Poetry competition CLOSED 7th December 2013 1:57am
WINNER
LunaObscura (Utmakalitho Petragammata)
LunaObscura (Utmakalitho Petragammata)
From Poetry to Prose (It's Time to Adapt)
[i]Note from the writer: just to know who they are, Sunny is the sunflower female and Sunnan the sunflower male on a wonderful picture where the Model's head is framed by two sunflowers. Oh, one more detail: if you don't know how differentiate male and female of the sunflower family? Like humans. Ok, Sunny is at the Model's left and Sunnan at the right and the Girl plays the part of the bee... The Photographer is the boyfriend of the Model.[/i]
- Sunnan: "Eh, Sunny, you have read the poem by the Photographer? I have been upset by the use of our image by the Model. I had imagined she was a big bee and she helps us to make love. But she prefers to have pictures at her glory. Just a pretentious girl!"
- Sonny : "Yes, Sunnan, my love, I have read it and I find it very nice. The picture is beautiful; I love your charming smile on this picture. And you know what? Even she doesn't know that, I am sure that, because of these pictures, I am sure that I am pregnant now. I made tests and I am pregnant by you, my love.."
- Sunnan: "Oh no, incredible. I was furious with this ugly human female and she succeeded in making you pregnant? OK, sorry about that, Model, if you heard me. You are ugly, you profited by our beauty to promote your image, but you helped us to make love, better than the stupid bees which tried for more than a week without success."
- Sunny : "And imagine this picture can be seen by many people in the world"
- Sunnan: "Eh, but it is a porno picture, because we are making love... the Model is very indecent, in my opinion."
- Sunny : "Oh, Sunnan, don't be so angry. Humans don't understand our way of making love and for them, it is only a beautiful picture with two sunflowers and a pretty girl. Please, send an email to the Model to announce the wonderful news and to thank her for helping us. I am convinced that I'll give you many, many seeds... as never a sunflower lady has been able to give before. The Model was a very nice, big bee, wasn't she?"
- Sunnan : "Oh my love, you are right. I will send an email to thank her. My love, I am so happy, we should have many, many little sunflowers..."
Sender : sunnan(at)xxx.yyy
To : model(at)xxx.yyy
Subject : your last visit in our field
Dear Mrs. Model
Just a little word to thank you for your last visit in our field. My wife, Sunny, and me, are very happy and proud to announce to you that she is pregnant. And although you probably don't know, you had helped to pollinate us, instead of the stupid bees who tried all the week without success. In other words, you have helped us... oh I am suddenly shy... to make love. And the result is very very high, we hope to have many, many seeds. I promise that one of girls will be called Model , in your honor.
Hope also, that the picture had success and our faces in the picture should improve your ugly face... oh sorry to be rude, but it is the opinion of a male sunflower. Perhaps, men have a different opinion of that, but I am sure they like sunflowers.
Don't hesitate to come back in our field, some other friends could appreciate your help.
Best regards and thank you again,
Sunnan, a very happy sunflower
- Sunny : "Do you know, my love, what I have dreamed this night?"
- Sunnan : "No, my love, tell me and after, I'll tell you my dream, too!"
- Sunny : "You know that our destiny is to finish as oil! In my dream, I'll finish as massage oil for Photographer. And I would like it if he uses me to lubricate his cute dick, as Model called his penis! Imagine how nice that would be."
- Sunnan : "Oh, very funny! I could be a little jealous. Are you in love with Photographer, my love? My own dream was that I finish as massage cream for Model. In the same way, I'll love that she uses me to massge her sweet pussy."
- Sunny : "My love, imagine if that was real? Then after being transformed into oil, we could make love together with the Model 's pussy and the Photographer's dick! I love it and I love you, Sunnan, so much."
- Sunnan : "Oh yes, my love, I see that and I imagine too. In that way, we could make love a long time together and help the ugliest lovers, Model and Photographer. Oh it would be marvelous to help Model after the help she gave for us".
- Sunny : "Yes my love, and to help Photographer after he has told the world our nice story."
- Sunnan : "I'll manage that arrangement with the peasant for the end of the summer. Oh beautiful story we have. Oh is beautiful our destiny. I love you, Sunny, my sweet sunflower!"
- Sunny : "I love you too, Sunnan, my heart, my sun!"
Poem from this prose has been created is here : http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/126753-a-girl-in-a-sunflowers-field/
A big thank you to Petit_Minou to have corrected my many grammatical mistakes in English
Bring Me Home
The sun was about to set, its brilliant dying rays shone through the canopy of leaves above me. The trees around me started their restless rustlings. I wondered why it made that noise, especially when dusk approached. The constant noise sounded eerily like whisperings and sighing of entities unseen. The night descended and I was still on that beaten track walking home. Home was a couple of kilometres away from the bus stop where the big bellied bus spat me out.
I turned my thoughts away from nature’s norm and about my trip home. I have not been back for the last five years. I wondered how everything was. I had left in a huff those many years ago, due to some family quarrel that seemed so petty now. I recalled that it was about our father’s land where my sister and her husband wanted to sell and I wanted to keep. My mother was for my sister and that irked me as it seemed to slander our father’s memory.
