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Post by Jazzy Jeff on Jun 12, 2010 13:57:52 GMT
I KNEW you could be a writer Josh. I love the second one especially. Wonderfully visual, both of them...wow. Write more! Although actually I'm sure you've already written more. So share more with us.
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Post by husbandwifeheroin on Aug 13, 2010 16:28:15 GMT
Bobby davro sat alone, his bacon sarnie raised, lingering between his mouth and the crumble-sprinkled plate, his eyes glazed and unfocused. The bread was kingsmill 50/50, the delicious taste of white plus the goodness of brown? He didn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it. He watched as OAPs swarmed and aspel slurred auctioneering dribble to some poor and bemused bed wetters, who seemed to be searching like Katie Holmes on the eve of her wedding, for a way out. They were in Bristol this weekend Antiques fucking roadshow, what a con. A red sock blew past the window, moving slowly and elegantly in the light summer breeze, till it disappeared down a dark alley. Davro’s head dropped to stare fruitlessly at the cigarette ash-ridden floor and he dropped the sarnie, half eaten and dripping HP sauce, back onto the plate. The lights on the still erected Christmas tree flashed feebly, a Cadbury’s selection box lay half squashed on the floor, a flake and a crunchie discarded, unwanted and neglected, half open, beside it. The long forgotten box of fireworks stood in the corner; bobby had been meaning to take the cardboard box to londis. Aspel’s endless rambling continued from the poorly tuned television. Bobby picked up the remote disconsolately and flicked through the oasis of badly made daytime TV, past a place in the sun and Jeremy Kyle. Daddy day care on film4? Not his cup of tea, he preferred Eddie Murphy’s earlier work in stand up. The bill? Dean Gaffney was making a guest appearance as a cockney street sweeper. Some say he's a one dimensional actor. He left Gaffney to his bin man ways and went to the FUCKING fdfghjkKITCHEn. Nescafe? Davro disliked Nestle, but there was nothing else. He forgot to get the organic one from the co-op A bead of sweat rolled down his face. Shit. He'd left the heating on 24 hour again, he always forgot. Silly davro. He went to the fridge, it was a poor showing. He was out of milk again and a half-consumed cucumber and a twirl were the only other real products of merit. He slammed the door shut, angered by the lack of food. He looked at the front, analysing the layout of the fridge magnets. A magnet explaining the derivation of the name Robert One of those Simpsons magnets from Golden Nuggets everyone has. Observing the magnetised letters he let out a mischievous smirk, he quickly rearranged them and spelt out 'YOURE GAY'. Bobby was still prone to the odd spot of extreme immaturity. He made a mental note to pick up a Ginster's Cornish pasty at the BP garage later for his dinner. Or maybe a KFC variety bucket? He was very hungry after all. And Ashanti was coming round for her birthday bash later. Davro re-entered the empty room he had been silently sitting in, sinking comfortably into the ancient armchair, dust bursting each and everyway as he slumped onto it. He sat in silence listening quietly to the pursuit of a now supposedly drug dealing Gaffney. The pictures seemed blurred and out of focus, bobby had got a leaflet for laser eye treatment a week or so ago, he had had no problems before it arrived. But now he could barely see. Irony? He thought not. They had a conspiracy, a money-making scam. Just like Kingsmill, conning us into believing their lies of goodness and satisfying taste. Bobby had been getting into his Chinese cuisine recently; he believed the Chinese had a way with food. He liked the way they did chips. The room had grown darker after all of Bobby's wonderings of food and laser eye correction. Bobby's leopard skin coat lay tossed over the back of the sofa. It was his pride and joy. Bobby believed animal cruelty was only right as it 'showed them who's boss'. A pair of skinny jeans were dropped roughly next to the sofa, unfolded and creased. They were Gerard's, his flat mate, he was an 'odd one' in Davro's eyes, spent too much time in his room slitting. Lots of paper. His thoughts of Gerard gave him a thought, he texted him and told him to pick up that pasty on the way home. Sorted. Bobby reached out of his bizarre haze and focused back on the telly. Gaffney had been caught on a yacht, trying to escape. He was shouting 'they kept the dog but not me' and 'I’m a star, he's a mongrel!’ Tamzin Outhwaite took him away; the bill was becoming more of an ex-eastenders wasteland by the minute. With the show winding down tediously, davro skipped the channels once again. Another friends on e4? Fuck off thought davro. This is the one with unagi, seen it about 10 times. Bored, he keyed in some random numbers and received an illegal porn station. Scandinavian porn? Davro smiled unsettlingly and kicked Gerard's DCs out of the way as he 'relaxed' around 5 times which brought on some rather cringe-worthy scenes that would be classed as 'scenes of strong peril' on the back of a DVD. Sitting back satisfied, surrounded by a mammoth supply of used Kleenex, Davro sighed contentedly to himself. Turning to the window he looked out smiling. His smile disappeared. Gerard stood there looming, with a knowing grin, which told us he saw everything. Smiling coyly he rose up his hand and shook the pasty Bobby had text him for. Bobby sat with a look of shock and utter despair on his face. The complex thought rushing through his mind incorporated something along these lines: shit. Heaven knows he's miserable now. ~FIN~
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Post by sarah on Aug 13, 2010 18:08:49 GMT
ITS FUKIN DEEP MAN
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Post by husbandwifeheroin on Aug 13, 2010 18:15:25 GMT
like ur bum
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Post by sarah on Aug 13, 2010 18:17:24 GMT
yeh
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Post by Rhiflect on Aug 21, 2010 10:23:17 GMT
I felt the urge to write something last night. The second verse took some re-working, but it got there in the end.
Armadillo
I'm sick of artificial light, Working between binary and pixels, Even nature is darker than night, Unnatural orange is the new black crack crick in my back. Something needs to click and balling up won't snick it this time.
The panic of prospective pantless-ness, Exposure once again to the flat bed, Worrying about dithering: stress? The curves of you and in my bed lead dread in my hands, I'm sure i'll look back and laugh, But shores are inconsistent
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Natalie
Apparition
Rules are for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men.
Posts: 7
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Post by Natalie on Aug 24, 2010 22:41:58 GMT
This is just about someone who I've been writing to for a while. I doubt it makes sense, but please, let me know what you think.
I was born with a scream on my lips, And the sound never stopped, Endless, until I found you. For you, I have only words. Silent lines on a page, They reveal me as speech never could. Speech is embedded in flesh, It is the moist air from my lungs, It is in my throat, It is on my tongue, It is tainted by my humanity. My words to you are simpler, They have cleansed me, Calmed me, So now, I find I can stop shouting, And whisper.
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Post by Rhiflect on Aug 25, 2010 16:03:28 GMT
That's really beautiful, and definitely has truth in it. I really like it
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Post by husbandwifeheroin on Aug 25, 2010 21:18:01 GMT
Rhi your poem is great. Wouldn't be out of place in a publication.
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