BK38
Bluelight Crew
- Joined
- Apr 2, 2009
- Messages
- 14,058
I sometimes feel kind of anxious and today was one of those days and sometimes writing helps. I was feeling kind of uninspired, so I wrote down the last word of every line in every Haiku train post. This amounted to some 16 pages and my hand is now cramped! I decided to use these words and I wrote a random little piece of prose using the first page. My rules were that I had to use every word and use them in sequence. Below is the result of that effort. All of the CAPITALIZED words were taken from the Haiku-train thread. Thank you to everyone who contributed to that thread, you've helped me write this! @Quickfixgrrl @relex_author @schizopath @nuttynutskin @madness00 @TheLoveBandit and everyone else who added to the chain.
A Bluelight Haiku-Inspired Writing Exercise (Pt 1 of 16)
It was a quiet night, one of those SOUNDLESS nights where you can hear a mouse squeak; their tiny GAITS amplified by a backdrop of streetlights. These nights seem to last forever, the INFINITY of the universe in the stars above obscured by the light pollution. I sometimes think about how we’re always looking DOWN instead of up, contained within our own little myopic worlds, devoid of WONDER. Caught in our own little patterns of REWINDS and fast-forwards. People are always trying to FIND meaning and when it APPEARS right in front of them they don’t even notice. It’s in the AIR, it’s in their BONES just waiting to be REVEALED. Giving in and just being is the true victory, yet we’ve all become adept at snatching DEFEAT from the jaws of victory.
Zeros and Ones, CLOUD-BASED thoughts, right, left, stop, go. We’re all longing for the CLOUDS to THIN, so we can connect with a sense of ONE, a sense of self. I suppose one only WINS when ONE no longer thinks of oneself as THERE, but everywhere. It’s too BAD really, but I guess we all put on our PANTS one leg at a time, we’re all slaves to our nature. FIGHT, fuck, repeat. TAEKWONDO, BBJ, Boxing, slogging our way through this life. We all succumb to entropy, we all get WRECKED eventually. We all hit that end where we cease, where our programming stops working and TERMINATES.
I look out the window and I see the tricks trying to turn a DATE. AWAY they go and yet they generally come back soon enough; patting down their skirts and fixing their make-up. It’s FRIDAY, prime-time to watch this little show, this pantomime play out, the same as YESTERDAY’S and the day before that. Time stops for no man, no woman, no trannie. Time takes its TOLL on us all. One MOMENT you’re a little kid clutching at your mother’s dress, the next minute you’re SAND sweeping across the earth. It ENDS where it began. I feel for THEM, the lost souls on this night, sharing their sorrows with the street; all have their REASONS.
I’m UNCERTAIN of how much time has passed, but I notice my breath has started to fog up the window. I see ads lighting up occasionally, offering up flickering yet CONSTANT PROGRAMMING. SUCH nonsense it all is and I pity the fools that succumb to it. Advertisers playing on our CHEMISTRY, bombarding us with one, two, THREE thousand messages a day. It’s a game of CHESS and most people lose, hell, most people don’t even know they’re playing. NO rest for the wicked.
A bird has POOed on a prostitute below, she hasn’t noticed yet, but she will once the rain mingles with it and it’s icky white stench reaches her nostrils. I wonder if birds notice when one of their flock DIES, I wonder if birds mourn. I wonder if birds form BANDS, or little groups to sing their sad or sweet songs at dawn and dusk. The moon is starting to peak OUT now and I can see the thick make-up on the tired whores more clearly, their drawn on masks; their armor against time. MORNING is an ugly time for a prostitute on this dead-end drag.
Are we all governed by the same RULES? I think not as I see the high-rises of the rich and privileged in the distance, the well-to-do who occasionally venture to this dark little drag to slum-it, to get their well-coiffed little nuts off. What makes them so much better than? What makes them AMOUNT to anything more than people with the luxury of extra digits in their accounts. Arrogant bastards, those MELON-headed fools who have everything handed to them on a plate while those poor tricks outside only find solace from their sooty SPOONS.
SOMEWHERE I hear a car honk and a BIN fall over, scattering refuse into the street with the rest of the walking refuse. It wakes me from my revelry and I can see that the skies have cleared a little; I feel a FOOL for being such a hypocrite, trapped in my own thoughts; looking down instead of up. Every PERSON I know spends too much time on labels; “WEIRD,” “BRO,” “ALL.” Why are we so preoccupied with labels and generalizations? I catch myself in my hypocrisy again, another generalization. Maybe THIS life, this pondering is immaterial and self-masturbratory.
