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 The Lycaeum Forums » Arts » Poetry and Literature (Moderators: Kosmo, Moo)Topic:
 Short Fiction Thread

[Mimos]

I have a great love of short fiction and since I write a lot of short stories all the time, I figured I'd make a thread.

Dorne, Kos...if this thing turns active, and people start posting their stories, I think a sticky would be good.  Maybe we could develop some writing games/exercises. Like a weekly story game where we give some details, or an ending and we have to fill out the rest of the story to reach the ending, etc. I think it could be fun.





This theme of this and a lot of the happenings of this are based on a news story one of my friends recounted to me that he heard on PBS/NPR or the like. Two or three phrases of the dialogue, like the "invisible hand" and "dinner...extra crispy" was taken directly from what he said, and possibly the story itself. So I don't get a whole lot of points for originality on this one. But, I still thought it was entertaining and a good exercise.



This is the first pass of the story. I rarely go anything more than a first draft because I ruthlessly self-edit and often ruin what I write, so there's going to be punctuation and maybe some spelling errors. Just flow with 'em.


Extra Crispy

 Amir really didn't believe in magic or the occult. As a child of the information age, he was of the school of thought that the universe is governed by the laws of science, not by mysterious, intangible, forces that were summoned in darkened rooms on the full moon and dismissed it all as folly. Khalil however, was of the old guard. A sprightly fifty-seven year old ex-smuggler, he attributed his long, yet remarkably uneventful career on his adherence to ancient Magia customs. Which is how they found themselves in a smoky, dimly-lit , back-alley stall in old-town Tangier, hunting for a Hamsa, an ancient talisman of protection.


Khalil's friend and old business partner was imprisoned in a jail deep in the mountains in the borderlands of Afghanistan and Pakistan. And they planned on breaking him out. A risky proposition given the heavy American Military presence in the area, as well as the slightly demented Warlords, who viewed any action in their kingdoms that took place without their explicit permission, as an affront and a challenge to their authority. They were known for pointing their AAA guns horizontally and spray painting anything that moved with it. Hence, they wanted to make sure that Khalil's friend, Najmi, who would be unarmed, would have divine armor to keep him safe from harm during the jail break.


"You must be joking?!" Amir half laughed, half exclaimed. "Twelve-thousand Dirhams? Isn't that a little on the ridiculous side?."


"Perhaps. But it is less expensive than a suit of ballistic armor, and better my friend!" Khalil said with a beaming smile. "Here is your pay sir! Thank you!" Khalil said, slipped the Hamsa into his pocket and then they for left home.


A week later and after a day of rest, Amir woke up and went to meet Khalil in the market. Amir found him shopping. You could tell that Khalil carried a great deal of status by the way he shopped. He had a commanding way of doing so where he would stand back from the stalls about a meter and a half, point at what he wanted and say "Five kilos of rice," or "One and a half kilo's of that." and "Have it sent to my house. My wife will pay you."


"'Sup, Khalil?" Amir said in the lingo he had become accustomed to using as he worked part-time as a translator for the Americans. "Ah, good day Amir!" "Wait here." Khalil strode into a store and came out a couple minutes later with a cardboard box slung over his shoulders on his back by a wide strip of cloth he gripped with both hands. With his characteristic, enthusiastic smile he said "Let us go."


They made their way gently along the loose, damp gravel of the precariously narrow mountain trails for a valley that Khalil used to frequent in his smuggling days. Khalil was surprisingly sprightly for an old man and hopping from rock to rock, full of a youthful amusement, he looked slyly at Amir and teased "You know Amir, before we would smuggle anyone, or take along associates on smuggling runs we used to give them a physical of sorts." Amir, breathless, said, "No, I didn't know that old man."  and tried to get out between gasps, "Would you have smuggled me back then?" "No." Khalil answered simply, and then he began singing the rest of the way there.


An hour or so later they rounded a bend and looked up into a gently sloping, lush valley. "This is a real treasure, I never knew of such a place!" Amir, dumbfounded and excited, exclaimed.


"One of the best my friend!" "You remember the places like this, they often save you when pursued by the locals or the police."


Khalil took the box off of his shoulders and pulled the chicken out of the box. He tore off a strip of cloth from his makeshift backpack and wrapped the hamsa in it. Holding the chicken under one arm, he tied the hamsa to the chickens neck and then walked off towards a small bush about fifteen meters away, placed the chicken in front of it and walked back.

To Amir, the chicken looked unremarkable. It just looked like a chicken with a little garbage tied around it's neck, but he didn't say anything. Khalil pulled a well worn, and obviously heavily-used pistol from his pocket and amid a small symphony of clicks, sliding metal and locking springs, deftly made ready the weapon.


"You know, the Americans use one hand when they shoot those."

"Just how much do the Americans pay you?"


Amir took the hint and shut up.


