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Old 01-16-2012, 04:37 PM View Post #1 (Link) YWO's Thread-Box Prose
Julian (Offline)
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Ok, self-explanatory; you post your works here that you don't want to be critiqued.

Please, I suggest that you spend more than 5 minutes on that, however.

If you do want to critique someone's work, here, then feel free to do that. No critique points here, though.

Rescue
Spoiler:
Fighter planes fly across the lead-tinted sky. Explosions like fireworks occasionally boom across, their sounds whizzing across my ears. Funny I can still hear. I guess that my ears are my strongest organ, after all.

I can’t even feel my arms, or rather the purple, wrinkled bundles of flesh that were arms. My fingers become icicles. My body starts to weigh down like lead, and those legs… do I even have legs?

The part of me called Hope tells me to fucking hang on to the plank, to not let go and see a bright and sunny tomorrow unlike today—how cheesy. The part called Death wants me to meet up with him in an hour. I guess I’m still hoping to be saved.

The seawater rises. God, this uniform pisses me off.

‘Fuck you Japanese freaks!’ I shout at the top of my frozen lungs, each word sounding dry and coarse. My mouth is trembling. Normally, somebody agrees with me, but then nobody does see me. No one hears me. I am nothing but a floating scum.

Like an old fool, I slip back to nostalgia; a pathetic last attempt to glorify myself above others.

Hundreds applaud in that camp as I put on my flying gear. And that kid. Oh, that kid. He stands next to me kissing the nurse of about the same age. Both had an air of innocence surrounding them like winter fog. Both look at me like a hero to be idolized, smiling, their pink lips wet from exchanged saliva. Death isn’t an honourable thing, you fucked up youth. At that moment if Satan had appeared and asked me to swap lives with kid, I would have fucking said yes. I can live his life better than he ever will, I bet.

‘Fuck you!’ I roared, but only the sea replies. Water slaps against the metal plank. I go here and there, drowning and coming up.

A bang. I rotate my frozen neck. A big yellow mushroom erupts in the horizon—the last Japanese ship—and I realise that we have won.

I manage to smile. Guess I’m patriotic after all, eh? Everything blurs…

‘Oi! Oi!’ A voice echoes across my ears. Is this heaven? The sounds become clearer and my sight better, too. A pair of snake-like eyes looks back at me. The sun shines behind him; a bright and sunny day. Fuck, why have I been rescued?
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Old 01-16-2012, 05:16 PM View Post #2 (Link)
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Once upon a time, there was a worm who loved to read. This worm decided she wanted to share her work with the world, so she went to a gray and blue place where all the smart people came to read and write. There, among blacks and greens, she spotted a purple rose sitting in the corner, drawing some things that looked nothing like worms, and not even as beautiful. As the worm took a few steps closer, a box fell from the top-shelf and she got locked in. She called, but no one heard her. Until she gathered up all the strength in her and called out for the rose. Luckily, although that rose was blind, she could still hear, just a bit. So, she hurried up and tied some pink and turquoise threads to the box and pulled it up a bit so that the worm could crawl from underneath. From then on, rose and worm became best friends forever and discovered that they were born to unite as one soul on the same pruple - yes, pruple - mat in the gray and blue library they both got addicted to.

END.
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Old 02-04-2012, 02:42 PM View Post #3 (Link)
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Feels more like a failed attempt at poetry, but this thread needs reviving. If it ever lived.


Waiting for the piece of facebook chat to tell you someone said hi, and though you've waited red-eyed for that someone all day, you don't want to switch tabs, face your weakness and forget how bad you are at poetry. So yes, waiting, while the rest are waiting to stop waiting and type that hi, the half vicious circle of things. You both own sunlight, but the one who says hi doesn't have snow, and surely only that matters. You stumble on your English, and though you can say hey how dull that is against the rest of all language-
bamboozle, or eiderdown,
or tulips.
He has tu-lips, those lips that shiver and demand attention of cream because you love them so much that you lick them in the frost and their quilts break, ice under pressure of ice; thin lips like waves, no, waves themselves, colour of plums under the snow in a crypt of soil among the tulips.
His tu-lips are nowhere in that hi because you're not tagged to any bus stop or fragment of the garden, what a shame. You know he'd wade across the snow for you, protecting tulips with his warm abstract heart, and you'd let him touch the stove, you'd laugh, and then again again again, spinning--

you're online.
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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
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Old 02-04-2012, 08:32 PM View Post #4 (Link)
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You're not talking about me, but I am. And you are. We both are.

