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22 April 2006 @ 01:17 pm
I just posted some thoughts on writer's block over at my blog Mere Words. Your comments and thoughts on the subject are encouraged. Enjoy.
 
 
19 March 2006 @ 02:27 pm
This is a great podcast about screenwriting and television writing. I wrote about it this morning over at my blog Mere Words. Check it out...
 
 
Current Mood: workingindustrious
Current Music: "Just Like Greta" by Van Morrison
 
 
18 March 2006 @ 08:52 am

Someone posts a poem, quote, song lyric, picture, etc. (quote the source, of course). Then we, IN REPLY, give back an original piece that is inpired by it.


Members post songs - either the actual song for download, or just the lyrics - and then we all respond with poetry&prose inspired by the song or lyrics.

if not allowed, delete & forgive (please?)
x-posted, naturally
 
 
17 March 2006 @ 12:35 pm
Season Beat



I can hear the gentle rustling of the chains on the swings. It’s a last call for a mean winter. Not going quietly into that good night, and you have to admire that.

The freedom of the day is still in the air, finding new life in the night’s breeze. Telling tales of games of tag, long lines at the slides, found adventure in the jungle gym; of happy children. The brilliant unapologetic song of youth. It’s beautiful; though, symphonic as it is; its mere background noise compared to you. Watching you move, dancing away on the moon’s time-past the benches and towards the trees. I’ve got all my life to be with you, and it’s nowhere near enough.

What are you smiling at, you ask me. If I tried to form the answer with words, it’d never work. I’d end up breaking down, falling on my knees and screaming to the skies, You. You. You. Loud and totally un-bashful thanks to the lords above. For the time I’ve been graced with you in my life. So I skip the words, failingly as they usually are, and move to you. My arms around you, lips to yours, I fall into our love. Moving to the beat of a new season finding it’s footing, and of an old one passing on.
 
 
08 March 2006 @ 10:51 am
I’m looking over him, clocking the seconds as the drool slides down his face. He was good. Better than the last one. Last one was boring. Read one of those sex books, I bet. Dull. Unsurprising. This one…he was good. It will be better then the last. Too quick, the last one. I’ll take my time with this one. Self-control always; must remember that.

He’s pretty. Asleep, he’s pretty. Awake he’s boring. Talking abut fashion, celebrities, drinking, television. Vapid, weak minded fag. He needs this. Should have gotten it long ago. How has he lasted so long? Shows the sad state of this planet. Someone like him can live and even prosper; another fly on the country’s fecal-line. He needs me to do what’s right. I am needed here.

I wonder if he’s dreaming.

It’s quick. It’s always quick, no matter how long it takes. Her eyes go from the hum of sleep, to the dreary lust once he sees me slip on top of him. That same dreary lust that goes to alarm once the light finally catches my face and he sees it. Sees the future of my actions in the blank, unfeeling features. Horror now, as my hands grip his throat. He attempts to pull them away, but can’t reach-I’ve trapped his shoulders under my knees, the pressure making his upper body useless.

Now it really begins. The “worth it all” moment where his eyes open up. A show, really. One that Broadway could never produce, that could never be projected on a theater near you. All that makes you human, or inhuman, none of it is hidden once that clock starts running out on your life. When the breath is rung from your neck like a farm animal; and you know, that it’s done. Your presence will no longer soil the planet. I am not ashamed to admit my excitement when watching it happen. The blood rushing towards my penis, erecting it for the moment. Lovely. It grows bigger and stronger while his face mirrors the polar opposite. His lush red cheeks turn white, limbs weaken, and finally his struggles end. All the while, the show goes on. It must, you know. True love, experience, career goals, the drive to survive, sex; all the thing’s he’ll never see/do/feel.

Orgasm.

The curtain drops. His show is over. I let go of the fleshy mold that used to be his neck. I wish I could tell you that there is some pause in me. A point where I can fully enjoy the work done, in quiet solace. But I can’t. I never can. Even before it was over with this one, I was already contemplating the next. The next gratifying show.
 
 
 
24 December 2005 @ 06:55 pm

My latest.

 

 

HereCollapse )

 
 
20 December 2005 @ 11:13 pm
This would be another one of my "Bedroom Pieces". It's about ten minutes fresh. Hope you enjoy.



The Fear.