My mind wanders and I remember back to sun-kissed days of picking BLUEBERRIES with my mother. That was a simpler time, the world made sense then. “Dude! What the fuck man, you’re going to have to pay extra asshole! Look what you did to her!” A pimp is yelling at a John for damaging his “product.” What a bastard, all of them. A whore flinches at the yelling and a container of LUBRICANT JELLY tumbles from her purse and bounces across the asphalt. What has turned these men into BEASTS, what has turned these men who, perhaps once picked blueberries with their mother on a sunny day into this? I feel a sickness building up in my INTESTINES, winding its way into my heart, I mourn their loss of innocence; of humanity. DRESSING up these poor trodden upon souls with cheap and thin dresses, it’s GROSS, have they no shame?
SOME days I feel better about it, somedays I feel too much and on those days I want to DIE. I have empathy for ALL, but not ALL have empathy on this bitter, gnarled and twisted drag. The rain has started to fall and the stench from the bird SHIT has wafted into the nose of the prostitute below. I watch as she ducks behind a bus-stop and reemerges cleansed, well cleansed of bird-shit anyways.
A magazine flutters in the wind “TOPIC magazine,” more drivel in the gutter, irrelevant before it was ever printed. Life is not fair and to the victors go the GLORY and the spoils. Condensation is beginning to FORM on the windows as the temperature shifts. I use my hand to form a little viewing port-hole to continue observing the drag. A car turns into the street going the WRONG way. Everything about this street is wrong and it is not out of place. The pimps light cigarettes and joke and laugh like hyenas beneath the bus-stop awning. The girls continue to stroll in the rain, like little FOXes on the prowl. A girl is arguing with one of the pimps and he BEATS her without mercy and I flinch involuntarily. She did not, even as the first blow reigned down on her; too used to it. Another pimp is talking to a nervous looking man, I make out “I got a real HOT piece of ass for you man, just wait ‘til she gets back man.”
What makes the difference between the “US” and “them?” These soulless animals, flogging these GRIEF-worn souls for a few dollars. A sense of GRIEF for humanity is filling me again. The lumberYARD on the parallel street has started up and I can hear the workers laughs punctuate the whirr of buzz-saws as they spin to life. Is it that late already? Or should I say that early? I feel my lungs are TIGHT, wound-up in problems that aren’t mine. I need to stop feeling so much, perhaps the SANCTITY of daylight will purge these vile thoughts and visions from me. The SINful degradations continue below unabated and the MONSTERS continue to roam the darkness.
A hooker is sitting on the curb, eating a piece of stale PIE that one of the other girls fished from her purse. Even in darkness there is light.
A Bluelight Haiku-Inspired Writing Exercise (Pt 1 of 16)
It was a quiet night, one of those SOUNDLESS nights where you can hear a mouse squeak; their tiny GAITS amplified by a backdrop of streetlights. These nights seem to last forever, the INFINITY of the universe in the stars above obscured by the light pollution. I sometimes think about how we’re always looking DOWN instead of up, contained within our own little myopic worlds, devoid of WONDER. Caught in our own little patterns of REWINDS and fast-forwards. People are always trying to FIND meaning and when it APPEARS right in front of them they don’t even notice. It’s in the AIR, it’s in their BONES just waiting to be REVEALED. Giving in and just being is the true victory, yet we’ve all become adept at snatching DEFEAT from the jaws of victory.
Zeros and Ones, CLOUD-BASED thoughts, right, left, stop, go. We’re all longing for the CLOUDS to THIN, so we can connect with a sense of ONE, a sense of self. I suppose one only WINS when ONE no longer thinks of oneself as THERE, but everywhere. It’s too BAD really, but I guess we all put on our PANTS one leg at a time, we’re all slaves to our nature. FIGHT, fuck, repeat. TAEKWONDO, BBJ, Boxing, slogging our way through this life. We all succumb to entropy, we all get WRECKED eventually. We all hit that end where we cease, where our programming stops working and TERMINATES.
I look out the window and I see the tricks trying to turn a DATE. AWAY they go and yet they generally come back soon enough; patting down their skirts and fixing their make-up. It’s FRIDAY, prime-time to watch this little show, this pantomime play out, the same as YESTERDAY’S and the day before that. Time stops for no man, no woman, no trannie. Time takes its TOLL on us all. One MOMENT you’re a little kid clutching at your mother’s dress, the next minute you’re SAND sweeping across the earth. It ENDS where it began. I feel for THEM, the lost souls on this night, sharing their sorrows with the street; all have their REASONS.
