MisterSuperBetterMore
Bluelighter
Introduction:
The stuff I'm going to be submitting to this forum, doesn't fit as appropriately as maybe it should, but it is writing... and I'm a writer (or trying to be). Some of its good. If you're reading my work you obviously have way too much time on yer hands. I hope you enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it.
This piece:
This piece i thought was appropriate for the board because of some of the themes running though it. It was done entirely on stimulats and over 3 nights, one to write, one to edit, and one to organize what was written and edited. It's a very personal piece and has a lot to do with procrastination, and hesitation. The tragedy that even though you stay stagnant, time still flows.
This piece is actually going to see publication in its current form in a nationally recognized high school literary magazine, called "The Wit". They've won a bunch of national awards and its pretty professional -its kinda cool to see your work get published. It spreads exposure which is exactly why i'm trying to do by putting it here. Because without out a reader the writing loses its value and in effect the writer's existence is unjustified.
And thank you:
In the past I've read a lot in this forum and have come to respect a lot of the writers in here, which is the only reason i'm even sharing this piece -because i respect your opinions.
What i want from you:
I love recognition and applause, but what i'm really looking for is criticism. Help me make this better. If you don't like it at all, tell me why (more than "because it sux and is pretentious and long"). Tell me if it works. Tell me what doesn't work. This piece is still unfinished AND I NEED TO REVISE IT -i want it to see more than just school publication. Tell me if you want to see more of my writing [or less...
]. Please don't hold back. If ya bother to read even part of it... please give feed back!
* * *
Porcelain is Honduras II
by Vaughn Blair
We sat
naked eyed
in the South American haze;
trading shares
of fictional companies
to occupy the time
after the crash
We were
self made men
Drowned in
our own
pyrite fortunes.
The crux of a realization
Forming inside
the palms of our minds,
Where twitching
arthritic fingers,
begged or dared
lapses in concentration.
But the moment
proceeded without us
Because
this wasn’t about us
and hadn’t been
for quite some time
And flying fish bowl circles
above us,
In overcast skies,
Bloated silver belly
sky whales, loomed
-and even though
the conversation paused,
the moment resumed;
drawn earthward
by gunfire and gravity
Great swimming beasts
crashed to the earth
In great clouds
of sand and surf
And caught panicked
in the blast
the fork and spoon
ran pass
safely under the guise
of lunar bovine shadows
* * *
As massive silver belly sky whales
left plumes and trails
of exhaust
as they sped to the earth.
Desperate thoughts and men
Gathered to settle
in the sedimentary
river banks of
our consciousness;
Curled in the safety,
of silt and sand.
* * *
And the brass band
played a catchy little number
That gave rhythm to her hips
And motion to her lips
And stuck copulating
in the sick white glow
Lovers spent like ash
to the wind
and were never seen again
As the moment
proceeded without them
* * *
And had we been working side-by-side
No motion or stroke would have faltered
And had we been typing in cubicles
No punctuation would have been neglected
And had we been nursing newborn babes
from a lacerating tit
Not a drop would have spilt
Not a drop
* * *
And somewhere in the distance
the sirens gave banshee wails,
and safety was found
in the linings of political offices.
In that distant elsewhere,
congratulations were in order,
objectives were achieved
and successes were believed.
They were changing the world
For the better
* * *
But unfortunately,
the change machine
is still out of order.
But it’s been that way
for quite some time.
So you should have known
You should have known.
* * *
Young men
Would be missed
in the festivities to
come
Either way and anyway,
Foreign tongues raised up
In praise
And stuck inside our hesitation
We witnessed it all
* * *
The insolent pelvic thrusts
Of a million Narcissuses skyward
Towards a sky that echoed their desperation
But Somewhere inside
cumulus canyons
A voice chortled
In Echo
In amusement
In a universal dialectic
of apathetic laughter
And where it chemically defined
The Big Bang was in itself
An apathetic laugh
And we’ve been doing
little more
Than riding a punch line
To the end of the line.
So All aboard,
Or all die,
And sometimes both,
… and sometimes “y”
But here comes “Z”
So next time
won’t you please
* * *
it doesn’t end there
and if it did I still wouldn’t care.
* * *
And the machinery of the moment
Played itself out
Once more to empty stadiums
But we all know the guest list
It’s written across his wrist
Or was that just an invitation
An RSVP
Scribbled
for the sake
of procrastination
put off until later
‘till later was now
and the message
demanded red
Lonely mountains
Reported back to base
In piercing static belches
As the continental drift
separated our hands
* * *
And the band played
A little tune
To an empty room
-and an empty seat
* * *
I sat up from your stupor
To face a million sky whales
beached in the tropical landscapes
beside sugar cane and cocaine
Bought and sold by the kilogram
Shipped Northward
Up the equator,
up the nostril
A kilogram of escapism
Sent from the third world squalor
It’s nice to get away sometimes
* * *
And it’s common knowledge
that the punch
is always spiked
And who invited him
to the party, anyway?