Khalil squeezed off a round. The dirt near the chickens foot erupted in an explosion of dust and pebbles, while the bullet ricoched up with an other-worldly whistle, just like in the movies. "Does it work?" Amir asked, but before he could finish the sentence, Khalil fired off the rest of the ammunition in the clip with great speed. All around the chicken, fountains of earth erupted with great violence. But the chicken stayed still. It just looked around inquisitively at all the explosions, cocked its head back and forth once, and let out a small cluck that Amir guessed translated to "Hmm."


"I can't believe it works!"


Khalil didn't say anything but loaded another clip and began shooting. He shot one round before the gun jammed. "I can't believe this! This has never happened before!"

Shocked, Amir asked "That old thing has never jammed?"

"No, never. I use this thing all the time to shoot rabbits." Khalil than stripped the gun down and laid all the parts out on a rock. After a few minutes of tinkering he reassembled it.

"I want you to shoot it, too."


Amir took the pistol, reloaded it and took his stance, one-handed, just like the Americans taught him, aimed, took a breath and pulled his finger against the metal crescent.


With the thunderous bark of the gun, a bright red spot appeared on the front of the chicken, like an invisible hand rubbed finger paint on it. The chicken didn't move but the spot spread and dripped rapidly. Amir laughed, jumped up and down, and then began doing a victory dance with his own supporting cheers.

Khalil just let out a heavy sigh and, shaking his head, walked to the chicken. He pulled out a knife, picked up the chicken and cut off its head. He told Amir to make a fire.


They had chicken for dinner that night, extra crispy.

[ST1R]

Enjoyed it, thanks.

[fort]

Nice.

[housearrestee]

chapter 2 please 

[Kosmo]

Good story, Mimos! I want to support your intent to encourage some creative writing, so I hope I can muster some good energy to write something.

I made two minor changes, one in punctuation and the other the removal of a word that made a sentence ungrammatical - can you find them? I promise not to act like Miss English teacher, because I agree what is  important is the substance of the story; and anyway, I have a degree in English, but grammer and spelling are not my strong points, nor the reason I pursued the degree.

I often begin to imagine the ending of a story before I get there even though I know a good story will not end the way I imagined it. But, just for fun, I will write an alternative ending to your story. This might be a fun thing for those interested in playing with this thread to do, among other ideas people will have. So:

They had chicken for dinner that night, extra crispy.

In the morning they packed for a return to town, and Amir watched Khalil carefully wrap the Hamsa in the cloth and prepare to stow it in his travel bag. Khalil glanced at Amir, who had a wicked grin on his face and a question in his eyes. "12 thousand durhams, or the bastard who sold it to me will be wearing this around his neck!"

Recognizing that proud, but wounded look on his friend's countenance, Amil swallowd his laughter, but said: "Okay, my good friend, but perhaps a little target practice first?

I actually like your ending, but made a stab at it for the sake of experimentation, and an example of a way for folks to contribute without having to originate a story.

[temporarilyinremission]

great thread. no time to get into it though, so i'll leave it at "i approve" for now.

[Mimos]

"hunting for a Hamsa, an ancient talisman of protection."

There's one.

[Kosmo]

 "Hence, they wanted to make sure that Khalil's friend, Najmi, who would be unarmed, would have divine armor to keep him safe from harm during the jail break."

That one, but I didn't save the original wording. I think a "that" was in there and muddied the waters a little.

Btw, what I liked about your story was the way you created two characters that took on color and dimension in a very brief space. The dialogue between them was unforced, believable. I got a good "picture" of the setting. Keep at it, you have the skills.

I may have them too, but I am totally lazy about doing anything with it. If it weren't for Lycaeum, I would probably write nothing and just read all the time, or jerk off, or take a walk (which usuallly involves writing stories in my head that never get written). Discipline, meaning write, write, and write, is the only way to make it more than a hobby.

[Mimos]

Thanks for all the comments and support, guys. 

[temporarilyinremission]

Okay, within this thread, I thought we should do something, an idea, bits of which were taken from what Mimos has said, and a post by housearrestee the other day.

While short fiction wholly possessed by the author is welcomed in this thread, we can also start a group story, the format being what ever you want to write, followed by "..." 

where "..." is the indication that you are done and someone else should take over. Now for the sake of keeping the group orgy story entertaining, let's try to maintain some semblance of cohesiveness. Insanity is good, but coherent insanity, mmmkay? 

Also, in order to make it clear when you are continuing on with the group story, put "Lycaeum Tales (name)" in the subject title, where name is the posters handle.

All clear? Let's begin and see what we can make of this!

[temporarilyinremission]

"Did you just go in the other room and make yourself throw up?" she said, moving within six inches of his face, her eyes spinning wildly.

"Uhh, of course not!" he said, suddenly nervous, realizing he was busted, feeling foolish at having done such a thing, stupid at thinking he could hide it from her, retarded for trying to do so by running the sink.

"The fuck you didn't! Do you think I'm some kind of idiot? You went in there, ran the fucking sink and then gagged yourself. And why would-" she said, waving her arms, face growing splotched with fury.