Lying in bed, looking over the body next to me. The warm, living, giving, being that has chosen to give their night to me. To us. He just exists next to me, and I haven’t felt this good in years. It feels so powerful, stronger than any cross, any prayer, any church, stronger than anything. The sheet moves with the steady flow of his breathing. Inhale. Exhale. It’s the only force of nature I know. I’m staring at the end all be all; the bearded smile of God, and it’s all just two feet away. Inhale. Exhale. Moonlight from the window gives the details of his face in a light no Hollywood magic could ever match. Then the fear grabs me by the throat and shakes me into submission. If I look away, he’ll disappear. It’s all just a mirage. A figment of my twisted ever-teasing imagination; kept alive by the steady flow of eye-contact. A fool’s gold like no other. It takes a force stronger then anything I’ve believed myself to own to keep me from touching him, inciting a nighttime grown or moan to prove the mirage to be true.

The fear passes; reality washes over me, and I’m content again. Bliss. It's the first drag off a cigarette after ten years of clean air and bubble gum. The garden of sweet apples and lying snakes. Paradise. I finally allow myself to lean back and let my head hit the pillow. After a time I drift into sleep. Before I do, a dare to the sea of dreams escapes my lips.

“Top this.”
 
 
01 December 2005 @ 08:05 pm
Bus Stop






I was standing at the bus stop waiting for the bus with my friend Roger when I realized that I hadn’t eaten tuna since I was twelve years old. Thirty seven now, a total of twenty five years since I’d had tuna. I thought was pretty odd. How had I done it? I wasn’t trying to avoid tuna or anything, it just hadn’t come up. No tuna. This needed light shined upon it. So I tell my friend Roger that I hadn’t eaten tuna in twenty five years. He paused a second then asked me if I was gay. This I found even odder then the not having eaten tuna in twenty five years thing. I asked him how the hell he could ever get to “are you gay” from not eating tuna in twenty five years.

“Clearly there was something wrong with your math on this one,” I said.

He called me a “fag” and walked away. Alone I was, standing at the bus-stop questioning my existence and my choice of friends; when an old woman tugged on the back of my jacket.

“I couldn’t help overhearing, son. I just wanted to tell you, that it’s ok. I never liked tuna either.” She said.

I was going to explain that I don’t even remember liking or not liking tuna; when the bus arrived. She made her way on, and I didn’t move. The driver barely cast a glance at me before shutting the door and pulling away. A funny thought kept me from getting on the bus: There is no tuna, only cock.

I was still giggling when the next bus arrived. I wonder what Roger is doing for lunch tomorrow.
 
 
06 November 2005 @ 07:47 pm
The Baker’s Thoughts








Pre-heat the oven for 350 degrees. Gotta get good and hot in there. Hot for my cake. Ha. I like that. Hot for my cake. Maybe I can use that on Sara. “Hey baby, I’m hot for your cake.” I wonder what she’d say to that. Would she laugh? I wish I knew her better. Wish I knew if she was one of those stuck up broads who can’t laugh at a dirty joke now and again. Great tits, though. Amazing tits. Susan had great tits too, but not as great as Sara’s. Then again, Susan was fun. She wasn’t one of those stuck up broads, that’s for sure. Too bad about the cancer. The bald look isn’t good for her. Looks like she grew another tit on her head. Ha. Ha. Ha. That’s wrong. Why do I think these bad things?

Grab the mixer, mix the butter and sugar for approximately five minutes. Should I get flowers for tonight? How much do roses go for these days? Probably an arm and a leg. For what? They just die in a few days anyways. The cake should be enough. Who doesn’t like cake? Sara said she loved cake. “Chocolate,” she said, “...is my favorite.” The cake will be enough. Sara doesn’t seem like one of those greedy bitches. The kind that expect the world and more. Like Laura. Laura was a greedy bitch. Can’t believe she actually expected me to pay for the ring and dinner. You give a girl a fourteen carrot ring; you’d think she’d pick up the check for dinner. Fucking greed. I hate it.

Add the eggs, flour, cocoa powder, baking powder, and vanilla extract. Mix well. Oh boy; this is gonna be a good one. One of my best. I can see it now. I’ll serve the cake after dinner, she’ll smile-gotta great smile-and then I’ll cut her a piece. Should I put it on a plate, or hold it and go right to her mouth? It’s sexier going right to her lips with the chocolate. I hope she blows me tonight.