We ended up in court and it was decided that we divided it instead. I still have the land, yet I never went to look at it. My sister sold her share and had since left to live in the city.
I was going home though, as my mother was gravely ill and her second husband had called me and told me that she wanted to see me. I felt guilty for not being there for her those many years, but then again her husband Michael loved her so much, and always took good care of her. They have been married for almost 20 years, five years after my father died. I was about ten at that time when Mother remarried, so Michael was more real to me than my own father, whom I mostly remembered through photographs.
My thoughts jolted back when I felt somebody walking behind me. I turned back to look and saw a young man, maybe in his late teens walking behind me.
He had this lovely smile and when I said Hi, he answered with a hi too, his eyes sparkling with inner joy. I asked him where he was going to and he said he was going to fetch his mother and bring her back to his home. I said hey, that’s a coincident I am going home to see my mother.
He said hey imagine that, and I nodded. He started talking about his mother and father, how they loved each other. He talked about how his father would kiss his mother’s hand and bring her wild flowers from the woods. How he would chance upon them kissing under the apple tree, or chasing each other around the pond, trying to push the other in.
I listened mostly, holding my jacket closer and hitching my heavy rucksack on my back. The night seemed to grow colder and I shivered a little.
On a crossroad, or actually a cross junction of the jungle path, the young man went to the left turning, waving. I called out, hey I don’t know your name…and he said ‘Steven…’ and I said I am Shirley and he answered ‘I know…’ I stood there puzzled for a while, and then I realised my rucksack had an identification tag with my name on it.
The nocturnal sounds of the woods receded as I walked into the space my parents called a farm. It was actually just a pretty little valley with their house on it, a barn on one end where no livestock lived, a field of corn and huge tracks of woods. It was accessible by transportation actually, just that I took the bus. I needed the walk.
Michael was at the veranda to greet me. He wrapped me in his huge arms and once again I remembered loving this man like a father when I was a child. His huge frame was a comfort. He whispered welcome home and ushered me into the house. I went right to their bedroom to look at my mother. What I saw killed me. She looked like a small child on the bed, her long glossy hair spread out; which showed that what little of it was brushed well.
Michael was weeping silently as I sobbed into my hands. How can I have left and never came back to see this woman who gave me life, I thought. I remembered how this petite woman loved us. I remembered her sorrow when she miscarried her baby with Michael after carrying it for three months. I remembered how Michael held her and loved her through her sorrow.
My mother stirred and Michael came and held her hands. Shirley is here, he said and Mom opened her eyes and looked at me. For a moment there she did not look sick, she had brilliant eyes that seemed to sparkle with inner joy. She smiled at me brilliantly, oh you are so beautiful, such a fine young woman, my baby, she said softly. She turned her eyes to Michael who was silently weeping, his face flooding. She said thank you for my life with you My darling. I will be alright, Steven is coming for me. Michael gasped out his sobs so hard that it sounded painful. My mother then looked away and her breath rattled in her throat. Steven…she breathed out and never breath in again.
I looked at Michael and he nodded, still crying.…gasped out Our unborn child, Steven…memorial stone under the Apple Tree.
Dumbfounded I looked towards the window, and for a brief moment I thought I saw silhouettes of two people walking away hand in hand.
Ends
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/58657-wanderings/
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/113193-good-night-children/
The sun was about to set, its brilliant dying rays shone through the canopy of leaves above me. The trees around me started their restless rustlings. I wondered why it made that noise, especially when dusk approached. The constant noise sounded eerily like whisperings and sighing of entities unseen. The night descended and I was still on that beaten track walking home. Home was a couple of kilometres away from the bus stop where the big bellied bus spat me out.
I turned my thoughts away from nature’s norm and about my trip home. I have not been back for the last five years. I wondered how everything was. I had left in a huff those many years ago, due to some family quarrel that seemed so petty now. I recalled that it was about our father’s land where my sister and her husband wanted to sell and I wanted to keep. My mother was for my sister and that irked me as it seemed to slander our father’s memory.
We ended up in court and it was decided that we divided it instead. I still have the land, yet I never went to look at it. My sister sold her share and had since left to live in the city.
I was going home though, as my mother was gravely ill and her second husband had called me and told me that she wanted to see me. I felt guilty for not being there for her those many years, but then again her husband Michael loved her so much, and always took good care of her. They have been married for almost 20 years, five years after my father died. I was about ten at that time when Mother remarried, so Michael was more real to me than my own father, whom I mostly remembered through photographs.
My thoughts jolted back when I felt somebody walking behind me. I turned back to look and saw a young man, maybe in his late teens walking behind me.
He had this lovely smile and when I said Hi, he answered with a hi too, his eyes sparkling with inner joy. I asked him where he was going to and he said he was going to fetch his mother and bring her back to his home. I said hey, that’s a coincident I am going home to see my mother.
He said hey imagine that, and I nodded. He started talking about his mother and father, how they loved each other. He talked about how his father would kiss his mother’s hand and bring her wild flowers from the woods. How he would chance upon them kissing under the apple tree, or chasing each other around the pond, trying to push the other in.
