in my head three guys in Agent 47's typical attire, black gloves and all.
  • I like Pink's story. I haven't read something with strong language and mature content (based on a forum user) in a long time. And speaking of mature content, racial slurs. I have a feeling that you wrestled with the idea of including it in your story for a little bit before going "screw it" and going with the flow. No matter what anyone says, I like when stories are bold enough to include things considered wholly offensive. Not for the sake of being overtly offensive, of course, but for the sake of character development and other things along those lines (like if it is necessary for the plot or it creates a bit f conflict). [On a small note, growing up around my particular neighborhood, with the people I went to school with, racial slurs are something not entirely considered offensive to the extent I would assume it is in other parts of the Untied States. Being Belizean/Korean, racial slurs eventually made its way into my vocabulary, and often I have to check myself when conversing with people outside my group of friends. So my view on racial slurs and the subject matter associated with it probably varies greatly from your average reader].
  • I'm thinking the whole story is used to make Pink look like a typical bad dude, like, a dude who does what he wants with little regrets. And even though it is clear Dean is the ring leader and ultimate commander in this trio, Pink is made to look rather masculine despite being in a subordinate position to Dean.
  • Oh Lawdy Dean strangled Pink.
  • Good thing Chuck stayed behind.
  • Nevermind, Dean had slit Pink's throat.

Alrighty then! I reached the end, it was a pretty damn good read. I was hesitant at first upon reading that it was nearly eight pages long in Word. But if someone takes the effort to create something, then someone could at least put in the effort to check it out. And I have to say, it certainly didn't feel that long. In terms of content, the characters were wicked, the story focused, and though there weren't that many details to the setting, it was just enough to not get lost. Sometimes the ambiguity of the scene gives the reader more freedom to create their version of the world in their head as they read. I was certainly more focused on the characters interactions with one another than anything else, which is a good thing.

 

As a fan of the 'bad endings', tragedies, and dramatic endings of the sort, I enjoyed how you ended the story. No one made it out, but at the same time, it felt like Pink's death was a bit unnecessary. Well, 'out of place' would be a better description. Given Dean's over all tone towards Pink, it seemed like they two were affiliated for a long time. Dean shows little indication that he wanted to get rid of Pink throughout the story. So it kinda took be by surprise that Dean exited the bathroom alone. I suppose he was just tired of Pink's **** (lol).

 

Anyways, it seemed like Dean was really erratic when he exited the bathroom, like his entire demeanor changed. This is cool, because it certainly feels like something a guy would do when he just off'd his partner just a moment ago. I'm still debating it in my head whether Dean knew he was done when he said "you could've gone far". But that's the fun of stories.

 

So yeah, long story short I liked your story, bud.


gdV21HZ.gif


#3 Black-Cat

Black-Cat

    Bad Luck

  • Member
  • 922 posts

Posted 22 August 2013 - 03:30 PM

I liked it a lot. The characters were defined clearly and well in the short time you had to present them, and the dialogue was simply gorgeous. The small details put into their actions established a lot of character and I liked how you didn't hold back with the language or the themes.

The only thing I don't quite get is why Dean killed Pink, but that might just be because I'm really bad at picking up things that aren't thrown into my face. Was it because Pink was a liability? Or was it something else I'm not getting?

Beyond Redemption, my new part time job. Awesome job by Burngirl, by the way.

SaulLeesignature.png

VictorSig.png


#4 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 23 August 2013 - 04:10 AM

Thanks guys. As a show of gratitude I'll attempt to address some of the comments you had to make.

 

Yes, this was heavily inspired by Reservoir Dogs. Pink's name is a combination of Steve Buscemi's character from the film and the fact that I'm just really into Pink Floyd right now. :P I didn't really picture Pink as looking like that character, though. More of a long-hair-balding-beard dude, sort of like Lynch or Waingro from Heat. I also imagined Dean as looking and acting similarly to Mr. White, and I pictured all three dressed in the signature suits and sunglasses that everyone wears in that movie. And surely someone must have picked up on the Pulp Fiction reference?

 

I never really thought twice about using the racial slurs. I never use the word in a derogatory context in real life, but when I'm writing I let my characters speak through me, saying things I wouldn't ordinarily say. Part of it was also that I knew what would happen to Pink at the end of the story, so I felt justified making him as despicable as possible up until that point.