"I don't think you are an idiot baby, do you think I am?" He said, his mind racing for an excuse. "For fuck's sake, I know about your sister's history, I know she almost died because of her disease, I know what the thought of some one forcing themselves to vomit does to you. Besides, you were in the next room, running the sink would have been the dumbest thing to do, the worst way to cover it up.. I mean, c'mon babe, it's me..." He trailed off, embarrassed at his foolishness. It was the dumbest thing to do. What was he thinking? Why on earth? It was because he was feeling fat. She hadn't told him she loved him in a week. They hadn't made love in two months. He couldn't remember the last time she told him he was hot. The only thing she ever said about his appearance was to point out his receding hair line, or to play with the fat of his gut, grabbing it in her hands and saying in the voice an obnoxious aunt uses to coddle a toddler, 'oh lookit the widdle subway sandwich we have right here, doesn't it look so chubbily delicious, yum yum it's a subway tum!' He felt like shit and worse of all he couldn't shit. He had been putting food in for five days and nothing had been coming out and when he pressed hard on the area of his pelvis below his belly button and to the left, he could feel the hard outline of a rocky mountain range of fecal sausages. The thought of all that had pushed him over the edge, made him decide the bread and butter and squash ravioli in a sweet cream reduction sauce was just too much and it had to go. Now this. Fucking christ.

"God damn it why are you lying to me, don't lie to me, you know I fucking hate it when you lie to me" She was screaming right now, she couldn't breathe, why was he doing this, she had heard him gag, she knew the tricks, how long had he been forcing himself to throw up, how serious was it? It couldn't have been for that long because the size of his middle was growing, not shrinking. But why was he lying?

"Babe, I went in there to wash my face, and then, uh, I felt sick, and I threw up, and I forgot to turn off the sink. So sue me for wasting water, call national geographic and report a destroyer of the environment. But don't accuse me of making myself throw up, how could you, what are you trying to do, don't you know I've had a hard day, now you're coming at me with this?" He was scrambling now, convinced that he was fucked, convinced that there was no way out. He needed to just come clean but for some reason his mouth kept moving, kept going up and down, releasing bull shit with each opening, reloading on each close, firing away again on the following movement. How was he going to get out of this one...

[Mimos]

Wow, Dorne! Excellently vivid. 



... And then he realized that he couldn't. They both knew he was now, not only an idiot, but also a liar. And worst of all was how he had believed that by questioning her belief in his intelligence and, ironically, trying to play off this weak, moronic, off-the-cuff, charade that held about as much water as a sieve, that he could get out of this mess. His eyes dropped and let let go of a resigning, double-lung sigh in utter shame that seemed to blow the dust off of everything that was wrong in the relationship, exposing its cold, naked, core.

"I'm sorry..." was all he could manage, never lifting his eyes to meet hers.

A single tear drew a line down her face, officially marking the one that had been crossed, just now. She let go of a chocked-back cry that deftly sliced through him as if aiming to kill, grabbed her keys and walked to the door. Pulling it open just a few inches, she paused, "It's not the fact that you did it that hurts....it's that you broke your promise and lied to me. Why couldn't you just tell me?" she snuffled, "Obviously, you can't tell me anything and the trust is gone..." and she walked out.

"No! That's not it! I....I....just..couldn't." he tried to call after her, but the door was shut. And he was alone.

Unable to decide if he should call her or if he should give her some space, he did the only thing he could. He went to the fridge, pulled out a six-pack and sat down to drink himself into feeling something...

[Mimos]

Aimless Macabre Flash-Fiction

"JESUS FUCK!" he yelled and did this little thing in which he simultaneously fell and jumped out of the bed to slap the shit out of the alarm clock that was assaulting his ears with it's ghastly buzzer. That things always scared the living hell out of him, he wondered why he just didn't use his cell phone to wake up. Twisting a fist in his eye, he stretched and yawned. He looked back at his bed and and lamented not being able to climb back into it, it never looks more comfortable and inviting then it does in the morning on a cold winter day. He sighed a sigh of a thousand years and went downstairs.

A light blinked on the answering machine. He pressed it and started the coffee maker. "Yo, D! Where ya been man? I've been trying to reach you today is the bi..." D pressed the button again, not wanting to hear anymore, he knew where that was going. Blearily he made his way upstairs to shower. Letting the how water soothe and awake him, he mused that the one good thing about living in an apartment is that you can take as long of a hot shower as you want and you'll never run out of hot water.

Which was good, he needed to clear his head and prepare himself for today. D spent a great spell of time watching the ghosts of steam twist and write as they sought the ceiling. He could have fallen asleep right there and never woken up, and almost wished he could. Today was going to change his life irreversibly forever, and he was downright scared, but thrilled, too.