I listened mostly, holding my jacket closer and hitching my heavy rucksack on my back. The night seemed to grow colder and I shivered a little.
On a crossroad, or actually a cross junction of the jungle path, the young man went to the left turning, waving. I called out, hey I don’t know your name…and he said ‘Steven…’ and I said I am Shirley and he answered ‘I know…’ I stood there puzzled for a while, and then I realised my rucksack had an identification tag with my name on it.
The nocturnal sounds of the woods receded as I walked into the space my parents called a farm. It was actually just a pretty little valley with their house on it, a barn on one end where no livestock lived, a field of corn and huge tracks of woods. It was accessible by transportation actually, just that I took the bus. I needed the walk.
Michael was at the veranda to greet me. He wrapped me in his huge arms and once again I remembered loving this man like a father when I was a child. His huge frame was a comfort. He whispered welcome home and ushered me into the house. I went right to their bedroom to look at my mother. What I saw killed me. She looked like a small child on the bed, her long glossy hair spread out; which showed that what little of it was brushed well.
Michael was weeping silently as I sobbed into my hands. How can I have left and never came back to see this woman who gave me life, I thought. I remembered how this petite woman loved us. I remembered her sorrow when she miscarried her baby with Michael after carrying it for three months. I remembered how Michael held her and loved her through her sorrow.
My mother stirred and Michael came and held her hands. Shirley is here, he said and Mom opened her eyes and looked at me. For a moment there she did not look sick, she had brilliant eyes that seemed to sparkle with inner joy. She smiled at me brilliantly, oh you are so beautiful, such a fine young woman, my baby, she said softly. She turned her eyes to Michael who was silently weeping, his face flooding. She said thank you for my life with you My darling. I will be alright, Steven is coming for me. Michael gasped out his sobs so hard that it sounded painful. My mother then looked away and her breath rattled in her throat. Steven…she breathed out and never breath in again.
I looked at Michael and he nodded, still crying.…gasped out Our unborn child, Steven…memorial stone under the Apple Tree.
Dumbfounded I looked towards the window, and for a brief moment I thought I saw silhouettes of two people walking away hand in hand.
Ends
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/58657-wanderings/
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/113193-good-night-children/
The poem:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/125566-no-fuckin-losing-nfl/
No Fuckin Losing (NFL) ... Today
Episode I: Anticipation
"An old farm boy like you must love playing on this grass. It must make your dick hard remembering the sheep back home," Jonesy belted out at no one in particular, but I knew he was talking to me.
"Naw, I don't miss 'em at all cause your wife's ass is twice as tight and she bleats ten times as loud," I growled back.
My boys chuckled.
"And besides your bed is way warmer than any haystack you limped dick bitch."
Now some of his were smirking, and I could tell by the scowl on his face and his sudden beet complexion I owned him out right. He'd let me in, so hurting him was gonna be that much more fun.
He took a half hearted step towards the line, but he knew better than to cross it. Besides he knew someone would pull him back, but he had to make the gesture to save face.
"You take it too far at times Whiskey!" he says with two of his pushing him towards their huddle.
"It's Mr. Wizienski to you, bitch. Only she gets to call me 'Whiskey'. 'Big Whiskey' when I'm pulling her hair," I yell with my taped hands cupped to my mouth like a megaphone.
They all retreat to their huddle. Some looking back over their shoulders, cowering, as if I might try a sneak attack.
My boys and I just stand there in the cold.
Waiting.
Studying.
Eleven hungry bears anticipating the fish coming up stream so we could feast.
They say games like this, in weather like this, separates the men from the boys.
I always say it separates a bitch from a beast.
The frost and rain from the night before had choked out any remnants of grass.
We were standing on a corpse that had long been suffocated. The only sign of life was the billowing steam that came out of twenty two mouths and nostrils that invaded the rime.
They were coming out of their huddle now.
I'm looking at the eyes of their quarterback. Looking for that all important tell. When he was a rookie he liked to brag he bled green in his college days, his school's colors. He says he still bleeds green now playing for the Packers.
I just liked making the cocksucker bleed.
I want him to bleed a little today, puke is a bonus. I remember my freshman year of college when our schools played one another and I hit the pussy so hard he was actually crying. Bruised three of his ribs, fuckin' bitch. I broke a finger on that play, but I just taped it up to the two good ones next to it and kept playing. He sat out for the rest of the game. We won 24 - 10, but I was pissed we'd given up the ten to that bitch.
Come on pretty boy, gimme the tell. I could see outta the corner of my left eye the h-back is shifting ... They're gonna try a screen.
I call the audible, "Blue Dog ... Blue Dog Two!" That's what we called a screen play. The quarterback dumps off to the running back, the dog with the bone. The pulling guards blocking for him are the ticks meant to be snatched off the dog and squashed 'tween my fingers.
The cold current and it's blight is howling all around me. My mouth watering and claws unsheathed. A grizzly in desperate need for the taste of flesh.
Come on, snap the fuckin' ball bitch ...
Episode II: The Snap
Hut... ... hut ...hut!