 

So why did Dean do it? Well, I don't want to give an answer, but I can shed light on the question. Maybe he really hated Pink's story. Maybe he wanted the money for himself. Maybe Pink tried to kill him first! Didn't think of that, did you? Well okay, I guess with the slit throat that doesn't make much sense. Might have worked better if I had Dean choke him as originally intended. Basically I pictured this story as a case of The Professional vs The Hedonist. One is cool and collected, has rules and obligations, and the other is unhinged and spur of the moment, prone to all sorts of vices and outbursts. Going back to Reservoir Dogs, it's kind of a Mr. Pink/White vs Mr. Blonde type scenario. Dean follows the plan, and Pink threw a wrench into the plan at almost every turn. At the end of the story the hedonist is done in because he can't control his urges, and the planner is ruined the one time he abandons his plan.

 

I guess it's not so much why Dean did it, but more so the implication of his choice to do it.


Posted Image


#5 Klaykid

Klaykid

    Super Dooper Paratrooper!

  • Nova Member
  • 3,273 posts

Posted 23 August 2013 - 05:02 AM

Ah! Okay, I had never actually thought about Pink attempting to kill Dean first, they seemed so buddy buddy until, you know, one of them killed the other ha ha ha.


gdV21HZ.gif


#6 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 10 September 2013 - 02:48 PM

I've posted a few new poems recently. Nothing in the way of short stories, though I've got ideas bumping around. Check it out and let me know what you think of the new material.


Posted Image


#7 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 23 October 2013 - 03:04 PM

Some new material. It can all be found on the blog, but here I'll post what pieces I can.

 

Blood and Tears

 

The light scorches my eyes, sending them flicking towards the ground,

sheltered by the shadow cast by my brow.

Domesticated trees flap and flutter in the breeze,

their soil wells surrounded on all sides by dry, cold cement.

A delivery truck rumbles by, carrying packages with predetermined fates,

while in the distance a trombone sings sadly over a busy cityscape.

The scent of sandwich shops wafts across the street where I walk in shade,

mingling with and later consumed by the smoke of the pawn shop owner’s cigarette.

Taste and touch are to me the most intimate of the senses, so those descriptions will be excluded.

How do I feel - what I feel is a sense of guilt.

I feel guilty because although much of what is around me exists for use by Myself or Those Like Me,

it is not ours by right and need not be constructed for our use alone.

I feel guilty because the people who surround me were here long before I,

yet the Skyscraper that now towers over this neighborhood was built in the name of Myself or Those Like Me.

I feel guilty because cars flashing red and blue lights cruise by my window each night,

en route to the enclosed compound down the street that exists solely to Serve and Protect Myself or Those Like Me.

Each day I must reconcile my pleasures and luxuries with the Blood and Tears spent in their pursuit,

and here, where the Privileged mingle freely with the Downtrodden, the Vulnerable, the Brave and Strong and Independent,

I see the Blood and Tears each day in their eyes.

 

Going Somewhere

 

I have to walk around the city

when I smoke my cigarettes.

When I see people standing on the sidewalk

in front of some building,

smoking, I feel sorry for them.

               Rooted to one spot.

I have to walk when I smoke my cigarettes

to feel like I’m going to get somewhere

before I die.

 

Off to War is a little sexual, so I'll just leave the link here.

 

And, finally, Footsteps: 

 

Quiet nights transition into joyous mornings;

Busy streets lead to back roads and dark alleys;

Rumination renders deeds ill-done and years lived regretful.

Each day I wonder where my feet will take me.

My toes are tired and I have no place to go,

But when I walk, sure enough I arrive somewhere -

On the other side of the street or out of town,

Sitting in a classroom or standing in the rain,

Downstairs, staring into the sky, lines intersect where chemtrails cross in the bloom.

If I can’t relive my life then I can at least retrace my steps,

Treading time on sidewalks wandered in all walks of life.

I wonder what wars were fought by those whose feet fall ethereally on the same ground as mine -

Worlds squashed and squandered, people fought and conquered,

Suspicion of spies and government eyes turned inward,

Everyday battle and struggles with stagnation, the drive to move forward.

Those who have fallen before me march in step with me now,

Dead for their causes but living on through mine -

My war of movement, my stand against still life.

I give my life for this, although I may die I will never walk alone.


Posted Image


#8 Neyo Wargear

Neyo Wargear

    Gloria fortis miles

  • Member
  • 1,846 posts

Posted 23 October 2013 - 09:01 PM

It's nice to see a fellow poet. These are some really good poems, I especially like Footsteps. Keep these up!


Omnius mille passus expeditio, omnis fossa bellum.

KY0FhTX.jpg
"The soldier above all others prays for peace, for it is the soldier who must suffer and bear the deepest wounds and scars of war."

