1600
I let the afternoon settle
like glitter in the water column,
like stray dust motes in filtered light.
Long, languid, as the luxury
of watching condensation collect
on the clear glass of a cool drink
whose carbonation ascends within.
This is indulgence unrivalled:
watching sunlight as it changes
from midday yellow to burnt orange.
I lingered -- though the day did not.
It passed by slowly, without haste,
from glitter to gossamar,
from stray sunlight to nebulous night.
Page, 02
She had a dream in which I died.
I was falling through the night. The city buildings melted in motion like wax wings, the wind wailed histrionic and tore at my seams like a harpy. City lights askew in the fall, a million stars above it all.
Star light, star bright,
falling faster through the night.
I would shatter into a million splinters of self, like flawed glass. The wide-eye moon grew distant. The clash of cars rose in a crescendo on warm zephyrs of city steam. The night shivers so etheric, while she and I dream chimeric.
Star light, star bright,
the stars are all I see tonight.
She hits the pavement with a fright.
The Dame of the Riverbank by sammehsweet, literature
Literature
The Dame of the Riverbank
I.
There was a dame I saw one ev'ning
fast-fading by the riverbed.
She had a whimper on her lips
a dewy-fever on her head.
She'd wound reeds about her forehead,
she gripped the grasses by the fist,
she almost seemed a ghost right there,
in a sparkling gown of river mist.
And though I stood there silently,
it was though she had felt my stare,
She fixed her wide, wild eyes on me
and with them, she froze me there.
'I am a dame without a heart,
Alas, I cannot feel it there.
I let it love, I let it live
upon a romantic's fare.
So I lie 'pon the riverbank
and measure time in streams gone by,
and wonder, sir, how can it be,
I hav
Courage Wore a G-String by sammehsweet, literature
Literature
Courage Wore a G-String
The structure of estrogen consists of three six-carbon rings, one five-carbon ring, at least one hydroxyl and the I-have-no-self-esteem functional group. It is responsible for that excruciating pain every 28 days, those vicious mood swings and why I wont wear lingerie for you.
Estrogen, its all because of estrogen. I cant actually be independent in my actions because my puppet-master is a chemical cue, a steroid hormone. I blame it for losing a grip on reality and clinging to love handles, for developing X-ray vision to see where my skeleton stops and the jubbly bits start, for losing the courage to
Close your eyes and count lines with me,
well start somewhere between the pages
scribing epics alongside romantics
and breathing shadows into gothic
dark fantasies. Just bear with me
speaking in tongues, call me synesthete,
with your world in imagery at my feet
Ill chase you through artistic stages
and find you somewhere between the pages.
Close your eyes and just write with me,
we wont dare to pause or stop to think
but take the words whereer they link,
cant pause to think, or dare to chose
we write with inspiration to lose:
we gain a few feet, lose the meter
stress, stress, distress; we ride, we
I ended it on a Saturday,
leaving three days to commit
memories to lemon-scented
garbage bags, extra durable.
Sitting at my kitchen drinking
my storm in a teacup,
(two sugars, cream, wayward tears)
channeling Germaine Greer
and bathing in the cool shadows
of Dickensons rhyme and
dark singledom. Bottoms up,
heres to you my love.
I lay awake on Monday night.
The cusp of the Tuesday dawn
sounded the trucks roar
that took the pieces of him away,
like body parts in celluloid,
(stripped, naked and indecent)
while I slept in cool sheets,
whispers of lavender, bleach.
The Magnificent Madame Mim by sammehsweet, literature
Literature
The Magnificent Madame Mim
Part I: He Just Doesn't Know it Yet (Of Course)
My name is Miriam Fleur, and I am secretary to the greatest, successful and hardest boiled Detective ever to grace New York City. Mickey John Ross, P.I., has never met a crime he could not solve, a baddie he could not put behind bars, and a dame who could not fall for him. Holy mother of Mary, a glimpse of that chiseled, hard-set jaw or those broad shoulders let alone those steely grey, misunderstood eyes certainly cause my ovaries to fill with meringue. One day the two of us are going to go through the motions (all of them) to gift the world with our children, he just doesnt
Page, 02
She had a dream in which I died.