Turning the water off, D straightened up and said to no one in particular, "Lets do this thing." and steeled himself for crossing the threshold of the shower, which represented the first step of a thousand mile journey. A surge of pain hit his kidneys as they dumped copious amounts of adrenaline into his blood to speed his reaction time to correct the imbalance of his center of gravity as he steppe onto the floor. He heard a loud, moist, snap and yelled "JESUS FUCK!" in his head just before everything went black.

[Mimos]

I think a lot of the reason why my writing, as far as storytelling goes, sucks is because the stories themselves are weak or sub-par. Most of the time, I don't even have a clear goal in mind when picking up a story and try to forge a path and characters as I go along, which doesn't turn out too well. (See story above.) When I have had a goal in mind, or a full-but-rough story in my head, such as with "Extra Crispy" , the piece is much better. If there is not a solid story behind what I am writing, then exactly what the hell am I trying to do? Nothing much more than a creative, on-the-fly, writing exercise; which generally makes for shitty reading.

Another thing I have noticed is that I tend to spend a lot of time painting a picture with words and flaunting off my excellent command of the English language, which really, nobody gives a wooden nickel about. Let's put it like this, if you're friend has a story to tell you about something that happened at a bar to him the other night, and he starts talking in clever metaphors about the dusty glasses, describing the intricate detail of the wood grain of the bar, how the smoke plays in the dim light, you're going to smack the fucker upside the dome and tell him to get the fuck on with the story; you couldn't care less about what the hell the carpet looks like and the atmosphere of the bar- just tell the damn story! (I screw up a lot, here.)

And practice. I don't think I have enough practice at writing to actually -be- a good writer/storyteller. That's a biggie, there.

[housearrestee]

you're a good post titler 

[temporarilyinremission]

I think a lot of the reason why my writing, as far as storytelling goes, sucks is because the stories themselves are weak or sub-par. Most of the time, I don't even have a clear goal in mind when picking up a story and try to forge a path and characters as I go along, which doesn't turn out too well. (See story above.) When I have had a goal in mind, or a full-but-rough story in my head, such as with "Extra Crispy" , the piece is much better. If there is not a solid story behind what I am writing, then exactly what the hell am I trying to do? Nothing much more than a creative, on-the-fly, writing exercise; which generally makes for shitty reading.

Another thing I have noticed is that I tend to spend a lot of time painting a picture with words and flaunting off my excellent command of the English language, which really, nobody gives a wooden nickel about. Let's put it like this, if you're friend has a story to tell you about something that happened at a bar to him the other night, and he starts talking in clever metaphors about the dusty glasses, describing the intricate detail of the wood grain of the bar, how the smoke plays in the dim light, you're going to smack the fucker upside the dome and tell him to get the fuck on with the story; you couldn't care less about what the hell the carpet looks like and the atmosphere of the bar- just tell the damn story! (I screw up a lot, here.)

And practice. I don't think I have enough practice at writing to actually -be- a good writer/storyteller. That's a biggie, there.

I feel like I've written an almost identical self assessment at one point or another about my prose fiction..

[temporarilyinremission]

although, i don't think my stories themselves are sub par.
far from it.. i think they are great. but i get so caught up in the details that i can never get around to actually finishing the story.. so it's either the beginning bogged down by descriptions, or its the whole thing, only lopsided, the first part intricate, then giving way to a rapid and all too obvious tying up of loose ends.

[temporarilyinremission]

Well Mimos, the last story we started didn't seem to catch on. Let's try a different one.. dialog can be so finicky for some.

also Roma, where the fuck are you in this thread? You're face is damn near expected ova hea! tha's right i'm calling you OUT!

[temporarilyinremission]

Unable to decide if he should call her or if he should give her some space, he did the only thing he could. He went to the fridge, pulled out a six-pack and sat down to drink himself into feeling something...

Why this association, this seeming need for alcoholic inebriation in order to feel?

Does it not feel silly, ridiculous even, on retrospect? Is he not a feeling being on the daily, feeling being something of a daily ritual for ones such as he. Wake up, feel like shit, go out, feel a little less like shit, catch a smile from a stranger, feel good, catch a whiff of a fart from some passing old thin man, the fart smells of fava beans and something else, something barbecued, feel nothing at all, miss a call from the lover, feel bummed, call back, hear her voice, feel happy, meet up for lunch, more happy, lunch turns to the usual, more sadness.. and on it goes. Feeling. On and on.

 And yet as he pops another can of PBR there is that line running through his brain, "gotta drink, gotta drink to feel, something, anything," all the while knowing that he's been feeling the whole damn day, his whole damn life.

Is that the issue, is there some ironic spin, some stupid post modern self awareness beneath the surface all along type bull shit where he thinks he drinks to feel but it's only a dumb repeat rhyme he tells himself, some lullaby, a left over womb lie.

He really drinks to stop the feeling.

To stop it all.



Just like her.