The ball is snapped, and they leave a hole the size of the Grand Canyon for me so I can rush the quarterback. Bait for the bear, but I know better. As bad as I want to pop that cocksucker in the mouth, to counter the screen it's my job to track the h-back and never give him the light to catch the ball.
My boys and I play it to the letter. We cut the tits right off that bitch, he had no one to feed. In a panic he runs and his caught for a one yard loss.
It was now third and nine and the ball was on their 38 yard line.
We'd hold them here.
Now.
Win the game.
Clinch our division.
They line up for a pass play with an empty backfield. I call for a blitz Big Jake and I had run a thousand times. With no one else in backfield besides the QB, we would both have a clear path to him.
Hut, hut ... ... Hut!
I can already taste him with each thunderous step I take. He's cocked back to throw the ball.
"Pass!"
"Pass!"
The alert is sounded up and down the line.
I'm coming from behind. I club him with my left forearm and try to maul the ball with my right, all the while driving his body into this wet muddy pavement in one syncopated move.
The ball is gone.
Caught downfield for what looks to be a forty yard gain.
All I could think was, "Where the fuck was Jake? He shoulda help me trap this cocksucker so he couldn't make that pass! And how the fuck did Robbie let his man beat him downfield like that?"
Then I see it.
Redemption.
A flag on the play. Jake was double teamed. They held him by grabbing a fist full of his jersey and hooking his face mask too, otherwise he'd have beat me to the quarterback.
The ref signals holding with a ten yard penalty and a replay of the down.
Third down with 19 to make for the first. No fucking way I think, not today.
In the huddle I say very little to my boys. "Right in the ass!" I command.
"And Robbie you better not let that pussy beat you again."
They run the same fucking play, again. This time, I drop back to clog the passing lanes. The ball is up, spiraling through the flannel mist. This time, Robbie tips it out of bounds.
They punt the ball to us, and the rest is just routine. Those glory whores on offense run out the clock, but the boys and I had won that game.
Episode III: Interviews
We'd won, division champs and were playoff bound, but you'd never know it from Pappy.
There he was standing in the players' tunnel in his Sunday proper shirt and tie, and overcoat. He thought it made him more like Halas or Lombardi when he did that cause Lord knows the heathenish bastard hadn't been to church since he was a choir boy back in ot' nine.
I could smell the Jim Beam as soon as I saw him. His favorite after shave. I let him rant on for about ten minutes about how we were bailed out by that ref's call.
When enough had gotten to be too much, I stuffed the drunk fool into a cab. Threw a ten into the window at the cabbie and told him get him to the Holiday Inn. Thought about it a second and handed him twenty more, leaned into the window a bit and told the guy, "Make sure he gets to his room okay."
"Sure thing Whiskey. Thanks!"
Once I figured he was settled in for the night and just about ready to pour himself into bed, I'd send over a couple of whores to take the knot outta his dick. Otherwise he'd be calling me at 3 o'clock in the morning to tell me the twenty other things I'd done wrong in the game.
Back inside the players tunnel I decided to use the pay phone there to call her.
"Congratulations I guess are in order Whiskey. I heard it all on the radio."
"Look, we're leaving first thing in the morning and I wanna see you."
"I guess I can get my mother to watch the kids for a bit. But what about -"
"Baby, you know he'll be licking his wounds until the wee hours sucking down one beer after another. I just need to suck on you."
"Oh, you sweet talker you," she laughs. We both do.
"All right I'll meet you at that little place off the interstate again," she finally agrees.
"And baby wear something special for me," I tell her.
"Which one?" she sighs.
"The green one. Home colors. Like he wore today."
"Bye Whiskey."
"Big Whiskey."
We hang up.
"Taxi!"
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/125566-no-fuckin-losing-nfl/
No Fuckin Losing (NFL) ... Today
Episode I: Anticipation
"An old farm boy like you must love playing on this grass. It must make your dick hard remembering the sheep back home," Jonesy belted out at no one in particular, but I knew he was talking to me.
"Naw, I don't miss 'em at all cause your wife's ass is twice as tight and she bleats ten times as loud," I growled back.
My boys chuckled.
"And besides your bed is way warmer than any haystack you limped dick bitch."
Now some of his were smirking, and I could tell by the scowl on his face and his sudden beet complexion I owned him out right. He'd let me in, so hurting him was gonna be that much more fun.
He took a half hearted step towards the line, but he knew better than to cross it. Besides he knew someone would pull him back, but he had to make the gesture to save face.
"You take it too far at times Whiskey!" he says with two of his pushing him towards their huddle.
"It's Mr. Wizienski to you, bitch. Only she gets to call me 'Whiskey'. 'Big Whiskey' when I'm pulling her hair," I yell with my taped hands cupped to my mouth like a megaphone.
They all retreat to their huddle. Some looking back over their shoulders, cowering, as if I might try a sneak attack.
My boys and I just stand there in the cold.
Waiting.
Studying.
Eleven hungry bears anticipating the fish coming up stream so we could feast.
They say games like this, in weather like this, separates the men from the boys.
I always say it separates a bitch from a beast.
The frost and rain from the night before had choked out any remnants of grass.
We were standing on a corpse that had long been suffocated. The only sign of life was the billowing steam that came out of twenty two mouths and nostrils that invaded the rime.
