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Postby Skittles! on Sat Sep 22, 2007 10:30 am

The1exile wrote:I couldn't say what my best is (as most of my best I don't currently have access to anyway) but here's something I wrote while on the bus one morning.

Revulsion running through my frame,
Clawing at this mortal shell,
I rend the flesh from bone,
And peel this skin, this youthful Zest,
To throw away like excrement.
Finally reaching the core,
Reach out, grasp the filthy,
Corrupt, raw yet pulsing heart,
And with screams of purest agony,
Scrape the cankered filth away.

You wrote that on the bus? And I thought I had a tormented mind :wink: joke.
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Postby The1exile on Sat Sep 22, 2007 10:37 am

What can I say, sometimes my thought trains are so erratic they even scare the crap out of me.

A mate of mine said it was "beautiful", but I'm not sure if he just said that out of fear ;)
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Postby Skittles! on Sat Sep 22, 2007 10:53 am

It is beautiful, in that crazy-cannibalistic way
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Postby Norse on Sat Sep 22, 2007 11:01 am

The1exile wrote:I couldn't say what my best is (as most of my best I don't currently have access to anyway) but here's something I wrote while on the bus one morning.

Revulsion running through my frame,
Clawing at this mortal shell,
I rend the flesh from bone,
And peel this skin, this youthful Zest,
To throw away like excrement.
Finally reaching the core,
Reach out, grasp the filthy,
Corrupt, raw yet pulsing heart,
And with screams of purest agony,
Scrape the cankered filth away.


I know what you mean, public transport makes me want to bite my own ear off.
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Postby The1exile on Sat Sep 22, 2007 11:12 am

Norse wrote:
The1exile wrote:I couldn't say what my best is (as most of my best I don't currently have access to anyway) but here's something I wrote while on the bus one morning.

Revulsion running through my frame,
Clawing at this mortal shell,
I rend the flesh from bone,
And peel this skin, this youthful Zest,
To throw away like excrement.
Finally reaching the core,
Reach out, grasp the filthy,
Corrupt, raw yet pulsing heart,
And with screams of purest agony,
Scrape the cankered filth away.


I know what you mean, public transport makes me want to bite my own ear off.


:lol: :lol: :lol:
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Postby The1exile on Mon Oct 01, 2007 3:51 pm

English creative writing essay, written in the last minute, entitled "The Dark Lady of Ikalak".

As the sun rose over the white spires of Ikalak City, the assassin in
training stalked through the shadows cast by the cold light of morning.

Though he was but an amateur as yet, Diodorus enjoyed the thrill of the
chase, pursuing a target only to break off at the last moment. It was
for this reason that he slipped through the back alleys of the city
tracking Teagan.

As he rounded a corner, he swore and ducked back quickly as he realised
he had almost stumbled in open view on to the road towards the desolate
south. Yet, even as he turned back, he spotted a woman watching him.
Disarmed for a moment by her gaze, he stood and watched as as she turned and walked away.


"Damn..." Diodorus cursed under his breath and chased after her.

As he reached the end of the alley, he looked out, but could not spy
the lady. he ducked inside a temple to Nehru and, ignoring the cries of
pain of some of the acolytes performing their morning rituals, he
ascended the spire, staying in the shadows, and looked out across the
merchants setting up shop for the day, and watched the lady walk through
the square towards the camp of Teagan, undoubtedly to inform the noble
of his pursuer.

Like a man possessed, Diodorus jumped down the stairs and ran from the
temple towards Teagan's camp, stealth forgotten. Evading the guards,
Diodorus caught up to the woman on the far side of the square. he
cloaked himself in shadow as she turned and gazed in his direction, but
she did not see him and continued on her path. Silently, Diodorus
stalked her, matching her footsteps exactly, and struck the woman in her
back with his curved dagger.

As he watched her fall, the illusion passed, and the lady lying wounded
changed before his very eyes into the form of Teagan, writhing in pain.
Diodorus yanked the dagger out, stricken with fear, and turned to run
when he saw the lady again, this time taller and shrouded in darkness
that could not be natural.


"So you would hunt me, Diodorus?" the lady asked, smiling nastily. "Then
seek me in the frozen wildernesses... if you dare."

With unnatural speed, the dark lady turned and left. Diodorus started
to follow her, but broke off at the sound of the city guard approaching.
Slipping into the shadows once more, he stood still as a rock, silent
and near invisible, the only sign he had been there was the body of
Teagan, lying unceremoniously in the dirt.
-
The lady was later seen in a temple near the river, with a message left
there for "a shadowy male, about 5'10", long hair, you might not see him
at all really".


"Diodorus,

Should you evade the judgement of my services, then seek me out. I have
need of one of your services...

Good Luck.

The Dark Lady of Ikalak"
Last edited by The1exile on Fri Dec 07, 2007 2:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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Postby Anarkistsdream on Mon Oct 01, 2007 3:52 pm

The1exile wrote:Reserving this space.