- General of the Army Douglas MacArthur


#9 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 16 December 2013 - 10:25 PM

In this post I talk about capitalism, war, world poverty, globalization, pretty girls, evolution, paranoid delusions, snow, and not wanting to be alive anymore. These were written between Halloween and the present day, and my personal satisfaction differs with each one. I'm particularly fond of Global GiantsThe Lizard and the Sparrow, and Snow, but let me know what you think. As always, these can all be found on the blog as God intended them.

 

Without Feeling

With a piece in your ear

and a hole in your head,

your feelings fall out onto the ground.

You’re a suit with no face,

fingers without feeling.

Money moves you like a demented monkey mashing its cymbals together

to the detriment of everyone else.

A wind-up toy ringing up a three thousand dollar suit

to convince the world you’re worth it.

You held a banquet to feed the poor on Saturday,

yet you smack them with an open palm on Monday.

You wonder, incredulous, how can a man be so cruel as to kill a child

although the gold around your wife’s skeletal wrist was wrought from the hands of a boy in one of Senegal’s mines.

You go to church on Sunday

and on Monday you shake hands with the devil Himself.

 

Temple

A man sits in the shell of his temple,

his prayers and hope obliterated by might of man,

The candles lit in memory of lost love

melted to wax which drips like blood from the altar to the dirt.

The incense now is lost in the breeze,

The air smells of blasted stone and mortar.

He weeps as he watches

the iron birds take flight.

In his soul he knows that the foreigners are devils,

for who else should seek to destroy

a place so close to the heavens?

 

Love is Rich, Love is Poor

The American woman cries

as her Vietnamese family asks her for money.

Her tears leak through her fingers ringed with gold,

her nails polished pink,

and she cries that it’s impossible for her to help.

They bring her gifts she cannot accept

and ask for things she is not willing to give.

She is here for the first time, here to visit;

she is in shock.

She is from another place where things are different -

people don’t touch, people don’t feel.

There the ones who ask for help are beggars in the street;

here it is closer, the suffering and sadness is one with the love and emotion.

Though they are materially poor,

the family’s love for its daughter is rich.

 

Global Giants

The master curses to himself as he removes his servant’s shackles;

the empire is thwarted and withdrawals tanks and troops from its colony as its flags burn in the sky;

the corporation is opening a new location in a land that won’t recognize an invasion of golden arches and colorful windows.

The executive steps off the helicopter and sinks his foot into the rich mud beneath him

and a legion of poor swarm around him to shine his shoes,

thankful for any penny thrown their way.

Government turns a blind eye to the crimes committed in the boundary.

Bankers who balance the wealth of the world watch blindly

in the name of national product and progress,

structural adjustment plans and privatization.

They steal and destroy and rape and murder,

but their hands stay pure and white.

They clean the blood from beneath their fingernails with a sharpened knife nightly,

then go to bed with their wives who cry when they hear of starving children in China.

In the morning they drink coffee and read the paper,

glancing over sob stories about a factory collapse in Latin America,

or a sweatshop fire in  Southeast Asia,

an oil spill in a far away sea.

The rich men check their watches and throw away their breakfast.

It’s time to go to work.

 

Red hair

I saw your red hair across the street and ran

through traffic to catch you.

I followed you to watch your hips move and maybe

catch a whiff of your sweater.

I walked as fast as I could but you

were faster.

You escaped my reach and I

lost you to the wind.

You stepped through a door that closed behind your back

and you were never seen again.

 

The Lizard and the Sparrow

Dinosaurs hide

beneath the feathered frocks of birds.

Gouging teeth become pecking beaks and claws give way to flight.

The great birds of prey are raptors still today.

Monkey has become man.

The fingers that once figured

with rock and wheel and fire now fiddle

with watches and warheads.

The aggression once used to scream and scare and bite and beat our foes

is now dispersed in the air as clouds of sarin gas and phosphorous.

When the world is blackened earth and tainted water, and the fissures open up to consume our cities,

when the sky is stitched with missile streams over a backdrop of suffocating atmosphere,

we’ll look to Heaven for answers.

(How did we become this? What would our ancestors think? Is there any hope for us now?)

But none will come.

Just as the mighty tyrannosaurus rex became the unassuming sparrow,

God is nothing now but particles in the air.

 

Phantom Minds

What is this phantom fear in my extremities?

What is this pressure on my chest?

Why do I shiver uncontrollably when I imagine a man

in my room at night, wielding a knife?