And either way,
it doesn’t really matter,
‘Cause honestly:
There’s no point in it.
And for the record:
The record is scratched
* * *
“Close the suture please nurse
And Dear,
try to wear
something
a bit more: formal
“Pass the sherry and the scalpel
If you would.
Yes, that there
That’s good.
“I’m sorry
but he never had a chance.
A lost cause.
But aren’t we all?
“I, on the other hand
could go for
another round
before I make the rounds
“-wait, better not,
Just one last shot.
No I’m not driving
Just operating
“Dear madam,
Blame the Lord
Not the Booze
* * *
It went
unnoticed to everyone
In the room and in the war
But there was sincerity
inside the apathy
cloaked in sarcasm and wit
beneath odor and shit
fused in rhyme
fused like a bayonet
* * *
Anyway and Neither way,
Down the one way
Going the wrong way
The cause was lost,
But not the plan.
* * *
So, the band started up again
But lovers couldn’t fuck again
With anatomy lost to the winds
And passion spread across the seas
* * *
To distant shores
Where tribal men
picked shells
from the sand:
oyster shells,
conch shells,
and mortar shells,
littering the beach
spread between
craters and huts
between loincloths
and bare butts
Naked bare assed men
plotted their own wars
limited by their technology
but not their spirit
because they dreamt of the day,
where they could
push buttons
and pull levers
and leave imagination
to fill the gaps
left by lives
and continents.
* * *
And it’s a great place to visit
Tell the waitress, “Hi”
Order the special
From the
Undereducated divorcee
With three kids at the sitter
And an alimony check
Waiting in the mail
Give her a tip
Before she tries
to give advice
And her thighs could bear
At least
a fourth or fifth
But her eyes
Can bear no more
And the tears
Float in her coffee:
Two creams and sugar
Cause she likes
the world to be sweeter
At least for today
For this shift
And the truck driver
smacks her ass
And mispronounces a name
Which she never corrects
And the conversation shifts
To the presidency and Politics
And how to get coffee stains
out of double breasted suits
and silk ties
* * *
And sifting through
the “Want Ads”
the short order chef
neglects
the hash browns
and forgets the grease
and remembers the glory
before treaties.
He remembers sailing
silver belly sky whales
In the South American Haze
Back when there was honor
Back when the world
had a place
for its warriors
Back when they placed a rifle
In his hand
-not a spatula
Back when the women cooed
Back when parades were held
Back when he wore a uniform
-not a paper hat.
But the moment
Went on without them
Because
this was never about them
* * *
As the band strikes it up again
“Just like old times”,
mouths the octogenarian
To the veterinarian
While he gums his toast
(But the vet,
Was never in the war.)
* * *
The Room
Has been vacant
for weeks
But you can still
smell the mold
in the sheets and sorry’s
the slow drag
of apologies and debts
smoked like cigarettes
burnt into the rug
And the rent is cheap
But so is the life
* * *
Falling like astronauts
into holes in space and time
Overwhelmed
And
Underwhelmed
Just so:
Whelmed with it all
Until their heads split open
In patriotic bursts
Abort the mission
It seems we’ve
Encountered
Unforeseen
Obstacles
Inhibiting
Our original
Plans
Send the chimp
Repeat:
Send the chimp
But the vet objects
* * *
And Mother says,
You’re not
getting enough potassium
But we know the truth.
So pass the banana
And hold the excuse
* * *
Fiddling with
Compasses and gyroscopes
Chimp sixty-two
Screeched his approval
Shocked at his own success
* * *
the FM radio
blares urban educated
Half rhymes and exploits
As the band tears through
The postcards in silence
content to pantomime
the waltz
* * *
And He’s up late into night
‘Till the morning fades to Day
And He’s up
Spewing eighth grade
vocabulary
to paper
As if it were art
And there on the sheet
it lies.
And they say,
honesty is the best policy,
but who are they?
And I’m tired of policy,
Protocol and dress codes.
And did we ever
really know
Them all that well?
They were invited
But they chose to stay
* * *
Apologies are in order
But the change machine
has been out of order
for weeks.
But you knew that already.
Or you should have.
* * *
And nothing changes.
It’s all just cycles
Just cycles
haphazardly
spinning in the air
with little thought
to consequence
or compensation.
* * *
And the machinery
of the moment
plays itself out
once more
to a sold out show
As the brass band
Smiles behind spectacles
And rheumatism
Humming
a little patriotic
ditty
they dreamt up
on a trip to the city.
