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Writtin' Thread

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ZJGent:
Lionel sat, giving off the upmarket parfum of an Eisner-designed yuppie, on an italian leather sofa shinier than his brilliantined hair. The party carouselled around him - Daily Mail writers doing all the naughty things you read about in, say, The Daily Mail. Evidently, the party's aficionado (a crumpled and decrepit rock orang) had bought in the gross national product of a small South American country... lines of dubious snuff were being cut and tucked and huffed and fucking fucked people were laughing everywhere. Lionel looked at his fake Rolex for a further six seconds than necessary. The hyena cackles cascaded at points too close to the back of his head. He could feel a scotch migraine eating at the pit of his cerebellum. Another six seconds spent staring at the diamante dial of his watch face.

Then, beautifully, she entered. A strip of black cotton teased into the shape of a dress around her - lines curving in perfect prospect - ribbons of chestnut curling about an elfin face. Evilly delicious. Lionel smiled something vulpine. She weaved her body (christ what a body, Lionel thought, utilising that part of the brain somewhere behind the belt buckle) through the debauched and adulterous crowd like a seamstress cutting a regal robe. The party slid about her - a seasick fiasco to which the only sea legs were hers... the legs, Lionel thought... those legs.

Being a patient man, Lionel waited until the hyenas waned and tired, now dripping off the mirrors that fed their cavernous conks in ailing fatigue. He stalked a path through living chaise-longue corpses and they met by the door to the hall.

"I felt I should say something, at least..."

"Shh," she whispered, lazy as a cigarette, "I

jodizzle:
Man Roddy, you fill me with joy.

Tom:
 :-D

jodizzle:
Lullabys and Lollipops

You were a skeletal wisp with scarred wrists and a lollipop heart.  Fragile candy sucked down by strangers beat on your ribs, leaving only hollow echoes.  You looked at me with lullaby eyes, a nursery rhyme reflection disengaged.  “I’m God’s most fuckable angel”, you’d told me, spread out on the floor staring at the empty ceiling. “I’m counting His heavenly hosts” you said.

When I found you, you were floating facedown in your own bathtub, the dried blood and white powder from your nose dissolving in the soapy water.  I sat on the windowsill curling my toes and wondered if they named stars after you in heaven.



Man, why did I decide to be the one to follow Roddy. To follow Roddy with somethign way below par.  Whatever guys, I'm out of ideas and now I feel lame.  I write too abstract for the real world.

schimmy:
(I have neither the intelligence nor attention span to write prose. However, here is one of the few poems I have written that I am proud of.)

Hands

My hands are full of hands with drinks
and they're dry for once.
My mouth is full of tongues that speak
and all they do is babble, babble,
about my way down.

I'm semi-formed and semi-slurred,
Oh, what am I to do?
Hold my hand and I
won't drop you if you're quiet.
Please don't say a word while waiting
For him? For Why? For What?
We can be in love tonight.

When all ourselves are out to chat,
and looking at the past
can we find somewhere there to live
without someone there to hate?

Some of them remember me.
All forget to ring.
Never get to hear me trying
maybe to sleeping, maybe talking.

Though we know what we won't like
we can't tell what'll come
singing songs and finding rhymes
I've not heard before
but when I close my eyes remind me
I'm never going to know.

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