I sit up and shake,

stand up and pace,

but the dread weighs me down.

I haven’t tried to explain it and couldn’t if I wanted to;

how do you tell someone that you think you’re losing your mind?

The nausea, the paranoia, the delusions, the pain -

which is most convincing?

Or terrifying?

All I want is for someone to be scared for me,

so the anxiety falls not on my shoulders,

but on their minds.

 

Snow

Is there anything more lovely than

a neighborhood draped in snow?

A woman fights to free her car from the ice

as she yells to her children not to jump into the powder, though they disobey her with enthusiastic immediacy.

A delivery driver braves icy roads and knee-high drifts to deliver bags of sandwiches to a college blonde in thick-rimmed glasses and pajama bottoms

who was too cold and too tired to head to the store herself.

A prepubescent boy clears the sidewalk in front of his house, eager to get the job done so that he may join his friends on the white hill behind their school,

as his younger brother defiantly throws his shovel to the ground and collapses on his back, waving his arms up and down and his legs in and out.

A man smokes a cigarette and pulls his dog along on a leash,

watching a stray cat dart silently across the street, balanced precariously on a thin layer of hardened ice atop the accumulation.

Flurries swim through the branches of a tree, crackling as they meet the crisp, dried surface of its resilient leaves.

From a rooftop heavy icy drops of water fall onto a metal signboard, producing a drumbeat that keeps time with the second hand on a wristwatch.

It’s the kind of weather that makes you want to stay in bed,

or feel grief for those in the street with no bed besides the cold, no warmth besides their blood.

It’s the kind of weather that you can lose yourself in, watching from inside,

or get lost in, unable to navigate the blizzard.

The drifts could pile up above our heads

and I would be content to sit here by my window and watch the snow bury us.

 

Looking Forward

Understand that

when I say I have nothing to wake up for tomorrow morning,

it does not mean I am free of appointments and obligations,

but rather

that I see no point in living

or getting out of bed

because I have nothing to look forward to.


Posted Image


#10 Klaykid

Klaykid

    Super Dooper Paratrooper!

  • Nova Member
  • 3,273 posts

Posted 19 December 2013 - 02:39 AM

I'm still waiting for you to update that story with the children >:V

 

Looks like you didn't hide anything within super complicated metaphors. And when I say that, I mean extra complicated metaphors, like Kafka's Die Verwandlung type of complication (I still have no idea what the Hell that story was about, if there is any deeper meaning aside from loneliness). Anyways, I liked that. All in the open, everything as clear as rain. Temple and Red Hair flows nicely, I really liked the both of them. I know one thing that is prevalent is all this imagery you put into these works. Snow was a bit weird to follow. It wasn't hard, but it felt awkward to read because of where you placed the breaks. Was this one just all about snow? Or is there something, dare I say, DEEPER!


gdV21HZ.gif


#11 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 30 December 2013 - 03:18 AM

A few new things. I've been juggling my time between a lot of different stuff lately, but I'm proud of these pieces.

 

The first is the third installment in a series of poems I posted in my previous writing topic, which is now gone. Because none of those poems were posted on my blog before, I made one post with all of them included. I call them the Feather-Bird poems. Since the third one is pretty explicit, I'll just put the link there and leave it at that.

 

The next one is a piece I wrote the morning after my birthday. I was hungover and feeling a little down, but I think it does a good job capturing my state of mind as I turned 21.

 

The Next Year

Wake up in bed without pants,

dry mouth and spinning head.

The room is hot but it is winter

and snow was on the ground last night.

Come downstairs just in time to hear someone walk out the door,

but too late to say goodbye.

Stomach is hollow and blood runs thick.

The refrigerator is perpetually empty.

Walking to the store, the weather outside looks the way I feel this morning -

the ground wet, the air thick, trash littering the streets.

This isn’t the December I remember.

This isn’t the way a new year of life begins -

mind foggy, shoulders heavy, eyes on the ground, alone.

At the store a worker says to my cashier

"I have no money, I have no car, but I have a girlfriend!"

And I’m not sure if this is his triumph or his lamentation,

but either way he has more than me.

 

And, last but not least, a bit of flash fiction.

 

Respect

On TV, it’s another movie about mobsters. The main character flashes a .38 snub-nosed revolver he just used to blow a hole in some poor sap’s head. The old man looks at me and says, “That’s my gun.”

This morning, I caught the old man eating cheddar cheese crackers for breakfast. He ate them with a spoon, in a bowl with milk and banana slices.