With the rig plunged, done, there is only stillness. A vacuum of it, a pocket hole she creates in that brief span of time, a place where all feeling stops, a void of capitalized Null, no vibrations of feeling, no tremblings from the heart. Except sometimes there are, but those are generally only echoes, swallowed up by another dip into the black. That's all a fight with him ever needs to be complete, a push of the time stop button, a rock of the distant old moon, that tar cradle, the place where the screaming of her heart are calmed to a babies babble, a simple worble of strangeness that some hear as sorrow and others regret and the lucky- but all the more eternally damned for doing so- who hear it as happiness. A glimmer of sunlight in the arctic circle, something hopeful and so cliche it rams itself at light speed, chugging through your veins in the exhale it takes for time to hiccup and resume.

She lies back into pillows, a pillow herself, a vanity project who always fancied the junky life as something romantic until it was upon her and her life is falling apart, a collection of frayed ends and way too early knots, all of it crashing and rising simultaneously, life feeling like someone hit pause in the middle of an explosion, and yet it seems to make sense, it somehow feels right..

Is this at all normal? Is there one passenger on the doomed disaster plane headed for a crash against the rock faced mountain that grins in gladness, that feels complete to see the end screeching towards him at just under Mach 2?

The vibrations are returning and her arm is up in repeat reflex, scrabbling through the flotsam on her coffee table for the spoon and a lighter--



The six pack is gone, as is the twelve pack of rolling rock, all them empty shells on the floor in a path of accidents spanning the last three hours, stretching from his bed to the refrigerator.

He shuffles through the mess now, bleary eyed red faced somehow close to tears, missing her, cursing her, thinking that he was sure that if he had just one more drink he could get a handle on all this, he could feel what he was trying to feel. The beer wasn't the answer, obviously. Such a simple realization to make yet it has taken him the better part of an evening to realize.

He is in the kitchen now, standing on a stool, reaching for the Johnny Walker Black on the top shelf. It takes him a moment to find it, his fingers grope clumsy and blind until they prod glass and grasp, the bottle pulled down and the stool hopped off of in one motion, a slurred motion like a crashing wave that's tripped.

Why didn't he just start like this in the beginning? On a night like tonight, after all.. after all of that? He should have known the beer wasn't going to work.

He gulps fire.

She shoots flame.

They are both sad tapestries set alight through collision, through collapse, through the meeting of hearts that are infinite. Infinite in their joy.. as well as pain.

[Mimos]

Cool, it's started again. 

[Mimos]

Jesus, Dorne. That's almost an ending in itself, there.

I'm going to have to work to get chapter three done on this one.

Excellent work, man!

[roma's ghost]

Well Mimos, the last story we started didn't seem to catch on. Let's try a different one.. dialog can be so finicky for some.

also Roma, where the fuck are you in this thread? You're face is damn near expected ova hea! tha's right i'm calling you OUT!

oh hey guys

yeah sorry I just read this like a month after you said it, my bad.

I can't write anymore.  Something is wrong with my brain.  I think it's deteriorating. 

But I like what I'm reading here.

lol

[Mimos]

Not fiction, but (very) short literature, anyhow. Rather than make a new thread, I thought I'd offload it here.


Grey, filtered light streams in, illuminating the sad, dusty, relics of a once productive life, in a drained and limp-wristed attempt at dawn. A mug of cold coffee and it's crescent-stain partner, here. A collection of novels half read, there. Everything a devastating reminder of what, a long time ago, was a bright and prosperous future. Now, reduced to little monuments of insult and contempt. Everything calling out in shame of me from the soundless, winter morning. And I haven't even gotten out of bed yet...

[temporarilyinremission]

oops

i'm irritated at you. why did you delete that? i liked it. it fit in the thread. grrr.

[temporarilyinremission]

Alright, its done.  Let me know what you think.  Its back in the original spot.

Word. Us writerly types can be so sensitive, I didn't know the reason for your take down.

I liked it before, love it now. Fun stuff.

[faksuo]

...

[temporarilyinremission]

Well I'm glad you decided to share, ultimately!

Now I need to cook something up for this thread...

[Mimos]

Yeah me, too.

I'm having a hard time finding my flow withing your story, Dorne. To be perfectly honest, I've been putting off working on it. I need to write at least a few drafts a week. That's not all that hard, after all.

[faksuo]

...

[lovemaster]

part one

all poets praise all circuses loud
circus of all lauded audio, scary cigarette lit in nite approaching
  
clouds about his head last inhalation prior to
blast animal utterance all lungs drown in

squishy liquids. airs under water for fish. safe transition in to night  
mid tone anti climax line ends on  

downer and climbs up his own harmonica
like a song banged out

i blow loops lasts long as you pass
holes and gaps in the works of the poem so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash,   or thunder in  

get two tenths of his manifesto free from google
books with huge holes in the texts, usually progress
lost in lose process or alls loss, my lover says that
must be frustrating i couldnt work like that  

its ok i say, sad fact baby dont you think
dreams sometimes of (              .) drunk in americ

screaming about the dark  ny   streets pass  -  bye !          with
not melodramatic boom voice real mad electric  

holy street song like hazlits coleridge tells church “poor country lad  [...] brought to town, made drunk, at an alehouse, [...]  
and tricked out in the loathsome finery of the profession of blood.