They were coming out of their huddle now.
I'm looking at the eyes of their quarterback. Looking for that all important tell. When he was a rookie he liked to brag he bled green in his college days, his school's colors. He says he still bleeds green now playing for the Packers.
I just liked making the cocksucker bleed.
I want him to bleed a little today, puke is a bonus. I remember my freshman year of college when our schools played one another and I hit the pussy so hard he was actually crying. Bruised three of his ribs, fuckin' bitch. I broke a finger on that play, but I just taped it up to the two good ones next to it and kept playing. He sat out for the rest of the game. We won 24 - 10, but I was pissed we'd given up the ten to that bitch.
Come on pretty boy, gimme the tell. I could see outta the corner of my left eye the h-back is shifting ... They're gonna try a screen.
I call the audible, "Blue Dog ... Blue Dog Two!" That's what we called a screen play. The quarterback dumps off to the running back, the dog with the bone. The pulling guards blocking for him are the ticks meant to be snatched off the dog and squashed 'tween my fingers.
The cold current and it's blight is howling all around me. My mouth watering and claws unsheathed. A grizzly in desperate need for the taste of flesh.
Come on, snap the fuckin' ball bitch ...
Episode II: The Snap
Hut... ... hut ...hut!
The ball is snapped, and they leave a hole the size of the Grand Canyon for me so I can rush the quarterback. Bait for the bear, but I know better. As bad as I want to pop that cocksucker in the mouth, to counter the screen it's my job to track the h-back and never give him the light to catch the ball.
My boys and I play it to the letter. We cut the tits right off that bitch, he had no one to feed. In a panic he runs and his caught for a one yard loss.
It was now third and nine and the ball was on their 38 yard line.
We'd hold them here.
Now.
Win the game.
Clinch our division.
They line up for a pass play with an empty backfield. I call for a blitz Big Jake and I had run a thousand times. With no one else in backfield besides the QB, we would both have a clear path to him.
Hut, hut ... ... Hut!
I can already taste him with each thunderous step I take. He's cocked back to throw the ball.
"Pass!"
"Pass!"
The alert is sounded up and down the line.
I'm coming from behind. I club him with my left forearm and try to maul the ball with my right, all the while driving his body into this wet muddy pavement in one syncopated move.
The ball is gone.
Caught downfield for what looks to be a forty yard gain.
All I could think was, "Where the fuck was Jake? He shoulda help me trap this cocksucker so he couldn't make that pass! And how the fuck did Robbie let his man beat him downfield like that?"
Then I see it.
Redemption.
A flag on the play. Jake was double teamed. They held him by grabbing a fist full of his jersey and hooking his face mask too, otherwise he'd have beat me to the quarterback.
The ref signals holding with a ten yard penalty and a replay of the down.
Third down with 19 to make for the first. No fucking way I think, not today.
In the huddle I say very little to my boys. "Right in the ass!" I command.
"And Robbie you better not let that pussy beat you again."
They run the same fucking play, again. This time, I drop back to clog the passing lanes. The ball is up, spiraling through the flannel mist. This time, Robbie tips it out of bounds.
They punt the ball to us, and the rest is just routine. Those glory whores on offense run out the clock, but the boys and I had won that game.
Episode III: Interviews
We'd won, division champs and were playoff bound, but you'd never know it from Pappy.
There he was standing in the players' tunnel in his Sunday proper shirt and tie, and overcoat. He thought it made him more like Halas or Lombardi when he did that cause Lord knows the heathenish bastard hadn't been to church since he was a choir boy back in ot' nine.
I could smell the Jim Beam as soon as I saw him. His favorite after shave. I let him rant on for about ten minutes about how we were bailed out by that ref's call.
When enough had gotten to be too much, I stuffed the drunk fool into a cab. Threw a ten into the window at the cabbie and told him get him to the Holiday Inn. Thought about it a second and handed him twenty more, leaned into the window a bit and told the guy, "Make sure he gets to his room okay."
"Sure thing Whiskey. Thanks!"
Once I figured he was settled in for the night and just about ready to pour himself into bed, I'd send over a couple of whores to take the knot outta his dick. Otherwise he'd be calling me at 3 o'clock in the morning to tell me the twenty other things I'd done wrong in the game.
Back inside the players tunnel I decided to use the pay phone there to call her.
"Congratulations I guess are in order Whiskey. I heard it all on the radio."
"Look, we're leaving first thing in the morning and I wanna see you."
"I guess I can get my mother to watch the kids for a bit. But what about -"
"Baby, you know he'll be licking his wounds until the wee hours sucking down one beer after another. I just need to suck on you."
"Oh, you sweet talker you," she laughs. We both do.
"All right I'll meet you at that little place off the interstate again," she finally agrees.
"And baby wear something special for me," I tell her.
"Which one?" she sighs.
"The green one. Home colors. Like he wore today."
"Bye Whiskey."
"Big Whiskey."
We hang up.
"Taxi!"
LSP, thank you for reminding me of my competition before I deactivated my account, I will judge this first and foremost.