And you're jumping from one topic to another. "Are you Timming?" you asked.

Why yes, I am. But I'd rather be purely Youing. I love how your petals are pruple with heroin stains, and your english meeting my englisher, forming a perfect circle of black dots that had escaped our i's and ran up our arms and perched in our pupils. 7, they were. 7/4. 1.75 i in each eye.

You have two tongues, and a new one growing day by day, feeding on b7ibik and 7abibte, and things like hummus is not grey. The sound of those horses running over letters is like nirvana to my ears. You're the mat that absorbs my soul. And you're the Gala to my Dali. And you're the last petal that settles in my lap. "--- Loves me"

I love you too.

And so life continues. With love for addiction and being addicted to love and plucking petals until we find the right one.

And I have.

And now I can pluck my eyes, because I want you there instead.

I'm blinded with love.
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Old 03-03-2012, 01:17 PM View Post #5 (Link)
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I am in the most beautiful room in the house; I am an artist. The water of the cucumber, anything but green, sinks into my tongue and gums. The refrigeration of this flesh wounds my teeth. There’s a dressing table and a mirror. The mirror exposes a picture of me. Young woman, hair a sun-dipped mess; a female mane. Half of this face is a pure sunlight, the other plain skin, a bleak colour-drained version of turmeric. My eyes can’t be fully open, though I am thinking too much to be sleepy. It’s the sun. We people shut ourselves from the bloated optimism and leviathan happiness, because it’s the largest balloon with the thinnest skin. An empty balloon. A balloon without a string to hold onto or tie around the wrist. You have to embrace it, and sacrifice yourself into making it the purpose and point of life. Not the sort of balloon common sense would buy. There is a point at which I can’t stand the sunshine, and when I stop thinking about my face it begins to tire me, and once it begins to tire me I can no longer go back to thinking about my face. Only watch myself swallow. The refrigerated cucumber burns my throat.
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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
  
						Last edited by bookworm; 03-03-2012 at 01:20 PM.
					
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Old 03-07-2012, 05:07 PM View Post #6 (Link)
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Some people say that when life gives you lemons, you make lemonade. Others say that when life gives you lemons, you cut them in half, and then squeeze ‘em right in its eyes. I say, when life gives lemons, you make apple juice and then sit back and let the entire world wonder how you managed to pull it off.

The first kind is the limited one. Second is the bitter and pessimistic type. Third – creative. Sometimes, I feel like some people in Eastern societies don’t accept the third kind. They hate apple juice. They hate us. They want to stay in their place, forever. Lemonade’s lemonade. That’s it. No white, or gray. Black. Just black. One can always believe what he sees. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and monkeys see themselves as deer when their moms are their mirrors. You believe what you are seeing, and no one sees what the other is seeing. Every eye absorbs the beauty that suits it. I would never buy a plain white dress, but my friend would, because she sees the beauty that I don’t see in it.

I want to make a change in the world. Change needs apple juice, which maybe I don’t like much, but I have to put up with this fact, because life is a btshfknfrknglsiated place. If you’re not following their rules, then you become the “outsider”. The outcast of town. And when life stabs you in the back, you feel betrayed, humiliated, degraded, but then again, when life stabs you in the back, know that you’re in the front. It’s not the “you rule and I follow zone”. Well, it is, but I want to change it. It should be the “you rule yourself and leave me alone zone”. I lead, not imitate. One can never have one role-model in life. Role-models are numerous. Otherwise, one would end up being a copycat. A journey to find a role-model – to add to the standard ones added automatically to the role-model list, especially when you have a specific religion – is pretty hard. You read about lots of people, meet some…but it all comes back to a person and what he has stored in his unconsciousness; ambitions, talents, skills, hobbies, feelings, emotions, etc, etc.

Moving on to another thing, when those who want to change things in this world are misunderstood, or are mind-cuffed… what’s annoying is that they’re in this state because they don’t really have a freedom of choice. It’s always what others might say. As if the others are in a position or a state of mind that allows them to judge others. It’s better to find one fault in yourself than find a thousand in others. And they all know that, but they just know it as a middle-school quote, not as a proverb to think of every time they decide judge a person. One thing people here are famous of is being contradicted. Not all of them, for sure. But, for instance, our supervisor at school. She once came into our class and was asking what girls want, and why don’t they want to be share and be active members in the drama and theater session, then she went on threatening and rambling like a middle-aged news reporter on a very cheap channel that no one watches, and then started scolding students without finding a solution for the crisis (crisis is a strong word in this case, but whatever). Instead, she refused to listen to what they want and focused on what she wants them to do. Forcing isn’t nice, you know. After she spilled her bowl of milk, she left the class, her steps like those of a dying dinosaur.