                               part won

poetics thick as autobiographies where to much
extraneousness, stingily dispensing spectres gratifying, failure to catalogue

active readers scanning living poets page many
pages in delias diary before next sex or death sequence.

poetics sound apologetic arguments to speak
of all forms of all contents enumerating catholic fact of 

Over Soul of Living Poets circular encyclical of astonished prose
He wishes to spare the young those circuitous paths, on which 
he himself had lost his way but follows his self in to in finite cave

considered coleridge points to in-accessed aquifer. To ____  enslaved to
uncommon unnamed entity from “influence springs [every impulse].” 

this spring could be “Fountain on a Heath” where “every thought and action tends.”
at holy source of fount “Sycamore, musical [tents the patriarchs loved]”   “boughs o’er canopy/the small round basin, 
which this jutting stone/ Keeps pure from falling leaves.”  “tiny cone of sand  its soundless dance [...] at the bottom [...] 
dances still” unaffecting “the smooth surface of the Fount [...] Quietly [...] send up cold water to the traveler/ with soft and 
even pulse” who “some gentle sound [...] refresh [es...]”, or else hears “hum of murmuring bees!” 

bees buzz as souls at war presently, as ancient voice prophesying, preface to cristabel hear coleridge embattled excuses of 
“indolence” not wanted argumentargument, dismisses critics with some serious charges said critics “have no notion that 
there are such things as fountains in this world” 

so wins argument though the notes arent too tone to read the idea actually stings. stone basin contains an atom-ic romance


Quote from: truspurfan on September 12, 2009, 01:10:16 PM
                             part two                     post structuralists could engineer defense wherein coleridge summarizes cites usually and does not plagiarize per say  in real 
war of revelation sayers vs deniers of the mystical shit because his prolific consumption of all texts outweighs accusations and remembers some where obscure the loop hole of all texts as collective domain (emerson sensed “one man wrote all the books”) coleridge-tapped fountains provide sublime refreshment, opportunistic critics aim low cite bad habits and poor  pocket books. LEFEBURE’s scholarship calls it “folly of morphine reliance” but his actual defense for prolific input and output apologized for, as when admitting to excessive ornamentation or having too many unnecessary words there. taking from the book directly [...]  the praises of a true modern reader, when he meets with a work in the true modern taste:  videlicet, either in skipping, unconnected, short-winded asthmatic sentences, as easy to be understood as impossible to be 
remembered
What is poetry? is so nearly the same question with, what is a poem?[...] A poet [?...] diffuses a tone, and spirit of  unity, that blends, and (as it were) *fuses*, each into each.  (COLERIDGE)
remember magic image of magic child who accepts fact of fountains readily reconciles all concepts attempts to write the myriad convergences of soul, intellect, etceteras into theory of one ness or impossible.  marriage of Devils and Giants,  circles assault on eye balls bring head aches.
piles of books, singular crumpled white paged poems on floor, disrespectfulness to said canon regularly trampled, occasionally swept into wastebasket. reluctant to catalogue encounters of no incessant joy, not the all exultant enumerations  nature demands; joys in the english texts; where men’s and women’s faces glowing, americas beaming freedoms? evils too bearing light on darkling plain.
you hear soul less machinal churn indiscriminant like shade of blood red, etc. you milton and dante go to holy hell alive and,  what for ? why, a living body writes the vague shapes on the paper! today his gestures do not justify his gripes, but he points to rings at the end of the book.
thinks to correct knowledge, owners of lumber in the brain forest, jack. our scriptures curse every body. presently uncomfortable situation of said spiritual warfare with you, crucial friend.
now dead come
whispering from grave yard behind rent house crawling on branched oak boughs into bed room window. (walt whitman winks) coleridge in reverie, deafening bees him surrounding. blake transubstantiated into an illuminated text of which i can make out: acid etched, blue water color. wild eyed coleridge in cites an indolence [capable of energies] walks with certain crookedness out of front door. huxleys holy face his wife injects, social dream diffusing psychically in to collective unconscious.