As for your entry, you went a step above the rest. Something I admire, thank you for the entry, I've read it numerous times.
If anyone else sees fit to enter, do so now.
As for your entry, you went a step above the rest. Something I admire, thank you for the entry, I've read it numerous times.
If anyone else sees fit to enter, do so now.
the poem: http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/4032-clockworks/
the poem is short, and doesn't say much. hope the prose explains it. word count: 888
--------------------------------
There is an itch at the side of a finger I cannot quite find. It agitates me and I refrain from putting my hand on the bulb of my bedside lamp, now boiling from being left on for a good 4 hours. It is another night of insomnia, another night of wondering what it takes to shut a mind out from the world and place it under pillows or behind walls where thoughts cannot get to it. 4.34am. I am stuck in a limbo with piles of coursework left unfinished and a bigger pile of memories I need to sift through to heal. I am meant to be better, because you are no longer in my life, breathing fire down my neck and cracking open my bones. But i am not better, the scars of what you did are still evident, the pain in my rib still does not go away. The shadows are bigger than ever at the corners of my room.
Joy Division plays in the background, like a mantra. I find myself distracted by Ian's lyrics every time I try to concentrate on my essay about the significance of the king to his men from Shakespeare's King Henry V. I feel drained like the tired whirr of my standing fan, so I reach into my years old two-tone monochrome bag for my packet of Pall Malls and pull myself towards the window for another cigarette to calm my nerves. I pass my drawer table to find a pink ribbon next to my deodorant. Where the hell did that come from? Unfazed, I think back on the pile of memories glaring at me, and I apologise to them for the ignorance, and apologise for generally painting such a disgustingly clichéd picture of my depression. I am scared to approach them, scared that the process of all the pain I will gather from it will be much more than the process of healing I will gain. I do not want to remember the day he called me a liar when I had given my purity and virginity to him. I do not want to remember the day he shoved me to the ground in front of a crowd of unfamiliar, judging faces and spat at my feet. I do not want to remember the day he kneed my ribs because of a small, petty mistake I made - a mistake that I cannot even remember even if I tried because of the scale of it.
I think I will clean out my room tomorrow. My mother will surely give me hell for the unwashed cups, the towels slung over the bedpost, the general untidiness that reflects the core of my mind. She understands, but deep down, she doesn't want this pain that I possess. I listen as she wakes up in the middle of the night as she usually does for her weakening bladder. I hear her fumble around in the kitchen for a glass of water. I hold my breath through the entire process. I have taken so much peace away from her the past year, I do not want her to start worrying that I have not slept for two weeks. I again contemplate on starting my medication on tablets that can help ease my mind, but I have a growing hatred for everything chemical that I cannot just ignore. No, it is not because the boy I thought was a lover used his taking drugs as a threat to make me obey him. It is because of the lack of control I lost in myself when I was with him, that made me believe I wanted every control of myself back, and the last thing that would aid that was changing my bodily functions via these man-made pills that gives me no confidence. I contemplate on this for less than a minute before diverting my attention back to the cigarette half-smoked between my fingers.
Two more hours before I can open the door and allow my mother to believe I have just woken up. I wonder if I can call a friend. But what would I say? What if they were asleep, what if they didn't want to hear my voice? I search my room for the telephone, puzzled for a while, and notice it on my chair from when I was sitting in the dark under my desk on the phone with my best friend the night before because I was scared of things that he promised will not get to me anymore. This makes me decide not to give him a call again tonight; at least someone should get a break from this ache that is all-encompassing most of the time.
Attempting to stop myself from all these trivial thoughts gathering in my mind, I stub out the cigarette and head back to the book on my bed. I decide there and then that I will not be able to go any further with the assignment, nor with the progress of positive thinking, so I turn off the light, change my playlist to Sigur Ros, and lie in bed waiting for the day to begin. At least for now, I can rest my bones.
the poem is short, and doesn't say much. hope the prose explains it. word count: 888
--------------------------------
There is an itch at the side of a finger I cannot quite find. It agitates me and I refrain from putting my hand on the bulb of my bedside lamp, now boiling from being left on for a good 4 hours. It is another night of insomnia, another night of wondering what it takes to shut a mind out from the world and place it under pillows or behind walls where thoughts cannot get to it. 4.34am. I am stuck in a limbo with piles of coursework left unfinished and a bigger pile of memories I need to sift through to heal. I am meant to be better, because you are no longer in my life, breathing fire down my neck and cracking open my bones. But i am not better, the scars of what you did are still evident, the pain in my rib still does not go away. The shadows are bigger than ever at the corners of my room.
Joy Division plays in the background, like a mantra. I find myself distracted by Ian's lyrics every time I try to concentrate on my essay about the significance of the king to his men from Shakespeare's King Henry V. I feel drained like the tired whirr of my standing fan, so I reach into my years old two-tone monochrome bag for my packet of Pall Malls and pull myself towards the window for another cigarette to calm my nerves. I pass my drawer table to find a pink ribbon next to my deodorant. Where the hell did that come from? Unfazed, I think back on the pile of memories glaring at me, and I apologise to them for the ignorance, and apologise for generally painting such a disgustingly clichéd picture of my depression. I am scared to approach them, scared that the process of all the pain I will gather from it will be much more than the process of healing I will gain. I do not want to remember the day he called me a liar when I had given my purity and virginity to him. I do not want to remember the day he shoved me to the ground in front of a crowd of unfamiliar, judging faces and spat at my feet. I do not want to remember the day he kneed my ribs because of a small, petty mistake I made - a mistake that I cannot even remember even if I tried because of the scale of it.
