Forum
Community Forum
Today's Posts
FAQ & Rules
Members List

Writing
Writing Forum
Recent Posts
Critique Guidelines

Groups
YWO Social Groups
Facebook
Myspace

Chat
 
YWA

Register

Store
Support YWO
YWO Merchandise
The Book Despository
Amazon.com (US)
Amazon.co.uk (UK)
Amazon.ca (Canada)

SBS Mag


Reply
 
Thread Tools
Old 03-08-2013, 11:19 AM View Post #411 (Link)
bookworm (Offline)
Creative Fanatic
 
bookworm's Avatar
 
Join Date: Mar 2011
Location: void
Posts: 957
Points: 30
Times Thanked: 151
not-particularly-good-in-results spurt.
__

There was once a man
who decided to enclose
human hearts in his clocks.

We all need the beating of something that's dead.

He was an artist,
not a butcher.
__

Maybe in heaven
they wash up the lines
that divide our body from air
to prevent decay
coming like a soft wind
over the sea.
Over the edges of clouds,
edges of flesh drying in the sun,
forced not to fall
into the mortal pools
of empty airs below.

__

I know no language well enough
to have another world, to slip into
for the next life and the next,
like customers in tesco 24h
unloading anything
they are willing to pay for.
__________________
Originally Posted by Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho
The void. Before the staring eyes. Stare where they may. Far and wide. High and low. That narrow field. Know no more. See no more. Say no more. That alone. That little much of void alone.
arcadia
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-09-2013, 04:20 AM View Post #412 (Link)
Keladry (Offline)
Global Moderator
 
Keladry's Avatar
 
Join Date: Aug 2012
Location: Dreamland
Posts: 379
Points: 30
Times Thanked: 50
Crusty stuff at the corners of my eyes
beckons me to sleep.
One deep breath and I'm drifting;
my mind is a boat, no, a kite
aloft in the clouds barely tethered to earth.
From whisper quiet to wispy white
daydreams turn to that magic realm
where the layout of the land is ever so clear
until you're back down on the ground.
I fly, I spin, I loop-de-loop, floating by on the wind.
Beep-beep I'm distracted, wait, what?
Snap
The string has broken and I fall down to dirt,
my lovely ribbon of wonderful ideas snagged in a tree
and one little bow
torn off on the ground.
I'm awake.
__________________
Definitely let me know if you'd like a critique--- I'd love to.
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-09-2013, 06:24 PM View Post #413 (Link)
Isis (Offline)
Global Moderator
 
Isis's Avatar
 
Join Date: Dec 2009
Location: Boulder, CO
Posts: 1,732
Points: 30
Times Thanked: 355
The mirror shows me not as I am but as someone separating from string and sinew.
Soon the top of my head will come clean off, become a mask.
The side of the mountain is matted with slush and its rock faces wear thin,
but soon it will wear a new mask of blackberries
and I will crush them in my hands when kneading, will need their bright spurt
to get up in the morning, the bite of unripe sugar like the first bite of sun
after winter. Something about winter sparks the desire to go upriver
like a bursting fish, but when the world thaws and the river also swells
I can never find it in me to go.
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-10-2013, 09:26 AM View Post #414 (Link)
bookworm (Offline)
Creative Fanatic
 
bookworm's Avatar
 
Join Date: Mar 2011
Location: void
Posts: 957
Points: 30
Times Thanked: 151
god and water aren't much to believe in
because you can see through them.

air is nothing to believe in. who wants
to believe in desperation?

I believe in trees standing upright.
Nothing can erase them but a self-
conscious eyelid, a spray-on mist.
Everything can erase me but the calm
of those trees; discreet calamities.
__________________
Originally Posted by Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho
The void. Before the staring eyes. Stare where they may. Far and wide. High and low. That narrow field. Know no more. See no more. Say no more. That alone. That little much of void alone.
arcadia
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-11-2013, 01:03 PM View Post #415 (Link)
bookworm (Offline)
Creative Fanatic
 
bookworm's Avatar
 
Join Date: Mar 2011
Location: void
Posts: 957
Points: 30
Times Thanked: 151
haikuuuu
__
fooled into thinking
the tapping of zip against
coat is heartbeating
__________________
Originally Posted by Samuel Beckett, Worstward Ho
The void. Before the staring eyes. Stare where they may. Far and wide. High and low. That narrow field. Know no more. See no more. Say no more. That alone. That little much of void alone.
arcadia
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-20-2013, 03:56 PM View Post #416 (Link)
A23N (Offline)
Banned
 
Join Date: Mar 2013
Posts: 114
Points: 11.68
Times Thanked: 8
poke a pebble and the water rebels
alien entity introduced to
accepting gang of drops

place the pebble with feather touch
upon icy touch-me-not drops and they
devour and drown stone
till it becomes their own

make a splash with your rock
and ripples rebel like bombs
drops splash back at your eyes
to protect alien entity
of unknown kind.
society is just a state of mind.
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-22-2013, 02:54 AM View Post #417 (Link)
asclepias acida (Offline)
Scholarly Apprentice
 
asclepias acida's Avatar
 
Join Date: Dec 2012
Posts: 110
Points: 24
Times Thanked: 25
if i was

the earth and all her craters,
trenches would be most painful to my head.
soldiers march in heavy boots,
and blood seeps from the soil
while wilson's 14 points puncture my temples
as he sips his morning tea.
__________________

poppies yet not bloomed.
tumblr
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-25-2013, 06:32 PM View Post #418 (Link)
hippo (Offline)
Scholarly Apprentice
 
