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the hoursit's like an airport, waiting to leave. this is a place where the hours still. it's a feeling that stays long afterward, even as we speed down and leave. his name is Ben. his son. he's come over from New York especially, the nurses said, alone. his wife, children are absent, far behind in such another life that when the doctor tells him of her own others, a six-month old, a three-year old, he gasps in wonder, in remembrance of a life that's already an illusion under these solitary hours. we'll try not to hear this, because these hours are infectious. but even as we close our ears in laughter and loud voices, they seep througthe hours
by ~red-ox
closerSteady, steady, steady. Because the wait is killing me. Or, the weight. If I look hard enough perhaps there'll be nothing left around me. The window glass sprayed in mist- it'll shatter, closer, closer, into beads and balls; closer, into each suspended grain of silicon sand. Closer. I'm trying to get into it- but behind me three women have already come up to the queue, their fingers clutching into bags, and their voices, rattling, rolling. Bones- they're too close, too close- the squalid heat of their skeleton already seeping over to me. It's too silent, the veils of rain grow thicker now; and the bones of their words are spillingcloser
by ~red-ox
the mannequinIn the dense crowd, the mannequin is visible only because of the manifest pleasure he takes in his existence: this gladness streams out of him like an immense beacon in the beam of his glossy smile. A perverse light, holding him above the grey slurry of unwary faces besides him. Alongside the sun his face gleams, lifts with light beneath his skin, through his clean-shaven pores and into his wet, amber eyes-the mannequin
Eyes that- even at this distance, still sink me into somnolence. Only with a weighted effort can I pull myself back out to hold on to the swathes of dark soft fabric he is enclosed in, against this muffled dank air.
I admit,
by ~red-ox
stagger- the violiniststagger- the violinist.stagger- the violinist
- out here by the sea where sound is empty, finally. Cut, starved and silent; white sky and grey rock - under their stiff blanket they bury the dead violin. All of it - every splinter and string, every sweating fingerprint stuffed into a thick and faceless black. Dead - no, not asleep! I ensured that it could not creep out, could not crawl a tendril through a loose pebble to tease me through - I tightened and sealed every last stitch of its grave. Then why is it lying? As much as I try to believe, why is there still such an endless scream against my sore ears? It's buried deep, deep in th
by ~red-ox
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would you be interested in joining ~freelance-writers
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[link]
With great art tutorials and discussions.
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A storm is rising.
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Can oranges be pessimistic?
Do oranges even think?
Mmm... Orange...
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coffeehouse is selling out!
"we stop at a traffic light opposite a favourite restaurant, the long table by the window full of faces animated with conversation, the stories rolling in and out of each other's lungs. we drive past and they continue, their gestures and muted words still flying about, glimmering in the sinking light. "
Other than that, I will comment:
There was a lot of imagery. All of it seemed unfamiliar, so it was hard for me to catch on to. It was hard for me to keep moving my mind with all the images you presented. Therefore, it was hard for me to catch onto the meaning of the works I read.
I think the way you space and punctuate your work is very good; it's just how I like it.
Oh, well, I did read bits of the "Kim - Funerals" and the bits I did read were like that, they were hard to grasp. Imagery moved very quickly and was often disturbing, like the rest.
I see you write prose. not poetry. this is good. I'm into prose, not poetry
thank you for your forum comment. it made me decide to come find out more. we can be nostalgic together
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~WeCritique *onewordatatime
~FantasyWritersUnited
(i do write poetry, very, very occasionally. But it stays buried in a quiet box, it's mostly for figuring ideas out. Besides my prose is damnably poetic enough as it is.)
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SINAI BENDS
not fifteen weeks though!
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