I think I will clean out my room tomorrow. My mother will surely give me hell for the unwashed cups, the towels slung over the bedpost, the general untidiness that reflects the core of my mind. She understands, but deep down, she doesn't want this pain that I possess. I listen as she wakes up in the middle of the night as she usually does for her weakening bladder. I hear her fumble around in the kitchen for a glass of water. I hold my breath through the entire process. I have taken so much peace away from her the past year, I do not want her to start worrying that I have not slept for two weeks. I again contemplate on starting my medication on tablets that can help ease my mind, but I have a growing hatred for everything chemical that I cannot just ignore. No, it is not because the boy I thought was a lover used his taking drugs as a threat to make me obey him. It is because of the lack of control I lost in myself when I was with him, that made me believe I wanted every control of myself back, and the last thing that would aid that was changing my bodily functions via these man-made pills that gives me no confidence. I contemplate on this for less than a minute before diverting my attention back to the cigarette half-smoked between my fingers.
Two more hours before I can open the door and allow my mother to believe I have just woken up. I wonder if I can call a friend. But what would I say? What if they were asleep, what if they didn't want to hear my voice? I search my room for the telephone, puzzled for a while, and notice it on my chair from when I was sitting in the dark under my desk on the phone with my best friend the night before because I was scared of things that he promised will not get to me anymore. This makes me decide not to give him a call again tonight; at least someone should get a break from this ache that is all-encompassing most of the time.
Attempting to stop myself from all these trivial thoughts gathering in my mind, I stub out the cigarette and head back to the book on my bed. I decide there and then that I will not be able to go any further with the assignment, nor with the progress of positive thinking, so I turn off the light, change my playlist to Sigur Ros, and lie in bed waiting for the day to begin. At least for now, I can rest my bones.
great comp. thanks for throwing another challenge i didn't know i needed
The Fame of Being Blind
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/130199-the-fame-of-being-blind/
The Fame of Being Blind: Now with 50% less fat!
If a picture is worth a thousand words then I have a story I could never tell. Better to bite my tongue, bitterly, and let you watch.
If words were worth their weight in ink then warning labels would be heavier reads; ‘May cause inflection, projection, and misconceptions. Consult your neighbor about a grain of salt’ might do. Could be I’m breathing too loud to hear a quiet truth you all know to be self-evident.
If I’m wrong, try to find me and talk some sense into me.
...Then find someone else.
Maybe if you listened to your heartbeat, for your entire life, it would tell you how you’ll die. But the Devil is a subversive postmaster at best. It would be better to boycott, and further the frontier mangled communication broke down on so long ago. It would be best to go West. I’d show you the way but I have to finish my paper route.
I don’t know what side I’m on and slow to say it. Ask around, my name is mud.
It kills me when I think about it, but only when I think about it. Kills me when I laugh about it too.
I’m probably repeating myself. Funny thing is I keep changing my mind. Politicians call that flip-flopping. I call it warming up for the grave.
Deathtrip is just a fancy word for clarity, and when people say the truth hurts they forget to mention it kills. Every saint and genius is channeled every day by prepubescent kids in video game chat rooms who still don’t know they’re dead because they’re still talking. Yeah, I’ve seen enough to know where I’m going. Only difference between you and me is that I might have time to wipe that stupid look off my face before we get there.
I’ve often heard how many words a picture is worth, but do those words burn in a depression? I will pay only for its worth to the flame, not the paint.
I’m counting on every one of you to stay the fuck out of each other’s way.
The Fame of Being Blind
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/130199-the-fame-of-being-blind/
The Fame of Being Blind: Now with 50% less fat!
If a picture is worth a thousand words then I have a story I could never tell. Better to bite my tongue, bitterly, and let you watch.
If words were worth their weight in ink then warning labels would be heavier reads; ‘May cause inflection, projection, and misconceptions. Consult your neighbor about a grain of salt’ might do. Could be I’m breathing too loud to hear a quiet truth you all know to be self-evident.
If I’m wrong, try to find me and talk some sense into me.
...Then find someone else.
Maybe if you listened to your heartbeat, for your entire life, it would tell you how you’ll die. But the Devil is a subversive postmaster at best. It would be better to boycott, and further the frontier mangled communication broke down on so long ago. It would be best to go West. I’d show you the way but I have to finish my paper route.
I don’t know what side I’m on and slow to say it. Ask around, my name is mud.
It kills me when I think about it, but only when I think about it. Kills me when I laugh about it too.
I’m probably repeating myself. Funny thing is I keep changing my mind. Politicians call that flip-flopping. I call it warming up for the grave.
