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first draft of some chapter.

Posted by doesthemagkdrgn on 2006.04.05 at 12:08
My fabulous chapter about Russians and godsCollapse )


ode to intoxicants

Posted by doesthemagkdrgn on 2006.01.08 at 21:47
The romantic chemical is flowing
Through my bleach washed veins
The hallucinogen, the intoxicator,
Is fazing my peripheral gaze.
My sight casts forward
Sharp like a jagged point
Drawing inwards to create a path
Hollow as the home of thought.
I see specks of other planes
Dance before my companion's face
They float like safe little bugs
No fear of a stinger, they dance for love.
Always ignored, my companion stares on
Out the window where the world
Drags along the floor.
And the chemicals pump on
Till they strip the blood to the quick
And track their mark along my skin
Festering and as ugly as a newborn.

this poem was written in stages, all of which was while i was on something, so if some of it seems a little strange thats why. the 'bugs' that i saw were the little black specks you can see sometimes when you stand up too fast.
hope you liked.



Posted by kau666 on 2006.01.05 at 18:30
Current Mood: aggravatedaggravated
wow. this community is certainly banging along nicely. as in, not doing bloody much at all. so, in the interest of community preservation, i pronounce the start of a new era. the OT era.
i know this community is for creative writing and feedback etc. but, well, that's not happening much. so....
let's go OT
Off Topic Topics:
Ideas for poems or stories
Books, Music, Movies, Art. Anything that you've found interesting and would like to discuss
Challenges (ie. everyone must write a character introduction, or a haiku.etc.etc.)

Any other suggestions for OT topics are welcome.

Okay, so OT the first

Have either of you seen Mulholland Dr. ? if so, what did you make of it?


For Oscar

Posted by doesthemagkdrgn on 2006.01.02 at 14:14
this is a poem i wrote on the night of Oscar Wilde's death (well, the 150 anniversary)i tried to throw in a few puns, basically i tried to think a little sharper in this poem and i wanna know if you guys can see it or if it's too obvious. plus let me know what you think of the poem (of course).

Let the day be marked with black
And remembered for all time.
Christan the sun rise with a little song
That the muses can set to rhyme
For today is the passing of their son.
Few finer have been born
Mixed with his Irish blood, now gore,
Runs Dionysus with his whores.
A life ended with tragedy,
A play beyond his means.
And through it all he wrote of beauty
Detailed descriptions of his sufferings.
In earnest he was inspiring,
Even his shadow I would emulate,
Perhaps he would offer me good tidings,
Perhaps a poem, perhaps a date.
Standing tall, honourable to the last
He faced all cumbrenses with his sword
In hand, ready to strike
At the panthers that bound the land.
I only wish i could say the same
But I am a coward, to the bitter end.
So Happy Birthday, Mr 150,
I C L have no fury like the wilde born.
Cutting tongue that infect the wounds
Into delirium - pure genius.
Gay to the end, such romance,
But there I shall leave my envy.
Maybe in time I will scandalise
My society, but there is plenty
Of life left in the world of the now,
I am not yet at recompense.
I could swear, from this day hence,
But I am the antagonist
Of a play that still holds curtains drawn
And only when the curtain falls
Shall i bow and leave the floor.
Perhaps then will I express in vowels
What is now only pen and thought.
You may have forgotten me by then
But I shall eagerly await your retort.
For there is nothing so alluring
As the wilde sort.

Posted by kau666 on 2005.12.22 at 13:23
This really isn't ready for posting, it's half formed and half arsed. but. well.

Slippery words
Snakes in my hands
Soap in my mind
Beyond view

Hidden while
They speak
And speak

We say nothing
Sliding words
Fall silent before they are born

I sit here with fingers
Poised and mind
Fingers poise
Fingers retreat

The silent majority
While they speak
And Speak

Mighty keys
Poised hands
A mind ready for battle

They speak
They yell
They trample


The world gone deaf
The world gone mute

The world gone and given up

'Scourge' pt 1

Posted by crusty_mcboobs on 2005.11.27 at 04:22
I just want to try something a bit different. This is the start of a story I've been working on for a while now. Was thinking I could kind of serialise it online. I'll explain a bit more in a comment.


Audrey ran for her life. Shoes flapping on the cobbles, chequered scarf snapped out behind her, and her hands clenched around a bundle of stolen watches - the searchlights of a zeppelin painting her shadow against the walls as she fled past, and every now and then a wrathful blast from the megaphone mounted in its prow.

It wasn't supposed to go like this.