Join Date: Aug 2012
Posts: 111
Points: 24
Times Thanked: 17
earth and all that trench
they carved lines in a stone
they ask things of the sun
when to plant or when to die
they dye their tents of bone in skin
in flowers and blood
they carry unopened letters
they hide atomic missiles in
side by side by side and tucked
trampled poppies not yet bloomed, not yet opened
nothing opened
a letter unopened
a missile unfired
a poppy unbloomed
a baby uncarried
waits too long
early birds gets to
worm it's way out
from mothers flesh
but going cold
and drying with it
on a long thin bed
like a razor
or spoon
a little sniff in the pure white
stuff of indian dreams
where the naked old sufferers long
in ganges strides and tides ask
currents too old if premature
if premature
if premature
if we don't
if premature
when first collecting the thoughts of these
saddhi's
the smoked long legged and huge bowled pipes
and coughed the black smells of the city
with something earth
sleeping in the trench where the soldiers die and hide
where the soldiers die and hide he sleeps with her
she is young, too young for him
of course the preacher would laugh astonished
but his eyes pierce you
naturally
a violation occurs
a feeling of extreme nudity
a feeling of heart and wind
the feeling you a thin and trembling from the other side of that thin
skin
the feeling of eating
he shows you his hand face up
he will not read yours but you see the markings on his

it is snowing in india.
__________________
"The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering." - Tom Waits

These are the people I work and play with. They're all geniuses and muses at once. I don't get an ounce of rest from inspiration. They just won't let up. I try to explain that if they don't let up I might not have any fears left to conquer. They don't seem to care.
http://www.facebook.com/LivingLoveTour?ref=ts&fref=ts
  
						Last edited by hippo; 03-25-2013 at 06:35 PM.
					
					Reply With Quote
Old 03-25-2013, 06:42 PM View Post #419 (Link)
hippo (Offline)
Scholarly Apprentice
 
Join Date: Aug 2012
Posts: 111
Points: 24
Times Thanked: 17
Ode to the missiles unfired!
At the end of the world
when the last man standing digs out his eyes
who will be there to see
to witness their flight?

They were aborted passions
the last crafts of man never shown
in glory, no atomic confetti for his wedding
with destiny all gone from the books
(no shelves to hold the books, to paper to hold the words,
some try scribbling words on ash but they are mostly insane or mystics,
young men with old rashes in bandages made of gucci scarves
shuffle anecdotes into younger bodies
walk through the hills
with this question too)
Who will pick the mushrooms when they bloom?

God makes use of all of us.
God has a plan for each of us.
My mother was raped in an insane asylum after being committed by her boss for confronting him about his work ethics.
She worked in a factory producing baby food.
She found more than trace amounts of poison in most of what was being produced.
God has a plan for each of us.
When I was fourteen my friends told me that
__________________
"The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering." - Tom Waits

These are the people I work and play with. They're all geniuses and muses at once. I don't get an ounce of rest from inspiration. They just won't let up. I try to explain that if they don't let up I might not have any fears left to conquer. They don't seem to care.
http://www.facebook.com/LivingLoveTour?ref=ts&fref=ts
  Reply With Quote
Old 03-25-2013, 06:51 PM View Post #420 (Link)
hippo (Offline)
Scholarly Apprentice
 
Join Date: Aug 2012
Posts: 111
Points: 24
Times Thanked: 17
Ode to missiles unbloomed.
If every explosion
were the smallest of prayers
a chorus of man
a temple on earth
would ignite the furious passion.

Great pebbles cast into the pool of earth
where mushrooms bloom and God comes
child-skips and horsemen the other side of her
black buckled shoes; she is young and unaware
she has killed the only thing that loved her,
she is young and unaware
god and water are nothing to believe in
she is young and unaware
soldiers march in heavy boots
she is young and unaware
what ants teach men.

The Gods are hungry
for more Odes to Missiles UnBloomed!
Plundered
the glass bottles
illegal but not alien
to the streets of New Orleans
shining like stars
the pretty pieces
to see but not too touch
burning in creases of feet
some gypsy woman bounces
there's jazz in an all-night cafe
there's no splenda in his coffee
there's something about a fish or the time of day
that makes the nostrils jump into themselves
there's a letter unopened on the table
there's a poppy unbloomed in oregon's den
there's a missile and frame
and a tincture tickling like rain
from the tables cloudy conversation;
there's a word and it's holy and it's good
there's a holy 3 legged dog who hobbles around the ninth ward
offering biscuits for blessings.

There's a broken string and a sound in that
like a missile
misfired.

We was an artists not a butcher.
__________________
"The world is a hellish place, and bad writing is destroying the quality of our suffering." - Tom Waits

These are the people I work and play with. They're all geniuses and muses at once. I don't get an ounce of rest from inspiration. They just won't let up. I try to explain that if they don't let up I might not have any fears left to conquer. They don't seem to care.
http://www.facebook.com/LivingLoveTour?ref=ts&fref=ts
  Reply With Quote
Reply
Thread Tools

 


All times are GMT. The time now is 08:58 AM.
Powered by vBulletin® Version 3.8.7 - Copyright ©2000 - 2018, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.
All writing Copyright © its author(s). All other material Copyright © 2007-2012 Young Writers Online unless otherwise specified.
Managed by Andrew Kukwa (Andy) and Shaun Duke (Shaun) from The World in the Satin Bag. Design by HTWoRKS.