Deathtrip is just a fancy word for clarity, and when people say the truth hurts they forget to mention it kills. Every saint and genius is channeled every day by prepubescent kids in video game chat rooms who still don’t know they’re dead because they’re still talking. Yeah, I’ve seen enough to know where I’m going. Only difference between you and me is that I might have time to wipe that stupid look off my face before we get there.
I’ve often heard how many words a picture is worth, but do those words burn in a depression? I will pay only for its worth to the flame, not the paint.
I’m counting on every one of you to stay the fuck out of each other’s way.
If I Could Give My Breath To You
Short story version
By H. E. Riddleton
(Hannah E. Reed)
I slip rhythmically between the sheets and watch your face pale in the ivory shade of a corpse. I smile, believing it’s a game of Fate’s foretell and giggle at the erotic play on darkness, a necrophilia mistress I shall convey. My vessel tries to rouse your wake, but you sleep soundly as if in death. I gasp and choke and nearly suffocate myself with the tears of my love, but then I realize that I can give my breath to you just as easily as you can take it.
I lean forward, numbing my form, holding my breast to contain my sobs, but then pause, feeling my heart beat and think, contemplating my fanciful premise. If I could give my breath to you, would you breathe it back to me? Exhaling it, returning half into my corpse, keeping half for your making, my Love. I mentally pace around the room, still atop of you, I gaze into your frozen cold eyes. And then would you kneel so deep, leaning so steep, kissing my lips so I wouldn’t be alone? Would I wake in the dream, the effervescent dream of your love or of your coitus? I caress your cheeks, fearing never a blush be brought to them again. Oh, the Kiss of Life! Or… the Kiss of Death? My Devlish Duke would you leave me alone to rot? Would you wake me or would you leave me dead? Would you chuckle as I scream, losing air, losing me… Wasting my breath on your laughter? I run my fingers through your autumn hair. “No, no, you could never do such a thing.” But then again, there was that one time… Would you nod in my take, in my reap, in my wake? A lie in your hands, a wooden stake for your kill; would you hex me, my Darling Dark, if I could give my breath to you?
I cry out, deranged by these meditations. You were dead, but you were still inside me, between my legs, between my ears, between my breasts, between my ribs, inside my heart.
I let out another cry, this one a weep of madness, a growl of some bestial creature dwelling inside of me beside you. I cannot be without you. I silence the rubble of words inside my head, I am a poet no longer! I murmur down and kiss your lips. I feel the tears streaming down like rain in a drought. Every memory, every glance, every touch, every climax, I can feel you, I can feel us within the pucker. I breathe my lungs into your chest and fall back onto the bed like Snow White following the bite of the poison apple.
And it is there where I still reside, taking your place as pale as dead.
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/131755-if-i-could-give-my-breath-to-you/
Short story version
By H. E. Riddleton
(Hannah E. Reed)
I slip rhythmically between the sheets and watch your face pale in the ivory shade of a corpse. I smile, believing it’s a game of Fate’s foretell and giggle at the erotic play on darkness, a necrophilia mistress I shall convey. My vessel tries to rouse your wake, but you sleep soundly as if in death. I gasp and choke and nearly suffocate myself with the tears of my love, but then I realize that I can give my breath to you just as easily as you can take it.
I lean forward, numbing my form, holding my breast to contain my sobs, but then pause, feeling my heart beat and think, contemplating my fanciful premise. If I could give my breath to you, would you breathe it back to me? Exhaling it, returning half into my corpse, keeping half for your making, my Love. I mentally pace around the room, still atop of you, I gaze into your frozen cold eyes. And then would you kneel so deep, leaning so steep, kissing my lips so I wouldn’t be alone? Would I wake in the dream, the effervescent dream of your love or of your coitus? I caress your cheeks, fearing never a blush be brought to them again. Oh, the Kiss of Life! Or… the Kiss of Death? My Devlish Duke would you leave me alone to rot? Would you wake me or would you leave me dead? Would you chuckle as I scream, losing air, losing me… Wasting my breath on your laughter? I run my fingers through your autumn hair. “No, no, you could never do such a thing.” But then again, there was that one time… Would you nod in my take, in my reap, in my wake? A lie in your hands, a wooden stake for your kill; would you hex me, my Darling Dark, if I could give my breath to you?
I cry out, deranged by these meditations. You were dead, but you were still inside me, between my legs, between my ears, between my breasts, between my ribs, inside my heart.
I let out another cry, this one a weep of madness, a growl of some bestial creature dwelling inside of me beside you. I cannot be without you. I silence the rubble of words inside my head, I am a poet no longer! I murmur down and kiss your lips. I feel the tears streaming down like rain in a drought. Every memory, every glance, every touch, every climax, I can feel you, I can feel us within the pucker. I breathe my lungs into your chest and fall back onto the bed like Snow White following the bite of the poison apple.
And it is there where I still reside, taking your place as pale as dead.
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/poems/131755-if-i-could-give-my-breath-to-you/
As promised, still in this shithole to finish up this competition. After reading ALL of your entries over and over again. Luna Obscura is the winner.
If anybody has a problem with my decision go fuck yourself with a 2 by 4, I'm out.
If anybody has a problem with my decision go fuck yourself with a 2 by 4, I'm out.