I’m UNCERTAIN of how much time has passed, but I notice my breath has started to fog up the window. I see ads lighting up occasionally, offering up flickering yet CONSTANT PROGRAMMING. SUCH nonsense it all is and I pity the fools that succumb to it. Advertisers playing on our CHEMISTRY, bombarding us with one, two, THREE thousand messages a day. It’s a game of CHESS and most people lose, hell, most people don’t even know they’re playing. NO rest for the wicked.
A bird has POOed on a prostitute below, she hasn’t noticed yet, but she will once the rain mingles with it and it’s icky white stench reaches her nostrils. I wonder if birds notice when one of their flock DIES, I wonder if birds mourn. I wonder if birds form BANDS, or little groups to sing their sad or sweet songs at dawn and dusk. The moon is starting to peak OUT now and I can see the thick make-up on the tired whores more clearly, their drawn on masks; their armor against time. MORNING is an ugly time for a prostitute on this dead-end drag.
Are we all governed by the same RULES? I think not as I see the high-rises of the rich and privileged in the distance, the well-to-do who occasionally venture to this dark little drag to slum-it, to get their well-coiffed little nuts off. What makes them so much better than? What makes them AMOUNT to anything more than people with the luxury of extra digits in their accounts. Arrogant bastards, those MELON-headed fools who have everything handed to them on a plate while those poor tricks outside only find solace from their sooty SPOONS.
SOMEWHERE I hear a car honk and a BIN fall over, scattering refuse into the street with the rest of the walking refuse. It wakes me from my revelry and I can see that the skies have cleared a little; I feel a FOOL for being such a hypocrite, trapped in my own thoughts; looking down instead of up. Every PERSON I know spends too much time on labels; “WEIRD,” “BRO,” “ALL.” Why are we so preoccupied with labels and generalizations? I catch myself in my hypocrisy again, another generalization. Maybe THIS life, this pondering is immaterial and self-masturbratory.
My mind wanders and I remember back to sun-kissed days of picking BLUEBERRIES with my mother. That was a simpler time, the world made sense then. “Dude! What the fuck man, you’re going to have to pay extra asshole! Look what you did to her!” A pimp is yelling at a John for damaging his “product.” What a bastard, all of them. A whore flinches at the yelling and a container of LUBRICANT JELLY tumbles from her purse and bounces across the asphalt. What has turned these men into BEASTS, what has turned these men who, perhaps once picked blueberries with their mother on a sunny day into this? I feel a sickness building up in my INTESTINES, winding its way into my heart, I mourn their loss of innocence; of humanity. DRESSING up these poor trodden upon souls with cheap and thin dresses, it’s GROSS, have they no shame?
SOME days I feel better about it, somedays I feel too much and on those days I want to DIE. I have empathy for ALL, but not ALL have empathy on this bitter, gnarled and twisted drag. The rain has started to fall and the stench from the bird SHIT has wafted into the nose of the prostitute below. I watch as she ducks behind a bus-stop and reemerges cleansed, well cleansed of bird-shit anyways.
A magazine flutters in the wind “TOPIC magazine,” more drivel in the gutter, irrelevant before it was ever printed. Life is not fair and to the victors go the GLORY and the spoils. Condensation is beginning to FORM on the windows as the temperature shifts. I use my hand to form a little viewing port-hole to continue observing the drag. A car turns into the street going the WRONG way. Everything about this street is wrong and it is not out of place. The pimps light cigarettes and joke and laugh like hyenas beneath the bus-stop awning. The girls continue to stroll in the rain, like little FOXes on the prowl. A girl is arguing with one of the pimps and he BEATS her without mercy and I flinch involuntarily. She did not, even as the first blow reigned down on her; too used to it. Another pimp is talking to a nervous looking man, I make out “I got a real HOT piece of ass for you man, just wait ‘til she gets back man.”
What makes the difference between the “US” and “them?” These soulless animals, flogging these GRIEF-worn souls for a few dollars. A sense of GRIEF for humanity is filling me again. The lumberYARD on the parallel street has started up and I can hear the workers laughs punctuate the whirr of buzz-saws as they spin to life. Is it that late already? Or should I say that early? I feel my lungs are TIGHT, wound-up in problems that aren’t mine. I need to stop feeling so much, perhaps the SANCTITY of daylight will purge these vile thoughts and visions from me. The SINful degradations continue below unabated and the MONSTERS continue to roam the darkness.
A hooker is sitting on the curb, eating a piece of stale PIE that one of the other girls fished from her purse. Even in darkness there is light.
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