I was falling through the night. The city buildings melted in motion like wax wings, the wind wailed histrionic and tore at my seams like a harpy. City lights askew in the fall, a million stars above it all.
Star light, star bright,
falling faster through the night.
I would shatter into a million splinters of self, like flawed glass. The wide-eye moon grew distant. The clash of cars rose in a crescendo on warm zephyrs of city steam. The night shivers so etheric, while she and I dream chimeric.
Star light, star bright,
the stars are all I see tonight.
She hits the pavement with a fright.
The Dame of the Riverbank by sammehsweet, literature
Literature
The Dame of the Riverbank
I.
There was a dame I saw one ev'ning
fast-fading by the riverbed.
She had a whimper on her lips
a dewy-fever on her head.
She'd wound reeds about her forehead,
she gripped the grasses by the fist,
she almost seemed a ghost right there,
in a sparkling gown of river mist.
And though I stood there silently,
it was though she had felt my stare,
She fixed her wide, wild eyes on me
and with them, she froze me there.
'I am a dame without a heart,
Alas, I cannot feel it there.
I let it love, I let it live
upon a romantic's fare.
So I lie 'pon the riverbank
and measure time in streams gone by,
and wonder, sir, how can it be,
I hav
Courage Wore a G-String by sammehsweet, literature
Literature
Courage Wore a G-String
The structure of estrogen consists of three six-carbon rings, one five-carbon ring, at least one hydroxyl and the I-have-no-self-esteem functional group. It is responsible for that excruciating pain every 28 days, those vicious mood swings and why I wont wear lingerie for you.
Estrogen, its all because of estrogen. I cant actually be independent in my actions because my puppet-master is a chemical cue, a steroid hormone. I blame it for losing a grip on reality and clinging to love handles, for developing X-ray vision to see where my skeleton stops and the jubbly bits start, for losing the courage to
Close your eyes and count lines with me,
well start somewhere between the pages
scribing epics alongside romantics
and breathing shadows into gothic
dark fantasies. Just bear with me
speaking in tongues, call me synesthete,
with your world in imagery at my feet
Ill chase you through artistic stages
and find you somewhere between the pages.
Close your eyes and just write with me,
we wont dare to pause or stop to think
but take the words whereer they link,
cant pause to think, or dare to chose
we write with inspiration to lose:
we gain a few feet, lose the meter
stress, stress, distress; we ride, we
I ended it on a Saturday,
leaving three days to commit
memories to lemon-scented
garbage bags, extra durable.
Sitting at my kitchen drinking
my storm in a teacup,
(two sugars, cream, wayward tears)
channeling Germaine Greer
and bathing in the cool shadows
of Dickensons rhyme and
dark singledom. Bottoms up,
heres to you my love.
I lay awake on Monday night.
The cusp of the Tuesday dawn
sounded the trucks roar
that took the pieces of him away,
like body parts in celluloid,
(stripped, naked and indecent)
while I slept in cool sheets,
whispers of lavender, bleach.
The Magnificent Madame Mim by sammehsweet, literature
Literature
The Magnificent Madame Mim
Part I: He Just Doesn't Know it Yet (Of Course)
My name is Miriam Fleur, and I am secretary to the greatest, successful and hardest boiled Detective ever to grace New York City. Mickey John Ross, P.I., has never met a crime he could not solve, a baddie he could not put behind bars, and a dame who could not fall for him. Holy mother of Mary, a glimpse of that chiseled, hard-set jaw or those broad shoulders let alone those steely grey, misunderstood eyes certainly cause my ovaries to fill with meringue. One day the two of us are going to go through the motions (all of them) to gift the world with our children, he just doesnt
Black ice upon the bitumen breaks
with brittle brutality underfoot.
The once-verdant leaves
hesitate and heave with frost;
one launches fluttering free-fall
in spirals towards the hoar.