part to
general clarity, sun light hit pines correctly lets twilight come ok as afternoon, alligator belly  track slid on the mud bank.  dragon flys delicate mid air dance still hovering in some position to my self. we come to remind our selves, real wild shit  this all is.implausblty meanwild of hands simultaneous occupation of place placed and place took from. after small imprecise moments we fight a good tender.
back in bed. rest of the english authors nod, fly out. whitmans winking lingering. stinging insects the more typical  dreamscape, procrastinators guilt, gripes of the student. disquietude with in the critical form, survivors of the dead line include
now more bees. fishing alabama as apparent storm-displaced killer-bees seek housing, specific decibel level of million wing beats, om-quality of mother-signal hum of two enormous rooms of bees, two loud black clouds and some singular protectors
at hive periphery check out me and lover, swarm all over defenseless us and in our human business, should we alarm one ofthem would signal another,so still as bodies could remain til danger pass us bye.
some time later wasp in said grave yard on cell phone with said lover, shudderring remembrance of the terror. an awe
reoccurs, an original recurring theme.
glare from gleam of the shimmering widow. window? her glittering glasses? loss in the text.     lost?
what sin that hole thar? is this supposed to be a essay?  surrealists tried to record chaos.  that language wont do dylan thomas says. images dragged from tarn must be processed through murky intellect. a mostly impossible notebook of unreadable idea, could suffice;  intermediate motion. interpenetration of the passion and will, fusion by clash. (COLERIDGE)
[chaos from american heritage dictionary. “form less matter[…] preceded existence of the ordered universe. […] before creation of the cosmos [etc.]” or observable “new branch of science that deals with systems whose evolution depends sensitively upon the initial conditions [ex: turbidity flow of fluids, prediction of weather.]” according to inertia chaos is that  to which every particle tends, falling, from these particularly curious vibrations that seem to power?  the problem of the former, loose definition that ignores the fact of chaos internal and so obvious as its own systematic “ordered universe.” these energies inherit their form, and it is always, the order it self too. Chaos is a basic perpetual energetic rule undulating through all now and before and after which way the atoms go?
whats your imagination?  I say it is the law envisioned! eyes close in nights bed, scientists say, all those colors are our retinas working, light seeps past eyelids so blood vessels branch natural like oak boughs or arteries or synapses, and this of course is some thing considerable, but the true formal and functional essence of our brain patterns or sparks of a gift, 
clues for us of some ones dream brought to you by the night time ghosts, generosities of the fountain of a ocean self. resembles red dot-matrices, color waves seen in wombs pre-eyeballs.]


part too
[i considered close reading of religious musings or america planning to
concentrate on audio-iterary strategy of rhyme-building repetitions amounting to metre-making argument, active or passive use of d, f, p, r, and s sounds and words etc. aural echoes in language to create spiritual percussiveness of moral musicianship like: first disobedience brought death free to fall him hurled headlong who durst defy some easier enterprise advantageous act achieved prevented all reply, prudent. cite other scholarships on audio/video arrangement’s contributions to the literal song. But was
high lighting in library copy of text to organize argument of said paper whenpolice break in holding overdue notice for said book, yank me off the can, pull pot and pipe from pocket disregarding 4th
amendment.  interrupting said paper to take to jail where speed junkies makes eyes at booking. the dui’s file in. coleridge filed in to evidence (must choose different topic for paper.) into population now, strip searched, ass cheeks spread, light shone into ass hole, given the orange, police chief aims some viscous thing upon the young man unconvinced, incites his incarcerated to harass the “fresh fish” he announces unbelievable offering vasseline lotion to the meanly crowded cell of  playful prisoners pretending to group rape until naked all but boxers ripped before chief breaks in breaks up, brings in to his little office where we smoke cigarette as if grown men, as if normal fact edifying all america “to teach lesson.” well thanks 
for the tip, dick tip, but before i could sue dude he dies, wrecked the police car high on hydro codone, speeding to the police car chase. anyhway friend grabs rent money from sock drawer for bail out. i walk home and shower clean. must pee pee into cups for toxicologists, now, piss on their cups, attending junkie classes, etc., where Pilgrims or some like pantisocratic sentiment or Wollstonecraft or locke or hume or THOREAU here or the original dreams of americas civil engineers.]
[coleridge announced publicly that he was headed for the debtors prison and solicited his friends for money.]
prophesied justice of mechanical systems, we owe our textual engineers more than police men can disgrace, the court  considered not the poor sufferers disgrace. where rich folks in court houses “held accountable”? no pretty white girls here except blow jobbing assistant district attorney cunt playin court house with folks lives. ignerent indigent defenders low class non white citizenry gathered as pays petty lights bills for the parish. ladies bring their babies and smell sweet. look fine but dont appear to well, not enough, overiding notion just seems prejudicial, judges can deny motions on so many grounds
here some magic image of the magic child:religious pilgrimage to georgia where virgin appears on 13th
 of May and there was a blizzard and the year was 1994 or so. apparition site inaccessable because of snow storm so family prayed rosaries from freezing van and vehicle filled with holy overwhelming smell of roses, which i


