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20 March 2009 @ 05:40 pm
Hey guys. This place has been dead, I know, and I've done an awful job at reviving the creative flow, but hopefully with the influx of members (thanks vestiges and the coming of spring and summer (!) we will all have the opportunity to work on our writing, explore new ideas, etc.

I've been thinking about the idea of prompts. Maybe just a general theme that everyone can take in their own directions (I don't think I want to make anyone try to write fiction if they don't have to attention span, I know I don't), maybe a specific line that one should integrate within a larger piece, I don't know. WHAT DO YOU THINK? Any input on how to sustain an active exchange of writing samples here is entirely welcome and appreciated.

In the meantime, please post any writing you've done recently, and comment a little!
20 November 2008 @ 12:59 am
So yeah, this is my first post here. I'd love to hear lots of criticism (hopefully of the constructive kind), because I really do want to get better at this stuff. But any and all input is very much appreciated. Also, I know this place is mostly for poetry but I hope one or two short stories isn't a huge deal :]

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18 November 2008 @ 03:20 pm
I want to do something more with this but I'm not sure what.  Maybe it just sucks a lot and I should forget about it altogether.  Tell me what you think, please!

I am awake, but not alive.
23 September 2008 @ 06:40 pm

hey everyone! this is something i wrote a little while ago. +Collapse )

22 September 2008 @ 11:37 am
Background information can be found here: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sacred_Band_of_Thebes

Band of Thebes


The packed clay cracks beneath our feet, the sun sprawls

Across our necks and the beating of the march continues.

We are wearing the toughened skin of others

As our own. It does not fit perfectly; it catches the wind.

They call us sacred, when pinioned to each other in the tight

Orbit of shared gravity. We do not understand this word –

Our feet collect more dust than theirs do. We do not have

Our own beds, our own language.


The beating has become our religion – we forget our poems

And our recipes with every thud of our hardened feet.

There are no words left, or

Ever invented to spell the weight of our swords. We speak to the

Shoulders, to the spine, to the soles of the man before us. We do

Not move our necks. They have told us before that we are the

Eaters of hearts. But, no – we only want them to stay

Silent, to give them back.


Salt from the sea and our brothers lies thick

Upon us, breaking in flakes through the march. The men behind us

Dream of snow. Lovers will fight more fiercely to protect each other, they said.

We did not hear this discussion – we were collected like fallen

Tomatoes, gathered before we became too soft.


We do not consider fear or family. Neither exist.

We are our own, and the own of every pair of feet

Beside us. These feet hold us in their pounding, with every step

They wrap us more tightly, binding our wrists.

But the sound of feet has become quieter.

The air around our heads is tangled in thick clumps,

difficult to breathe around. With every mile, there are less.

The body beside us, thin, weightless as the edge of a blade.

Our hands, quickly, jabbing into the empty space.

We are walking alone.

21 September 2008 @ 03:14 pm

John Joubert (tentative title)

a dead boy at the end of the road: past
the dead end. (a pun?) his mouth
taped shut--inside, a pebble.
remember the bend of my

back, the beach made of stones. we're
stoned. remember the carousel.
i am still on the carousel. part of the
carousel. i am the majestic mare,

mid-stride. no. the goat painted
with flowers. the boy at the end of
the road: undressed. the pebble in
his mouth tucked beneath tongue.

i lied when i said yes, me too.
the boy at the end of the road:
hardly hidden. the way hate walking ahead
because a body might be stashed.

i listen for the mewing of kittens
in dumpsters, wait for a call
confirming the worst. the fear of
coming home to blood on the floor.

the brother stole the pebble
from the evidence room and
moved it from pocket to pocket
'til he snagged a hole.

remember the tarps and cardboard
that made homes beneath trees.
like forts. like children
would live and laugh there.

remember saying to me in secret:
i am a good person. remember how
i agreed. a pebble in my mouth.
in my stomach.

21 August 2008 @ 10:13 am
You've coaxed my tendrils from the filthy earth--
I shiver delicately in the air.
You trellis my limp stems, but I despair
Of thriving in this sky of my unworth.

I grew in fertile places but grew lost,
Entangled in the brambles of this plot--
A shady place untended. Left to rot,
My blossoms blacken, wilting under frost.

Yet always toward the wan and distant light
I stretch. That pallid intermittent glow
Is screened by leaves in front of leaves, and so
I droop, and I make thorns throughout the night.

I live for water and the gleaming shears
In your gloved hand: the sun of all my fears.

apron-wringingCollapse )
20 August 2008 @ 10:12 am
poppies, like red bulbs
petals billowing, open umbrellas in the strong wind
scarlet or the colour of thighs spread widely apart
calloused hands or cold what should be warm
this turning, this memory, this standing
where the season turns, on its axis
folds over itself, as a towel folds

where are the laundry baskets?
where is the cinnamon toast?

sticky-green, powder-white, liquid-gold
violence for the sake of violence
a chuckle while pain is inflicted
on a woman who can not defend herself
excuses like cotton seed puffs in the river current
to focus on the smooth greenness of the bank
to be able to love what would never hurt
the inability, the paralysis of the golden hour
sun flare, light
waking dreams, fitful sleeps

heavy-lidded eyes, shift from emerald to coffee
pink-soft lips whisper the morning vigil
of a woman, any woman

hello friends. i have been writing a lot over the last few days. i am shy to post though.

this is a very rough first draft. it is a sketch of what i would like it to be. my questions for you all and the feedback that i am seeking:

  1. This is evidently vague and unspecific (two qualities that I am trying to stay away from in my poems) but do you notice any theme? If you had to take a guess as to what this poem is "about" what would you guess, if anything?

  2. Do you have any advice on punctuation. Typically I like to include punctuation but this is fragmented. Do you suggest adding more words to create full sentences? Or using gramatically incorrect punctuation, (periods after incomplete sentences)? Or leaving out punctuation (aside from the question marks) entirely?

Thank you, thank you a million times over for your feedback. Also I've been going through our older posts and have begun making commentaries and will continue to do so. I am so glad to have you all, this community.

06 August 2008 @ 01:12 am

I don't need to say this, but let me point out the distinct lack of activity in this place anyway. I'd like to thank those who have posted despite hesitation and those who have offered their earnest criticism so far...but let's face it, we're a small number. Come on, folks. Write more. Share more. Let it be my birthday everyday.

ALSO. If you guys don't want to post anything but actually do watch this community, can I be shameless and ask for promotion? We are all LJ friends with poetic diamonds. I want them here. Glistening under my iron rule (not really). If you guys could mention drunkvirtue in an entry in your journals sometime, that'd be greatly appreciated, and in gratitude I'll offer . . . holograms of Christian Bale.
02 August 2008 @ 10:46 pm

English written task: Ever been hypnotized?




Dearest love,

I’m sorry.


We rolled up the carpet so we could dance but the doves were falling from the sky. Your world had changed ever since you dreamt of the possibility where two of us kissed publicly in the city of Houston where conservatives lust for past and progressiveness is a joke. You told me that it’s not like a tree where the roots have to end somewhere, but every single story needs an ending, if there is a beginning there must be an ending. Too rational, too logical, you said and kissed me and I became afraid, afraid of your touch and smell,

afraid of us.


When I met you, you were scared. You were a policeman, and I was your partner. The stars were cheering for us, but we could not. Guns killed hearts, but you never dared to trigger yours until the day I told you I’m sorry the first time.  I told I love you to someone who I barely knew so I could feel the words in my veins, lungs. She loved me back. I told you. And the only thing you could say that

I love you, too.