100 Words

[DeepAsleep]

100 even

All night supermarkets make me deviant.

You never flinched when I said, "Wear a skirt" and didn't blink when I pulled your panties off before we got out of my truck. You walked in like you owned the place and I had my hand in your coat, tucked down the waist of that little business number that never failed to make me crazy.

I loved that you never stopped me once.

It was two forty-five and I leaned you up against a pile of oranges and with your skirt over my head, we ruined a hundred dollars worth of produce.

~D.A.
MAN, I LOVED THAT GIRL. Well... her vagina, anyway...... Ok. I'll shut up, now.

 

[DeepAsleep]

We was just sittin in the old Skylark, top down, my hand dandlin about on the missus' knee when this kid drives up in one of those low red Japanese things, throwin up a cloud of dust. He stops at the crossroad, looks left and right, kinda confused like, and presses at some videogame thing in the dash. Damn if the car don't then talk to him, sez TURN LEFT NOW TURN LEFT NOW. Kid turns left and off he goes up and over the hill. After while Mary sez I wonder what he's gonna toss down at the dump?

100 words, not counting title

Nice, geezer. Nice.

 

[DeepAsleep]

I miss my girlfriend

She had a fistful of sheets and a mouthful of pillow and I –lecher, demon, vile destructive bastard- just couldn’t keep my eyes off her ass, her god in heaven heartshaped ass. It blended with her waist, leaned over the long muscles in her thighs like it was trying to get a better view of her heels. The arch in her back and the dip between her shoulderblades made me want to pillage.

We came upstairs and my roommates gave us a round of applause. I blushed while she threw her arms around my neck and said, “Hey. Free advertising.”

~R
This's sort of fun. Gotta do something with all this pent up.... ah... creativity. (ahem)

 

[Tzara]

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[DeepAsleep]

You the inspiration, son.

Y'know, I've never called anyone "son" before. Kinda chokes me up a little. (sniff sniff)

You're welcome, dad.

Can I borrow some money?

~R
Hah! Hah! Gimme all yer dough, grampaw!

 

[Tzara]

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[Tzara]

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[Tzara]

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[Guest]

The coffee's good here and I can spend my time people-watching. There are three boys about seventeen at the next table. Sprawled, easy in their skin. It's too early for the Schools to be out, I wonder what they're doing here, now. One is handsomein that natural, unknowing way of youth and I find myself staring at him, looking away as our eyes meet and I hear, loud and clear. " Stretching the lizard." Did he see me blush? They laugh, knowing I know. As they leave he passes closer than necessary he brushes my neck - with something.

 

[DeepAsleep]

To quote KR in one o' my favorite movies:

Yes sir, the check is in the mail.​

Don't you have procreatin' to do or something? It's dinnertime here.

Now you actually do sound like my dad. Well done.

~R
No procreating.. out of town til tomorrow. Whereupon you won't hear from me for a while. I'm wound up.

 

[Sara Crewe]

Aw, how cute, a father and son reunion...I think Paul Simon needs to write a new song just for you two.


Always happy to add to anyone's fetish repertoire, Tzara. Won't shopping and church be way more fun now?

 

[Sara Crewe]

"We wouldn't be late if you had left work when you were supposed to."
"Bullshit. We're late because you didn't have the car packed."
"It would have been packed if you had been there to help me."
"Christ al-fucking almighty! We just blew a tire."
"Can you get us onto the shoulder? Don't wake the kids."
"Why don't you be quiet or you'll wake the kids."

Outside, he turns to tell her off but instead wordlessly he watches his wife die in one second before any apologies. Hit by a truck that didn't even flinch when it crushed their lives.

 

[champagne1982]

In Which A Father Takes A Son

You've always called him Father, never Dad or Da. He's been too distant for that kind of familiarity, even when he's listening, anonymous.

Like last Tuesday, first you went shopping for salad fixings. He said it would be nice for supper. That was a nice head of iceberg and the radishes, so red, painted fresher than if they were plucked from the ground yesterday.

Wednesday, you played a little one on one, enough to keep you on your toes. Thursday brought laundry to the basement and then, on Friday, "Father, it has been two weeks since my ..."

 

[eagleyez]

If the water is to be brouht to a "roiling"biol, then what is this? Pesto is some wierd shit, the way it blends with the Mexican stewed tomatoes, like some effluent one might see comimg into Newark or the port of Philly. The Swiss Mix box is arranged neatly and I think some oregano and fine crushed Rosemary will do just fine.