Fatal and fragile ice,
frozen are the flowers:
fast-fading violets
remain in mockery
beside the four-oclock flowers
that time forgot.
Call them, each and all, Endymion.
Not the presentation of
perfections preservation here,
only hoarse lacrimations
resonating though the ice:
their interpretation of
this grim caricature.
&
How to Write Bad Poetry:
Start with: SCISSORS
Scissors are very good cutting your prose
into pieces (as well as fending off mobs of real poets).
It works better if you start with
I was halfway down the second floor apartment stairs when I realized I'd left my left arm on the table.
It's no surprise of course, for I've always had a habit of misplacing important things like keys, documents, and identification cards, but to leave one’s arm on the table is truly embarrassing. I would have run back to get it, but the bus driver is always a bit early on Tuesdays and I could already hear the distant hum of the engine making its way to me. And it's not like I really need it for work anyway. So I left it behind.
It's penguins and oranges today; my latest client is a fairly normal one. The last dreamer wanted marsupia
"You can't go back," she said
chuckling a bit as I pushed past her.
I didn't understand.
No, it didn't make
much sense to me at all
and the green light
on the other side of the lake
seemed to creep closer
but somewhere deep down
perhaps in the murky waters below
perhaps somewhere inside my mind
or my heart or my soul
it had fallen
and I knew.
"You can't go back!" he called out
and the voice echoed for a while.
Of course I could.
Oh, I could
if I could only stay
in the saddle
on the beast
as it galloped to the top of the mountain
but somewhere below me
perhaps on the ground rushing past
perhaps from my hands clenched so
A kitchen. MAN and WOMAN stand centre stage, in front of a counter with drawers. They are arguing as lights fade on.
WOMAN. Look. Its called a double suicide pact for a reason. I kill myself, and then you kill yourself.
MAN. Why are we doing this again? Do I have to kill myself?
WOMAN. Yes.
MAN. I dont like the smell of blood.
WOMAN. So what?
MAN. I dont like iron either. Probably because iron smells like blood.
WOMAN. Shut up.
MAN. Dont tell me to shut up.
WOMAN. When you shut up, Ill stop telling yo
How to Write Bad Poetry:
Start with: SCISSORS
Scissors are very good cutting your prose
into pieces (as well as fending off mobs of real poets).
It works better if you start with
Current Residence: Computer Chair!!! Favourite genre of music: Alternative Metal Favourite cartoon character: Garfield Personal Quote: "It's Sugar. Sugar is Delicious."
Favourite Visual Artist
Luis Royo, Brom, Anry
Favourite Movies
Fight Club, Aliens, Starship Troopers, Snatch
Favourite Bands / Musical Artists
Poets of the Fall, Hurt, Dropping Daylight, The Whitlams
Favourite Writers
R.A.Salvatore, Ayn Rand, Steven Erikson; Shelley, Byron, Coleridge, Keats, Dickenson
I can't do NaNoWriMo.
I wish I could, but with PhD fulltime and either tutoring or gym after five days I week I leave before eight and don't get home until around eight where all I want to do is destink in the shower and eat and then sleep.
That being said I think I will use this month to write some Comic Projects.
This month will be my NaCoWriMo hor hor hor.
I want to get done:
- 3 pages of Valentines Dei a week.
- 1 page of Roulette done a day.
- 5-10 pages of Zombie Chasers! a week.
If I could do this, I would be proud.
If I can get most of Roulette done with Pete that would be fucking awesome. If I could get 40 pages of Zombie Ch
I was surprised to log on and discover that a second piece of mine had been awarded a DD. This was both a shock and a joy to me. I find it ironic now that my two most light-hearted and humerous pieces have been widely recognised by this community.
These days, if you still read or visit my page, you may have noticed my activity is very erratic. This is due to university commitments (as I am to start my PhD this year) and also due to around three jobs. However, there is another reason why little of my work is posted here.
This is because I am now the writer of the webcomic 'Valentine's Dei' which can be found here: http://www.valentinesdei.co