Reserving his space.
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Postby Norse on Mon Oct 01, 2007 4:12 pm

Here is a stupid song I wrote ages ago about an old friend of mine.

He was an odd bloke, a finnish guy by the name of jukka. I worked with him in the kitchen of a pub back in my hay-day, and he showed me some odd ways of cooking and preparing food....we used to deep-fry steaks..



jukka's bacon wrote:He's your favourtie finnish person, youve got a treat in store
You're going to eat his bacon, he don't cook no moose no more
And if you asked for just whole bacon, you're going to have a shock
Brown bread, black oily sandwiches, the cream of his crop

If it's early in the morning, and you need to have a bite
Just have a veggie burger, washed down with a pint
And if the clientelle disrespects, they are very much mistaken
For it ain't a greasy lettuce leaf, it's only jukka's bacon

We love you jukka, we love you jukka
And your dodgy goaty beard
He is incredible! his foods unedible!
he cooks a platter that is the worlds most feared!
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Postby The1exile on Fri Dec 07, 2007 2:30 pm

Major bumpage, I know. Felt like posting this poem.
--
And thus the flower comes to fruition,
And all who gaze on it fall silent, stunned.
This Devourer of colour, throughout the town,
Gazes around and laughs at the pale shadows beyond.

Who is this narcissistic Lothario,
This casual sadist? Does anyone know?

Unfathomable pits, twinkling voids,
Unquenchable perhaps, no-one knows,
But as they fall upon a dark Angel,
Did he meet his match unwittingly?
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Postby Minister Masket on Fri Dec 07, 2007 5:06 pm

*ahem*
I present an ode entitled "On the Spot"

Red, White and Blue, a block full of cheese
I'm being attacked, by a swarm full of bees!
I defend myself with my box of pure light
Ah but these bees, they sting and they bite!

I run with great haste into my house
Even if it is, infested with louse!
Advent, Christmas, the colours at play
Alas, no sign of a donkey or hay.

Oh woe is me, the bees come still
Quickly I phone my flatmate called Bill
"Can you help me?" I ask with haste
"No you bozo, you have no taste!"

Bzzzt, kring, still they come
With numbers ranging from lots to some.
How do I get out of this horrible mess?
It isn't exactly a love-fest.

The bees may come, but at least there are no velociraptors!
Victrix Fortuna Sapientia

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Postby The1exile on Fri Dec 07, 2007 5:53 pm

Minister Masket wrote:The bees may come, but at least there are no velociraptors!


:lol:
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Postby muy_thaiguy on Fri Dec 07, 2007 5:55 pm

The hell exile? What's with the bumping?
"Eh, whatever."
-Anonymous


What, you expected something deep or flashy?
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Postby Minister Masket on Sun Dec 09, 2007 5:40 am

muy_thaiguy wrote:The hell exile? What's with the bumping?

I have no idea what you're talking about.
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Postby Minister Masket on Sun Dec 09, 2007 5:41 am

The1exile wrote:
Minister Masket wrote:The bees may come, but at least there are no velociraptors!


:lol:

Someone should sig that. It took me a whole5 seconds to think that up!
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Postby The1exile on Sun Dec 09, 2007 7:33 am

muy_thaiguy wrote:The hell exile? What's with the bumping?


The1exile wrote:Major bumpage, I know. Felt like posting this poem.
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Postby PipPip on Mon Feb 11, 2008 11:20 am

Mullet wrote:It's all about the mullet
You've got to have a mullet
It's all about the style
And the jacked up trousers

Some people just don't like them
They like to keep their hair short
But I just wanna keep my mullet
and my jacked up trousers

I walk into a salon
My trousers flap around my ankles
I say "I wanna keep my mullet"
I walk out the salon
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Postby khazalid on Mon Feb 11, 2008 11:33 am

PipPip wrote:
Mullet wrote:It's all about the mullet
You've got to have a mullet
It's all about the style
And the jacked up trousers

Some people just don't like them
They like to keep their hair short
But I just wanna keep my mullet
and my jacked up trousers

I walk into a salon
My trousers flap around my ankles
I say "I wanna keep my mullet"
I walk out the salon


classy.
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Postby Neoteny on Mon Feb 11, 2008 11:46 am

My writing is really just a way for me to get certain images out of my head. I have a very active mind and once I get something I find particularly potent in there it kinda haunts me until I write something about it. My most recent thought concerned sharpened steel wire... o_O So you can imagine how that story went. It wasn't particularly good, but had some good imagery. Here's an example from ages ago. I don't even remember when I wrote it, but it's not hard to pick out the images I had swirling around. I had just met a girl who had the most brilliant blue eyes ever. So that's that. Everything else is my nerdy, moody ass being me.

James wrote:"Proof of Existence."