And the moment stopped
* * *
And the casualties
------------------
"There is time in minute,
time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"
(from the Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot)
The stuff I'm going to be submitting to this forum, doesn't fit as appropriately as maybe it should, but it is writing... and I'm a writer (or trying to be). Some of its good. If you're reading my work you obviously have way too much time on yer hands. I hope you enjoy it. I enjoyed writing it.
This piece:
This piece i thought was appropriate for the board because of some of the themes running though it. It was done entirely on stimulats and over 3 nights, one to write, one to edit, and one to organize what was written and edited. It's a very personal piece and has a lot to do with procrastination, and hesitation. The tragedy that even though you stay stagnant, time still flows.
This piece is actually going to see publication in its current form in a nationally recognized high school literary magazine, called "The Wit". They've won a bunch of national awards and its pretty professional -its kinda cool to see your work get published. It spreads exposure which is exactly why i'm trying to do by putting it here. Because without out a reader the writing loses its value and in effect the writer's existence is unjustified.
And thank you:
In the past I've read a lot in this forum and have come to respect a lot of the writers in here, which is the only reason i'm even sharing this piece -because i respect your opinions.
What i want from you:
I love recognition and applause, but what i'm really looking for is criticism. Help me make this better. If you don't like it at all, tell me why (more than "because it sux and is pretentious and long"). Tell me if it works. Tell me what doesn't work. This piece is still unfinished AND I NEED TO REVISE IT -i want it to see more than just school publication. Tell me if you want to see more of my writing [or less...
* * *
Porcelain is Honduras II
by Vaughn Blair
We sat
naked eyed
in the South American haze;
trading shares
of fictional companies
to occupy the time
after the crash
We were
self made men
Drowned in
our own
pyrite fortunes.
The crux of a realization
Forming inside
the palms of our minds,
Where twitching
arthritic fingers,
begged or dared
lapses in concentration.
But the moment
proceeded without us
Because
this wasn’t about us
and hadn’t been
for quite some time
And flying fish bowl circles
above us,
In overcast skies,
Bloated silver belly
sky whales, loomed
-and even though
the conversation paused,
the moment resumed;
drawn earthward
by gunfire and gravity
Great swimming beasts
crashed to the earth
In great clouds
of sand and surf
And caught panicked
in the blast
the fork and spoon
ran pass
safely under the guise
of lunar bovine shadows
* * *
As massive silver belly sky whales
left plumes and trails
of exhaust
as they sped to the earth.
Desperate thoughts and men
Gathered to settle
in the sedimentary
river banks of
our consciousness;
Curled in the safety,
of silt and sand.
* * *
And the brass band
played a catchy little number
That gave rhythm to her hips
And motion to her lips
And stuck copulating
in the sick white glow
Lovers spent like ash
to the wind
and were never seen again
As the moment
proceeded without them
* * *
And had we been working side-by-side
No motion or stroke would have faltered
And had we been typing in cubicles
No punctuation would have been neglected
And had we been nursing newborn babes
from a lacerating tit
Not a drop would have spilt
Not a drop
* * *
And somewhere in the distance
the sirens gave banshee wails,
and safety was found
in the linings of political offices.
In that distant elsewhere,
congratulations were in order,
objectives were achieved
and successes were believed.
They were changing the world
For the better
* * *
But unfortunately,
the change machine
is still out of order.
But it’s been that way
for quite some time.
So you should have known
You should have known.
* * *
Young men
Would be missed
in the festivities to
come
Either way and anyway,
Foreign tongues raised up
In praise
And stuck inside our hesitation
We witnessed it all
* * *
The insolent pelvic thrusts
Of a million Narcissuses skyward
Towards a sky that echoed their desperation
But Somewhere inside
cumulus canyons
A voice chortled
In Echo
In amusement
In a universal dialectic
of apathetic laughter
And where it chemically defined
The Big Bang was in itself
An apathetic laugh
And we’ve been doing
little more
Than riding a punch line
To the end of the line.
So All aboard,
Or all die,
And sometimes both,
… and sometimes “y”
But here comes “Z”
So next time
won’t you please
* * *
it doesn’t end there
and if it did I still wouldn’t care.
* * *
And the machinery of the moment
Played itself out
Once more to empty stadiums
But we all know the guest list
It’s written across his wrist
Or was that just an invitation
An RSVP
Scribbled
for the sake
of procrastination
put off until later
‘till later was now
and the message
demanded red
Lonely mountains
Reported back to base
In piercing static belches
As the continental drift
separated our hands
* * *
And the band played
A little tune
To an empty room
-and an empty seat
* * *
I sat up from your stupor
To face a million sky whales
beached in the tropical landscapes
beside sugar cane and cocaine
Bought and sold by the kilogram
Shipped Northward
Up the equator,
up the nostril
A kilogram of escapism
Sent from the third world squalor
It’s nice to get away sometimes
* * *
And it’s common knowledge
that the punch
is always spiked
And who invited him
to the party, anyway?
