Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Spiked with a sense of the inevitable,
he masturbated off the 15th floor
of the Westin Diplomat hotel. Tumescent
no longer. White strings frothed.

The ocean close, the surf distending.
His body swaying in the sun-scattered sky.
He follows the ocean's rhythmic dancing. Like
crumbling sand, cities of sand, his hand
on the balcony rail. Points of light
blooming, burning. Boiling bursting stars
exploding.

Diminished, fulfilled,
climbing into his room,
he slid the glass door closed.
And listened.

Couples were coming outside
to eat at the seaside cafe.
Icy cocktails would soon be salting their lips.
Their senses uncurling. The invisible pictures,
the years of photos, they'd trace out together.

Washing himself clean in the mirror,
he pictured them dancing. He listened to
them laughing. He romanticized them
and thought about home,
tracing that sense of belonging.

Well done M! You know they say your writing is no good until it becomes personal. It don't get no more personal than that!
Did you really do that? If you did I have to change my reservations.

Love
D

Did that actually happen? I'll let you draw your own conclusions. However, I'll just say, sometimes poetry meshes well with fiction.

Point taken. Its a good poem, regardless. And if it didn't happen, it should'a.

Did that actually happen? I'll let you draw your own conclusions. However, I'll just say, sometimes poetry meshes well with fiction.

got dam me they ought to take a rope and hang me

I am intimadated my poetry, it is a leap of faith for me to reply to it.

just click click

have you ever read mnaz
I get such ghoulish fantascies about him, I want to steal his eyes.

I was trying to tell a story for panta's

alf laila w'laila

gave up in despair

Lubbock texas
still two hours away but I can see every got dam street light sitting at the bottom of the basin. And on the far edge of my field of visual sensation was the darness of the other lip of the bowl. With a lot of lightning flashes turning the black wall cloud red.

No bridges to hide under. now I am seventy five miles closer and flash bulbs are popping turning the night into bright white daylight. The wall cloud now has even darker objects in it, are they funnell clouds or whirling dervishes on magic carpets.

I have no idea what Magical Realism means I associate it with A Hundred Years of Solitude, which I have not read.

done I hope

Dylan:

I might be that cool. And then again, I might not.


Jack:

I wonder if Lubbock's own Buddy Holly thought that before his plane crashed. Rock and roll, baby.

I was eighteen the day the music died
But at long last some feeling is returning to my feet
Makes me want to dance
Rock and roll all night long
With the abomination from the mountain top





That will be the day