"That’s the gun I used to have, but someone came into my house and took it. They’re keeping it from me, and won’t tell me where they got it kept."

On Christmas he tried to introduce me to his daughter and her husband, who I’ve known for twenty years.

"They’re worried I’ll shoot someone." He turns and looks at me with big, watery eyes. He can’t control his tear ducts, and sometimes he cries without sadness. He’s always been too strong to cry. "I’ve had that gun for thirty years, just in case - ain’t never had to shoot nobody."

When the old man lived at home alone, he watched infomercials all day and wouldn’t answer the door for anyone but his children.

"Because people know," he says, nodding. "They know when you’ve got a loaded gun on the table next to your chair." His favorite chair, which we left out on the curb to be taken by the garbage men when we moved him out last week.

"They know," he repeats, pointing at the mobster on TV, who’s just beaten a man senseless for laying hands on his woman, "and they respect you."

As he says this, a stench overwhelms me. I believe my grandfather has just s*** himself, again.


Posted Image


#12 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 07 February 2014 - 10:10 PM

Got a few new things to show. The first is a story that I've already posted elsewhere in the writing board, but just to get that extra bit of exposure I'll post it here as well. It's called The Trees Make the Forest.

 

The next is a terribly obscene poem titled Licks, which I'll only post a link to since I don't want to damage any young minds.

 

One poem I can post here was written for my poetry workshop. The other one I wrote more for fun. It's weird, but I like it. Read 'em both below.

 

Colombian Fructose Love Potion

There’s a congregation of crocodilian women

basking in a bus on a tepid Texas highway

where innumerable cars sputter and and stall on blood-soaked engines

and the women on the bus are keeping cool with Coca-Cola

abducted from the veins of a dead man in a distant jungle.

 

Blood and Bone and Accumulated Moss

You are wandering through a moist,

sticky desert. The sand is

clinging

to your skin and soaking in your sweat.

You are wading through a frigid swamp.

The waterfowl are shivering and the crocodilians

and the reptiles are listlessly leering

(their blood is icy mud).

You are walking through a petrified forest

with a poet at your side.

He points at the rocky pillars that surround you and says

"The trees! They are so alive, like us!"

You are wailing on a mountain top

beneath the surface of the earth.

A giant bat roosts here and each year

it returns to feed you to its young.

You are wondering on the ocean floor

on the surface of the sun, wondering how

can any of this ever be?

The water boils and your flesh bubbles off the bone.


Posted Image


#13 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 30 March 2014 - 11:58 PM

Workshop has been going well, and so I have a few new poems to show. One I wrote on the side and ended up surprisingly happy with. The rest of the poems compose a five-part series centered around the theme of insects. I've included them as screenshots because I was very particular with presentation.

 

Expulsion
Blood orange blood blister

I prod you with the tip

of an iron tooth and pry

apart your tin can hull.

Your bubble lid bursts and

the crimson concentrate breathes

air for the first time.

Sweet sodium, precious preservatives -

I would suck you dry if not for the rule which states

I must drain you in the bathroom sink.

 

tumblr_n1tfjhHPcm1sgpal3o1_500.jpg

 

tumblr_n1tfmwpbyT1sgpal3o1_500.jpg

 

tumblr_n1tfpkCzRh1sgpal3o1_500.jpg

 

tumblr_n1tfsibIre1sgpal3o1_500.jpg

 

tumblr_n1tftou2WX1sgpal3o1_500.jpg


Posted Image


#14 Sir_Muffonious

Sir_Muffonious

    Rock on, gold dust woman.

  • Nova Member
  • 6,893 posts

Posted 08 July 2014 - 02:32 PM

Poetry workshop released a flood of creativity in me. I wrote lots of poems, scrutinized them more heavily than anything I've ever done, and asked several people to provide feedback and revisions. I'm really proud of this work, and would love to share it with you guys. I'll post a few at a time, starting with a series of poems I wrote called "Roadside Women". This was inspired by a road trip I took to Florida on Spring Break. It's about women and places, mostly.

 

tumblr_n7e714psNS1sgpal3o1_1280.png

 

tumblr_n7e714psNS1sgpal3o2_400.png

 

tumblr_n7fw1q0fV11sgpal3o1_400.png

 

tumblr_n7fw2xfjKM1sgpal3o1_400.png

 

tumblr_n7fw40x43q1sgpal3o1_250.png

 

tumblr_n7fw4rx2zd1sgpal3o1_400.png

 


Posted Image





0 user(s) are reading this topic

0 members, 0 guests, 0 anonymous users

,