And either way,
it doesn’t really matter,
‘Cause honestly:
There’s no point in it.
And for the record:
The record is scratched
* * *
“Close the suture please nurse
And Dear,
try to wear
something
a bit more: formal
“Pass the sherry and the scalpel
If you would.
Yes, that there
That’s good.
“I’m sorry
but he never had a chance.
A lost cause.
But aren’t we all?
“I, on the other hand
could go for
another round
before I make the rounds
“-wait, better not,
Just one last shot.
No I’m not driving
Just operating
“Dear madam,
Blame the Lord
Not the Booze
* * *
It went
unnoticed to everyone
In the room and in the war
But there was sincerity
inside the apathy
cloaked in sarcasm and wit
beneath odor and shit
fused in rhyme
fused like a bayonet
* * *
Anyway and Neither way,
Down the one way
Going the wrong way
The cause was lost,
But not the plan.
* * *
So, the band started up again
But lovers couldn’t fuck again
With anatomy lost to the winds
And passion spread across the seas
* * *
To distant shores
Where tribal men
picked shells
from the sand:
oyster shells,
conch shells,
and mortar shells,
littering the beach
spread between
craters and huts
between loincloths
and bare butts
Naked bare assed men
plotted their own wars
limited by their technology
but not their spirit
because they dreamt of the day,
where they could
push buttons
and pull levers
and leave imagination
to fill the gaps
left by lives
and continents.
* * *
And it’s a great place to visit
Tell the waitress, “Hi”
Order the special
From the
Undereducated divorcee
With three kids at the sitter
And an alimony check
Waiting in the mail
Give her a tip
Before she tries
to give advice
And her thighs could bear
At least
a fourth or fifth
But her eyes
Can bear no more
And the tears
Float in her coffee:
Two creams and sugar
Cause she likes
the world to be sweeter
At least for today
For this shift
And the truck driver
smacks her ass
And mispronounces a name
Which she never corrects
And the conversation shifts
To the presidency and Politics
And how to get coffee stains
out of double breasted suits
and silk ties
* * *
And sifting through
the “Want Ads”
the short order chef
neglects
the hash browns
and forgets the grease
and remembers the glory
before treaties.
He remembers sailing
silver belly sky whales
In the South American Haze
Back when there was honor
Back when the world
had a place
for its warriors
Back when they placed a rifle
In his hand
-not a spatula
Back when the women cooed
Back when parades were held
Back when he wore a uniform
-not a paper hat.
But the moment
Went on without them
Because
this was never about them
* * *
As the band strikes it up again
“Just like old times”,
mouths the octogenarian
To the veterinarian
While he gums his toast
(But the vet,
Was never in the war.)
* * *
The Room
Has been vacant
for weeks
But you can still
smell the mold
in the sheets and sorry’s
the slow drag
of apologies and debts
smoked like cigarettes
burnt into the rug
And the rent is cheap
But so is the life
* * *
Falling like astronauts
into holes in space and time
Overwhelmed
And
Underwhelmed
Just so:
Whelmed with it all
Until their heads split open
In patriotic bursts
Abort the mission
It seems we’ve
Encountered
Unforeseen
Obstacles
Inhibiting
Our original
Plans
Send the chimp
Repeat:
Send the chimp
But the vet objects
* * *
And Mother says,
You’re not
getting enough potassium
But we know the truth.
So pass the banana
And hold the excuse
* * *
Fiddling with
Compasses and gyroscopes
Chimp sixty-two
Screeched his approval
Shocked at his own success
* * *
the FM radio
blares urban educated
Half rhymes and exploits
As the band tears through
The postcards in silence
content to pantomime
the waltz
* * *
And He’s up late into night
‘Till the morning fades to Day
And He’s up
Spewing eighth grade
vocabulary
to paper
As if it were art
And there on the sheet
it lies.
And they say,
honesty is the best policy,
but who are they?
And I’m tired of policy,
Protocol and dress codes.
And did we ever
really know
Them all that well?
They were invited
But they chose to stay
* * *
Apologies are in order
But the change machine
has been out of order
for weeks.
But you knew that already.
Or you should have.
* * *
And nothing changes.
It’s all just cycles
Just cycles
haphazardly
spinning in the air
with little thought
to consequence
or compensation.
* * *
And the machinery
of the moment
plays itself out
once more
to a sold out show
As the brass band
Smiles behind spectacles
And rheumatism
Humming
a little patriotic
ditty
they dreamt up
on a trip to the city.
And the moment stopped
* * *
And the casualties
------------------
"There is time in minute,
time for decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse"
(from the Love song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot)