fart pour
noticed first being the seer and the others all certainly did smell also.  later in hotel room watching video of miracle trees in which quite plain mary mother of god and open bible with text appearing in leaves and branches, and occasionally evil  figures also, demon faces with dark mustaches.  crazy in the boughs i saw more devils than saints and more horrified than the others seeing more and mortified by the idea of three terrifying days of hell and darkness to on earth and grateful for the blessing of a sign, to warn, a sign that can be seen by all, shone seven days before the long night falls and shadows wash out every thing come forth, and even from the trees the cop just cut down.
sometime i lost faith in the real holy shit and thought i had hallucinated a youth.  but saw    same face         in midst of an agnostic dream, peering into the nondescript stair well. i could see illumination of air as beautiful           womans face,  first face of first mother, i first thought, or natures             original face       or visage of a feminine god imagined.  soft  radiance of    facial surface     smooth as moon,  spatial language of equal fractals or complexes of quadrants from diamonds wherein the quadrants in their matrices join to form patterns of the        full face,       and face         in each smaller  diamonded quadrant slightly incompleted and      largest one face        formed from all smaller quadrants of        the faces,   all in perfect and directly equal proportions to it self.
here how two teachers got it.  one lady taught special education in a computer van and her husband driving on a service road   into matrix of tree  lightning hit falling to in stant pain less death crushing both in front passenger cab.  more problematic accident of professor of modern fiction and member of school board. were reading hemingway and hesse and huxley in lieu of no light nor peace nor certitude etc. (and last time i saw him he stood in leather jacket holding helmet in arm asking,  where the schools money went, saying life, and death in the bleak solipsism, his body truck-smashed truck barreling in the asshole traffic, university avenue.
in dreams of death i am already dead and see family members up set in a church procession.  or more insulated trip wherin unrelated intruder with unknown motives shoots in face and feeling of all shattering body falling like glass shards. finally the experience sans loss, a friend whos identity has been forgotten or obscured in the dream accidentally shoots in stomach and theres no pain, acceptance of mere bodys failure or sad accident, awakening alright to a vague recollection. her brother found young katy choked on a oreo.

fart pour
noticed first being the seer and the others all certainly did smell also.  later in hotel room watching video of miracle trees in which quite plain mary mother of god and open bible with text appearing in leaves and branches, and occasionally evil  figures also, demon faces with dark mustaches.  crazy in the boughs i saw more devils than saints and more horrified than the others seeing more and mortified by the idea of three terrifying days of hell and darkness to on earth and grateful for the blessing of a sign, to warn, a sign that can be seen by all, shone seven days before the long night falls and shadows wash out every thing come forth, and even from the trees the cop just cut down.
sometime i lost faith in the real holy shit and thought i had hallucinated a youth.  but saw    same face         in midst of an agnostic dream, peering into the nondescript stair well. i could see illumination of air as beautiful           womans face,  first face of first mother, i first thought, or natures             original face       or visage of a feminine god imagined.  soft  radiance of    facial surface     smooth as moon,  spatial language of equal fractals or complexes of quadrants from diamonds wherein the quadrants in their matrices join to form patterns of the        full face,       and face         in each smaller  diamonded quadrant slightly incompleted and      largest one face        formed from all smaller quadrants of        the faces,   all in perfect and directly equal proportions to it self.
here how two teachers got it.  one lady taught special education in a computer van and her husband driving on a service road   into matrix of tree  lightning hit falling to in stant pain less death crushing both in front passenger cab.  more problematic accident of professor of modern fiction and member of school board. were reading hemingway and hesse and huxley in lieu of no light nor peace nor certitude etc. (and last time i saw him he stood in leather jacket holding helmet in arm asking,  where the schools money went, saying life, and death in the bleak solipsism, his body truck-smashed truck barreling in the asshole traffic, university avenue.
in dreams of death i am already dead and see family members up set in a church procession.  or more insulated trip wherin unrelated intruder with unknown motives shoots in face and feeling of all shattering body falling like glass shards. finally the experience sans loss, a friend whos identity has been forgotten or obscured in the dream accidentally shoots in stomach and theres no pain, acceptance of mere bodys failure or sad accident, awakening alright to a vague recollection. her brother found young katy choked on a oreo.


poet come now to cock pit of all content,
resonating noise and stillness of all readable

instance of common cloud
pour from freezers, obvious
like mornings low haze

scientists’ mouth sublimation, billowing watery breath
about their beards with smoky curls.

metal melt down by heat, sun-hot slab all erections eventually bend in to
law of visible wind blowing on street.

these two particulars life and death is wet white evidence
breathing on the liquid mirrors, these corroborate and justify

scientists aim to smash atoms meaning
disappearance of entire particles, pieces reappearing in the microscope,

best communicative systems exhaust themselves presently, no
real loss matter not created not destroyed

at terrible perimeter of the infinite fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire  fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire

flickering a new romance, suspension of disbelief,
heroic acts of the infidel, spectrums, circles, faces in all clouds.

illusion of one
expecting a punch or line.

this desultory poetics newly informed by the large anthology
longer song of all, loudest adventurers i seek lately

to devour plenty of you geniuses [BLAKE] and mention a few particular
snakes doubled in size when ate them selves, or shed skin

here some men of truth means nature imagination letters luck and brilliance considered
mans love near like bed fellows, fraternity necessitating fact

fairest form, Love, loved most of all muses! loveliest animal woman, for the love of all love and all lovers and all the others:  love me! for this thought  less un spea k able   mouth   puckers and whistles at  you  not impolite   ere its break and formal  fall.