Divide into two portions, and then transfer to the cake tins. Bake at three-hundred and fifty degrees for about forty minutes. Wonder what Sam meant when he said I should try a different barber? Was he trying to say my hair looks bad? I bet he was. He’s always been a sneaky fuck like that. Could never just come right out and insult a person like any other decent human being. My hair is fine. Phillip does a great job with my hair. Plus he’s one of the only straight barbers in town. I refuse to go to some fag to get my haircut. What if he tires to come on to me while he’s cutting my hair? I couldn’t deal with that. Well, it probably would happen that way. He’ll get all faggy on me, and then wouldn’t be able to pay attention to my hair. After all, I am handsome. Go to the bath room. Fucking Sam. Ah, look see; nothing wrong with my hair. I don’t care what they say, the comb-over still works, if you know how to do it. I wonder if I’m gay.

For the frosting, mix butter, chopped chocolate, syrup and coffee, and heat in a double boiler till melted. Stir until smooth. Let it cool in the fridge. Take the cake out of the oven, and apply the frosting around the cake, covering it totally. Boxers or briefs? Or should I go commando? I wonder what Sara likes. Should have asked. Commando would work, but I may get hard at the wrong time, and she’d see. Probably think my dick is small too. Stupid broad. Just have to see it in the right light at all. I have a fine dick. Briefs. Definitely briefs.

Cool the cake in the fridge to harden the frosting. Place the cake in room temperature for about two hours before serving. Should have gotten flowers. Shit, too late now. Cake looks good though. All set for Sara. She’ll like it. I can tell. Shower, shave, fix the hair, and then it should right about that time. Ok. Time to get to it. I really hope she blows me tonight.
 
 
30 September 2005 @ 12:33 pm
The door blasted open, sending sharp splinters of wood flying across the room, striking one Al-Qaeda in the neck. Blood spurted out like a hammered ketchup packet. The injured terrorist dropped to the ground. His cohorts were completely thrown off; several flew back from the force of the explosion. The source of the explosion was two ounces of high density C4 plastic explosives affixed to the door lock.

A bright red laser beam tore through the smoke, tracking each insurgent and they stumbled to compose themselves. One fell, knocked from the back, a grunt erupted from his bearded lips, pain and agony tearing across his face as he fell dead. Another next to him was hit twice in the chest; he flew back against the wall, slumping to the ground, his eyes blank.

The other terrorists were not within the line of sight of the lone gunman. The cloaked figure moved with such grace and speed, it was nothing short of inhuman. These evildoers did not know what it was that had so quickly and efficiently taken them out,

One survivor attempted to fire at the mysterious black ninja, but the gun was removed with practically no effort. As the gun was swept aside, the mysterious figure muttered a simple, quiet “no”, almost sounding bored. In turn, the ninja replaced much of the terrorist’s throat with his seven inch Tanto.

As the black clad spectre of death pulled his knife from his opponent’s neck, he quickly swept it across the throat of another Al-Qaeda, who was still recovering from the blast, which happened less than a minute ago.

Four down, three to go. He thought to himself. Where were the others? Was his intelligence wrong? It couldn’t have been. This information was obtained merely fifteen minutes ago.

As he began to turn around, out of the corner of his masked eye, he saw a fast moving object and quickly ducked to avoid the large machete that swept across the room. As the overweight terrorist followed through with his overcompensated motion, the ninja shoved his blade up into the armpit of his would-be attacker, with his free right hand, he grabbed his enemy’s face and jerked his head swiftly to the right, and a loud, wet snap could be heard.

Remember; dead men don’t talk. An inner voice told him. There was one last insurgent the tactical infiltrator knew of, he was hidden in an adjacent room. There were two alternative doors he had to choose from. One had a lock, the other did not. He told himself, I don’t need someone alive to learn what was going on here. There was enough evidence strewn about to tell him everything he was looking for.

The ninja aimed his silenced .45 at the door with no lock and unloaded four rounds into the door. Seconds later, a body fell out of the closed door, bullet wounds decorating his traditional Islamic garb.

What are you doing? The voice asked.

My job. He retorted, and began looking around for evidence. His logic was sound. Splinter cells like these were full of ignorant cowards, who’d sooner die that divulge information vital to the war. They would die either way, but they didn’t have to make it easy on the infidel dogs to win.

Did you at least find what we need? The voice reminded him.

Discs, folders, everything. It’s all here. Mission one-hundred percent success.

And just as soon as he appeared, he was gone again. He disappeared into nothingness, becoming one with his element; the shadows.