We all slide. We all float. We all dream. We all imagine a perfect future. We all—yes…we all… all of us…

To be continued.
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Old 09-03-2012, 04:14 PM View Post #7 (Link)
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Originally Posted by Julian View Post
Ok, self-explanatory; you post your works here that you don't want to be critiqued.

Please, I suggest that you spend more than 5 minutes on that, however.
I've broken the rules. I've spent 0 minutes on this. I also realise this is a crap imitation of Kerouac and Joyce.

Spoiler:

Now we have a landscape appearing, how joy how joy, get hold of your black dress and twirl properly like an animal who has wings and doesn't have to use them, wants light but does not need it for other purposes than wanting something. The landscape builds itself up like a fortess of clouds and touches us all as we open the car and shut the car go for a swim and come back towel wrapped all around and thinking about sky like a pair of eyes, or a single eye with the content of two inside it. Love for landscape is worth it, landscape will not let you down though it may make you let go of everything else you have to receive from the world and slip into you, become obsession like coffeeiphoneeastenderstea, bloom as a flower inside you but still not being you-- it may tickle in the middle of night when the curtains prance around trying to wash the heat off through dance. And if you ever become landscape as grave or statue, you will have to be stone first.

Sit down on the grass. Shut your car and turn the music down. Draw the first line.
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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
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Old 11-01-2012, 03:49 PM View Post #8 (Link)
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Written right now, after returning from cemetery-world.
______________

She sat in the kitchen, furiously cutting up a grapefruit. It was All Saints’ Day and she had just returned from the graves of everyone she was supposed to love and miraculously didn't. There were the sisters who died in a fire--a likely domestic accident in the age of paraffin lamps. There were various aunts, uncles, grandparents, great grandparents, a set of living and walking relatives in their funny hats of a mouldy look and either purplish or beige colour. She walked around with three plastic bags full of glass and an assortment of children simply too similar to herself. They had to be hers.

First gloves fell onto the ground. Then she saw the grave of a woman called Apolonia; a name she had never heard before, perfectly combining patriotism and Ancient Greek references. Why couldn't any of her children be called this? After that she completely forgot where her grandmother’s resting place was although she had paid for the place herself. Cemeteries are too full to be independent of money. Then kid 2 started whining. Kid 1 was convinced she was going in the wrong direction--as if anyone knew better than her! Kid 3 suddenly remembered we’d left Teddy on the back seat of the car and insisted on turning back.

The worst moment of them all was when she hit her legs with a bag of candles. Out of shock. In front of her was the grave of a guy she had a crush on in primary school. No photo. A migraine started lurking over her.

“It’s all over. We’re going fucking home now.” She heard herself tell her children, but of course the only sound surrounding them was the Mass taking place on the other side of the cemetery.

The KFC sign glowed in the distance.

All of the graves seemed to be beds in one long corridor; a queue for the horizontal.

She had a craving for grapefruit.

The knife was blunt.
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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
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Old 12-23-2012, 07:48 PM View Post #9 (Link)
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Family traits


I will make you beautiful

Her biological father carved her into perfection. When she was a teenager, in a space of a year, she would have had six different nose shapes and breasts mapped with surgery scars. For him, she was simultaneously a slab of rock and a scientific experiment to be formed into the chef-d'oeuvre of a eugenicist. She never knew her own mother, or if the identification of the one who birthed her as a mother is appropriate.

Her father never inserted her non-human features--like a pair of wings--although it had crossed his mind as he'd tell her. But having the logical mind of a scientist, he knew that such structure would fail and kill her.

When she escaped from him, she was adopted by a family, who died in a car crash after she finished University. She became pregnant with a girl, who she’d name Ella, to a soldier, who died in the field of war three months after he was assigned to the place. In both incidents, they died in a medical facility.

She promised herself to give the love and suburban life she never had to her daughter, but little did she know, she and Ella shared that genetic family jewel that clung like the pendant of her adopted family's cremated remains around her neck.

*

(...)
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Old 12-27-2012, 07:46 PM View Post #10 (Link)
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The Muck's prayer


"Our Muck in place,
hallowed be thy compoundness.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done,
on the Land as it is Upthere
yield us nutrition everyday,
and forgive us our waste and ignorance,
for we forgive those indebted to us.
And lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from grime and oil."

Amen
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