She opened her eyes and felt her eyelids scrape against her retinas. Everything felt crisper and more defined. The lines of everything in the room seemed to jump out at her. She glanced at the shape to her left, savoring the dragging sensation as her eyes glided stickily across the lubrication in her sockets. She stared detachedly as he twitched in his sleep. Watching him move sent a familiar shiver of feeling through her body. It could only be described as some new redefinition of pain; a sense of disassembly of both body and mind. She remembered an old friend who said that our cognitive processes and mental awareness were evidence of our own existence. It served as a safety blanket to reassert to ourselves that we aren’t just a figment of someone else’s scarred reality. “I think therefore I am.” She thought his theory was a bunch of existential white noise.

Proof of existence was not in cognition, she thought to herself. Recognition of physical signals is as useless for evidence of one’s own existence as is pondering the cause of the signals. Did it really matter if she existed or not? She thought that it was surprisingly easy to cover your eyes and ignore the question. But why would she want to cover her eyes? Her eyes seem to have gained some extra function, and she planned to take advantage of it. She refocused her beautiful blue eyes back on the figure beside her. She turned her body toward him and stared. The blue of her iris seemed to glow like a cat’s eye in the dark. She was watching him, piercing him. He stirred; frowned. Obviously in discomfort, recognizing on some primitive level that he was being watched, he opened his own blue eyes. His were dull, almost grey. Stupid, she thought. He furrowed his eyebrows into a “V” of curious confusion. She continued staring.

She saw her reflection in his eyes; ignored it, and looked closer. She focused on one of the arteries meandering like a river in the corner of his eye. She could see it swelling and relaxing as the blood pump through it. Swelling. Relaxing. He blinked, and she hated him for it.

She thought briefly of the pain of disassembly in her gut, her chest, and her head. It was his fault. She closed her eyes, feeling the comforting flow from her tear ducts wash over her eyes in a wave like fresh oxygen into the lungs of one who has inhaled the bitter salt water of the ocean. Her eyes flashed wide open again and she rammed her fist into the bridge of his nose. She felt the cartilage bend, then snap. His eyes widened in surprise as blood gushed through the breach in the nasal cavity caused by the tearing of the cartilage. They closed again as the blood spurted from his nostrils in gouts that covered her hand and ran down her smooth fingers. She smiled as she felt his blood, each individual cell in it, running down her hand. She smiled at him beneath her glowing eyes. This feeling of righteousness and wholeness was new. Suddenly everything in her mind felt as precise as everything in her body. This was proof that she existed.
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Postby heavycola on Tue Feb 12, 2008 8:43 am

nice work neoteny. No wonder you didn't get the staff job at Sesame Street though.

I wrote this a few days ago as a character study. It's probably just my latent misogny though.

Shoulders thrust back, hair extensions flicked extravagantly toone side, and a lipstick-rimmed glass filled, at a guess, with more gin than tonic, clutched in a manicured talon. Gail was forging a path through the throng with all the subtlety of an icebreaker.
We called her the Cautionary Tale, or CT for short. Not to her face; the woman was terrifying. God knows how old she was: A hemispherical belly protruding over too-tight jeans, a botox death-mask, and enormous boobs that still mustered a ‘f*ck you’ to gravity thanks to a cantilevered scaffold of awesome strength. They jiggled sinisterly as she pouted and lent over the table for a light.

It was an astonishing sight. And she always looked over your shoulders as she talked, never quite making eye contact, like a supervisor at Sainsbury’s who has to work the till for a few demeaning minutes.

‘Have you seen Dom?’ she wheezed, eyes sliding over the room.

‘Who?’

‘Dom Gully.’ She was pulling on her fag as if it was the fountain of youth. I hadn’t met the chap, but guessed he was running away.
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Postby Neoteny on Tue Feb 12, 2008 4:36 pm

heavycola wrote:nice work neoteny. No wonder you didn't get the staff job at Sesame Street though.

I wrote this a few days ago as a character study. It's probably just my latent misogny though.

Shoulders thrust back, hair extensions flicked extravagantly toone side, and a lipstick-rimmed glass filled, at a guess, with more gin than tonic, clutched in a manicured talon. Gail was forging a path through the throng with all the subtlety of an icebreaker.
We called her the Cautionary Tale, or CT for short. Not to her face; the woman was terrifying. God knows how old she was: A hemispherical belly protruding over too-tight jeans, a botox death-mask, and enormous boobs that still mustered a ‘f*ck you’ to gravity thanks to a cantilevered scaffold of awesome strength. They jiggled sinisterly as she pouted and lent over the table for a light.

It was an astonishing sight. And she always looked over your shoulders as she talked, never quite making eye contact, like a supervisor at Sainsbury’s who has to work the till for a few demeaning minutes.

‘Have you seen Dom?’ she wheezed, eyes sliding over the room.

‘Who?’

‘Dom Gully.’ She was pulling on her fag as if it was the fountain of youth. I hadn’t met the chap, but guessed he was running away.


Heh, I like it. 10 points for "cantilevered."
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