saturday night rituals as viewed from the 14th floor

[bennie2]

It didn't reach full night time potential until 11pm and then it fell like a poisoned arrow into the heart of the ground. the stuffy, muggy evening allowed liquids to turn. as they rotated, spun and broke apart they became fumes and vapour.

(earlier in the day soft rain had fallen and the air held fractal rainbows before the brows of the people I passed.)

queues form outside Centre Point - loud obnoxious queues of coatbridge idiots. a dog barks unrelated and a loud car engine growls. be-bobbled girls bright orange and loud lure lying men. and the men in turn snare women.

a raging blur of fists outside the main street post office grabs my attention. voices as angry as guns and other metallic inventions.

police sirens in this town have none of the beauty of new orleans. no no-legged sax player sweaty in a wheelchair side-street amber-lit night accompanies the emergency wails.

all this night time is, is puddles of vomit before the sun again.

[eugeneherman]

some of the local puddles pay their cover charge, some don't, are u from east dallas?

[Totenkopf]

Klan or krips: whose side you on, ese

[mnaz]

whose side is observation allied to?

[Lightning Rod]

fourteen floors below C level and I hear the ping of the sonar
trans-oceanic whizz-bang rah-rah Calliope yell
criminals and monks live in cells like fury and meditation
but the music is piped in and if you listen very closely or play it backwards
you can hear the trans-oceanic whizz-bang rah-rah Calliope yell
even from fourteen floors below sea level

welcome back Bennie
I won't make life miserable until later

[mousey1]

Yay Bennie!!! Bennie's back...and there's 2 of him!

Let the bell's ring out and the banner's fly
I hope to hell he'll stay awhile

he makes me laugh.

BENNIE!

well, I'm not laughing at this poem. there is a stench of vomit about. and it rings in the air true. true to form as vomit tend to.

and what a way with a story. do tell. do tell.

[Doreen Peri]

Bennie!!!!!!!!!!

Where ya bennie?

heh

man we've missed ya, brotha!

great seeing you.... write more!

[bennie2]

that's a lot of exclamation marks for one little me.
I hope you're all well.

[Arcadia]

hi benny! I´ve got only the audio of that!!

[hester_prynne]

Bennie! Good to see, and read, you again....
fantastic read...

H

[mousey1]

No such thing as too many exclamation marks Bennie2...

but hey now

what did you do to poor old Bennie1 not to mention plain old Bennie?

I just noticed in my stupid earlier post that I called what you'd written here a poem... geez I must be on something!!!

!!!

[bennie2]

mousey1: everything a poet writes or says or does is a poem. the problem isn't the definition of "poem", the problem is definition of "poet" and... by general principal... I think we're all poets. all here!

[stilltrucking]

Post to ten minute story challenge by izeveryboyin. About poetry

I used to think that in order to be a good poet you had to overthink everything and come up with clever lines before you started a piece... or rather that a turly good poem could only start with a clever line and not a truly innovative idea. Now I don't even write poetry anymore, so I'm wondering what was the point of thinking all that. Sometimes you need to think to feel important... but your best ideas always seem to come when you're not trying to think of anything at.

I find that the topic of the majority of the things I write now are very self-centered. A series of new occurences in my life has forced me to pay a lot of attention to who I am as an individual. The archetypal soul-searching. I find that at times I am quite interesting. But I also find Maury interesting and that show is basically just a live-action gossip column. Maybe I am too.

http://www.studioeight.tv/phpbb/viewtop ... sc&start=0