View Full Version : Challenge 119 - South
BlackDeathMetalJazz or really ANYTHING else please-
11-24-2006, 01:25 AM
1. a cardinal point of the compass lying directly opposite north.
2. the direction in which this point lies.
3. (usually initial capital letter) a region or territory situated in this direction.
4. the South, the general area south of Pennsylvania and the Ohio River and east of the Mississippi, consisting mainly of those states that formed the Confederacy.
5. lying toward or situated in the south; directed or proceeding toward the south.
6. coming from the south, as a wind.
7. to, toward, or in the south.
8. Informal. into a state of serious decline, loss, or the like: Sales went south during the recession.
–verb (used without object)
9. to turn or move in a southerly direction.
10. Astronomy. to cross the meridian.
No picture this time.
This ends 12/1 at midnight.
11-24-2006, 05:48 AM
A Borgesian Miracle
faced with a firing squad;
four men, four rifles, four bullets,
and one I.
Till that one date I contemplate
Everything; every possible outcome,
every possible angle, and every angle
and outcome of possibility so
that one date never reigns.
'Weak magic' he called it;
A hope that the pot
boils before I desire
a hot cup of tea.
So on that date time stopped, the south-westerly
froze everything but my mind.
I fell asleep in between the time
of the final order and my death,
and dreamt of dreaming.
I was playing chess for a mind's year with a friend,
of whom I didn't even know in waking reality,
playing for stakes that were long forgotten,
but wanting to win for winning's sake.
Like life perhaps.
I woke and felt
11-24-2006, 07:31 AM
Like a murder of crows,
we gathered at your funeral, quietly circling,
the flaps of our clothes lifting into soft, black wings
as the wind ushered us aimlessly.
The ground was stone, stoic as our faces,
but bled under the pressure as we laid you to rest.
Winter came earlier than anyone expected;
what pride remained already rusted from a season of neglect.
Near the base of a bitten oak tree, we gathered memories
and released our prayers, wisps of words trailing like doves in the air.
The battered house leaned into view from it's perch on the hill;
the attic window, black and impenetrable, still loomed with ghosts of you.
So enamored by the countryside, you must have painted it a dozen times;
the cruel mark of time, the sickness of seasons, like pictures in a catalogue,
observed and identified.
When you decided to fly south, it shouldn't have been a suprise;
the weather can be unbearable at times. The blackbirds scattered
at the buckshot sound, across the sky like a shadow, blown apart.
One last painting to celebrate your life--your birds in panicked flight;
a windswept violence against walls as white as a dead November sky.
11-24-2006, 01:07 PM
11-24-2006, 03:42 PM
its been a while so lets go:
pink blood because everything is funny now
everything's funny like escapist racist comedian
whose fat like roy chubby brown
how come the fat guy's funny for his bad reasons
when did nothing become a joke
when did we stop being funny about something
that mattered to get it out there.
Double standards now rule
and the standards under which you march
are also doubled up
so when you march
whether you're from the deep south to the uk
your banners and standards are doubled up
well now i have a double standard for you double standardised fools
if you are like this you aren't human
and the humour came around again
the news guy says we are funny because we escpaed reality
well that's not what the news should be about
tell us what happened in reality
and every artist should have reality to reflect their metaphor on
so play us some real news
not like we read in every tabloid
immigration would have always been positive
if the real news had reached us
Songs about the me me me
on albums between songs about the I I I
played about escaping the two sides of the world
they both think they're fundamentally right
fundamental views won't ever work
i fundamentally belive they should end
remind me when the last time we had a war it worked out
I'm not talking to the guys who win cos they get all the money
which is a flawed concept anyway
but how can we survive without money now?
remember im one the happy ones
bowl of oranges
11-27-2006, 10:57 AM
I need to start writing again.
11-29-2006, 01:51 AM
i have written once in the past year and that was a bout a week ago. although i have been writing since I was 12 or 11 and am now almost 20.
you don't breath too much anymore
and I am not the wind.
I wish could I make you and
Stake you out and rush it in
but the truth remains you are going south
to be with your "old friend"
and yes i feel that "old discontent"
but i guess its just unpleasant
for me to realize
you have been in diguise
when you come
and now i know
you are gone
and these words in my mouth
are only discontent
i love you everyday
i don't see no use to even say
that you are my best
you don't breath so much anymore
and I don't see what for
I wish I could tell you
to just suck it in
In the end I know we
are not fit
to accompany each other
through any of this
I need you
And when the windfalls come
I'll rush it all in.
11-29-2006, 05:38 PM
So the fog lifts and we face the highway.
The headlight armada.
The oncoming traffic moves along, Southbound. And my radio's not on.
And all I can think about is you.
I need this like needles in my neck. I'm driving North. I'm going home.
12-01-2006, 09:22 AM
at the cross.
at the top of a hill there’s a pole, and a girl praying in the rain beside it.
she has no sense of where she is, or how she came from inside it.
the cloth incasing is substantial, completely covered from the crown,
when drenched it’s wearing her, not the other way around.
few pale words are creeping fingers- swell to a fragile throat
in Spring after the coldness: she's like a needless overcoat
but he’s not shocked at the shift, for he’s a season nymph;
it’s past the twenty-sixth and he’s spinning, going south.
Scarves keep her thawed. Love’s a tablecloth in her mouth.
The next month is on its way like a child in her womb;
embryonic, growing silent, an apostle far too soon. like
plastic trappings un-recycled, a once used rubber-band;
there she’s left to her own self, arresting her own hand.
a chalk ring around the pole, wood and metal distant hope
of someone there; a reply lingers by her ear lobe
because entering her through any other way is far too jarring.
cloth draping, mascara stinging, heart pining for understanding
worthless stone to sit upon; floor is thinned, pole imperiling.
I’m a collector of interesting voices, intrigue me and I may listen.
Easily persuaded; my fall is too hard and my rising to heavy without your help.
comfort and support me, with your soft features and solid frame
I can’t see you, I can’t sense you, I can only hear your name.
My voice hurts me in more than just one way.
“Don’t say those things. Don’t demand resuscitation.”
revival, recovery, deliver me to 14 Chapel Road. please, any acclamation
for the ways of my being, the whiles of my breath-taking, striking heart?
I’ve let me take me in, then boot me out; success in ripping me apart.
I’m isolated but for a few costly friends; but what have I given of myself?
Is there any left to shoulder on? Soldier on? Sober on?
“Please, you’re stepping on my foot and I’m delighted in mix your words;
you’re beautifully wasted and your slurring is alluring.”
Mix more words with more wine. Save me! I’m crying all the time!
wrapped in dripping cloth at the bottom of the hill;
I’m at the threshold of your door; beneath your windowsill.
let me inside- or rather, let You inside of me!
You know where to saturate and satiate completely.
I the table, God was once the tablecloth;
pouring out her mouth like the trembling April moth
drawn mercilessly to the light outside the screen door,
but He’s not in there anymore.
creaking in the breeze, after slamming in the wind;
the rusty screens adhere, blisters scarring with the sin
and no one’s there; no one’s there to notice a unclothed table,
all the silverware’s the same and the wine glasses;
the wine glasses, the wine glasses, they are filled.
I fill my pockets with hearts.
My pockets are heart-filled.
I fill my pockets with your hearts.
vBulletin® v3.8.1, Copyright ©2000-2015, Jelsoft Enterprises Ltd.