There's that word roiling again. If Im going to have this done on time I better get roiling myself. Its a total experiment. The colander is an odd color blue and the noodles roiled just fine it seems. I stir fry the pesto with the toms and add rosemary and now it really looks like some industrial place, water circling back. Aha, noodles drained and now they go back in on a heathy layer of olive.

Noodles, bread crumbs, sliced chicken and sause. Dont forget the Cayenne. Ah, there you are. Iv'e experimented and its going to be quite ok I think. Give this a taste. Not bad huh? And plenty left for tomorrow.

Now about this "roiling."

 

[Angeline]

It‘s always good because it’s you. New Jersey meets California, not in Kansas, but the willywags of Maine. You teach me rainbow food. I’ll show you it's gotta be parmigiano-reggiano, baby. Anyway, ain’t nobody’s bizness if we do. I save you from melted ice cream, fit my face on your broad chest and listen lub-dub, lub-dub, he lub-dubs me with more passion and kindness than I’ve ever known. Then I can sleep safe, awaken to my fingers in your chesthair, your mmmmms and big old hands stroking my hair. Every morning! Night and day! Want more coffee, Terryyaki? More roiling?

 

[bogusbrig]

Never fall for a woman who writes perfect prose. There are no lines to read between, no inappropriate spaces between words, it flows perfectly, leading your eyes over the flawless page. Perfect punctuation is a craft achieved through practice but you're too damn gullible to read this as a fault, too dumb to understand, only fiction doesn’t trip over its own words.

I should have read her poetry. How it stammered over secrets, with the lines broken in the strangest places. Phrases looping back on themselves, awkward, as though they had something to hide but I was foolishly beguiled by her prose.

 

[Tathagata]

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[Sabina_Tolchovsky]

Oh god help me, it's a four am torch burning French press morning with twenty virgin inches of powdered religion gracing Baker in unclaimed glory. And me with a commitment to my friends holding me like glue to Saturday morning sloppy chopped up pushed out reruns.
I will run today in the cold rain of the lowlands knowing what beauty and weightless flight awaits my brethren. Prayers in silent litany with each falling footstep I can see the snow, feel the air cold and clear burning my lungs, hear the edges cut in powder so different from hardpack... broad smiling blissful perfection.

 

[clutching_calliope]

Tath

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[clutching_calliope]

Happiness, Will Ferguson

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[flyguy69]

My fav was a friend of mine's grandmother who, on her death bed with family all around, suddenly sat bolt-upright, looked around and said

"Am I still here? Shit!"

and laid back down.

I keep thinking about all those " famous last words" that people always quote and I've spent a few years thinking about it.
I tried to think of something that would be natural and something I'd say out of habit, or personality that would express both my feelings towards life and the shadow of life, death.

I must stay focused and remember that what ever your thoughts at the moment of death can influence all that happens afterward.

It must show strength and acceptance
detachment and compassion
it must reduce your entire life down to one split second

I've decided on " Here we go"

 

[flyguy69]

I try (I really try!) not to fall for poets or men of words, writers, advertising gurus, graffiti artists, etc. They know how to bend a rhyme or beguile me with an idea of the way we might be together keeping me (both of us) in some imaginary land of wishfulness and could have beens.

Does Utopia exist in only two dimensions? How about euphoria? Are they cousins?

I read a book called Happiness recently. A tremendously humorous piece regarding a world that doesn’t need the crutch of self help books anymore.

I think I’m in love with the author.

Fall not for a poet, for he will soil your clothes.

 

[Tzara]

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[Guest]

I go for a walk every day. Most days. When I go first thing in the morning, I usually see the same man, walking toward me as I walk towards home, an older man of Asian descent. He always wears soft loose pants and slipper-like shoes. Always walks slowly.

Today he was standing, hands clasped behind back, looking down at something on the sidewalk, like a nobleman contemplating an especially fine chrysanthemum in a private garden. As I got closer, I could see what it was—a crystal vase, filled with silverware.

As I passed, we exchanged nods, as usual.

I absolutely love this thread.

 

[Sara Crewe]

The problem with loving a poet is you can never accept his words without turning them over and checking to see where they were made and whether they have someone else’s name hidden on the bottom of the message. A poet breathes words into you that whisper long after his voice has gone silent. He talks to you like the pied piper and makes you feel like a rat when you follow him into the streets to dance naked in neon light. When you wake up in the morning sleeping in the alley you can’t remember the way back home.





I am off to try to write a happy poem before someone assumes I am some kinda violent psycho -bitch