Audrey risked a look over her shoulder. It was there, all right, and getting closer. The giant sausage-shaped gas envelope, the tin gondola swaying beneath it. Two propellors whirring on either side with a sound like the droning of a monstrous bee. She knew also that it was up there just to keep an eye on her and that at this moment its telegraph was clattering out her position to the police at street-level.

"Hey!" someone barked. Audrey twisted to see a small man standing in the threshold of his store, hidden from view by an awning. To judge by his blood-and-ichor stained apron, a butcher. "Get over 'ere!"

"Oh, thank the Goddess!" Audrey ducked under the awning and thrust a handful of watches at the fellow. "You can have all these, mate, if you'll hide me for just - "

"Not so fast." Quick as a flash, the butcher reached up and whipped away her ragged grey cap.

"Huh. As I thought." His arms folded.


He raised a finger blunt and discoloured from butchery. "You're an elf. Piss off."

Audrey reached up to touch her pointed ears. They stuck up through her tangle of rust-red hair. They were only the most obvious sign of her fey-blood. She was taller than any human sixteen-year-old, with inhumanly pale green eyes, though her bony build owed more to malnutrition than the fey.

"Shite, have 'em all then!" she pleaded, pushing the watches forward, desperately aware of time slipping by. "Please! For the Goddess's sake!"

The butcher's arms did not unfold. "You'd better run, lass."

Posted by crusty_mcboobs on 2005.11.27 at 04:11

Can't believe
I've waited and
Wrecked it and
And you
I don't
You see
An end
To it
Won't come.
I'm weak
And tired
Sleep on
Through days
Think thoughts
Drink more
But still
An end
Won't come.



Posted by kau666 on 2005.11.06 at 13:26
On the surface I'd pass for human
I'm not, you know
I have arms
Furry and brown, with hands
That reach and pull away
I have legs
Strong and pale, they lead me home
They take me away
I have a belly
Soft and white - a ball of lead
Everytime I sense notice
I have a head
Dark hair and eyes, my brain
My friend, my enemy
I have a heart
Beneath my chest - it pumps blood
And breaks daily
My alien skin a cheap disguise
Fools no one but myself
And even I, when night has come
Can see where it's peeling away

'A Plea'

Posted by crusty_mcboobs on 2005.10.28 at 16:08
Is there anyone alive who doesn't know the feeling now? Or is every reaction different, and I an anomaly?
It begins with a television, or does it, for you? Is it the warble of
electricity over the suck of the petrol station pump, is it the whistle of
the kettle and a friend's shaking voice, is it the cold ink on the crowded
banner-ad street? for I, I dare not identify myself, it begins with a sickly
television cackle.
And what do you feel then, do I? Of twisted metal and charred lumps, smoking
glass and the teeth of buildings, the suicide thicket of pipe and the fire
that spits up cities? of cinderblock carnage, fluoro pandemonium, babble
of the babbling heads and gory stretcher prisoners? Of hazard tape and shit
storms, intravenous horror, babble babble helicopter bastards?
I feel; I feel my eyes are a plate of glass and I beat on one side and I
cower on the other, and I feel few of those banner ad things, I have never
asked why. I am a presence in front of television, I am electronic age ghost,
I am ten million miles away and whirling, whirling, will be elliptically back
in one hundred and eleven years.
And I am suffering junkie, I am agony need. Compile body count! Head toll!
A thousand thousand surgical masks and itchy sheets and the anonymity of
plastic wallet card and tarpaulin wrapping for the oblivious. Oh and I must
be sick, and are you sick, are we? For it all goes to the landfill of my
mind you see, it is strewn for the flies to pick at - and I go there to feed
in the blue flicker light, out of lead-lined tins of memory.


poem. a poem

Posted by kau666 on 2005.10.27 at 23:08
well, i'm doing a preface. cos i don't really want to do this now it comes to it.
i wrote this a long time ago. disclaimer one.
i wrote this about a very upsetting (well, two very, well, three very upsetting things in my life). disclaimer two.
i don't claim to be any good at this writing crap. disclaimer three.

here goes.

The warm air should have been a warning
Eating fast-food and rubbing our feet
The grass and the heat were all that concerned me
Waiting for two and the opening
But instead finding horrible closure
News of the closing of life
Blisters and backpack and journey forgotten
Blurred as the tears came too fast
Tears that had built in some instinctual fore-knowledge
Visions of body and rope and dead eye
Already buried, already mourned
Grief came too late and sitting by a canal
With an icecream and tissue
Or watching the fields and the hills
From a train while heart
Tightens throat and squeezes salt water
Was all and too foreign and forever too little

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