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Written by Lynk in portal Long-Form Prose

floodingcaliforniassilverlash

If ever there was a real dream

this would be the one;

when Sebastian gone sincere,

guys screaming ‘In Circles’

(Sunny Day’s surge they always cover),

and figurines and expectations converged

in a Subcity living room

cardboard cross the floor so so much

on their ways in and a- about the place

where something always bout to emerge;

and Radio’s switched, definitively anthem-like

zoomed face sneaking embraces so sweet;

and ever since Sebastian dribbled thee opening

embarking moon soundmasking airwaves,

rising like scent of rain

and now distinctly reinforcing hearts;

twists in pranging shapes quiescent

like ignited lights – overlapping tingles,

lucid connections….

so cool. Like the general base for the tips

connecting our tongues/infinite

expositions

way in there, started the skids … in

[That which we are trying to change

into words; that which seams

immediate toothes

..as it had.. that hinting boomerang swoop;

that fantastic return in the smallest articulation,

smashed walls with silences

[damn you folks rock. wait. wait.

that which consumes us here...

in that vein..will just spray the barriers]

overfilled resonations that everyone

who already knew

but still could figure it out

Right?

Thus creatively stealing the….

but still wanting to, well, just check again.

twice. three times. four if necessary.

Look over your shoulder one more time.

check

check it again. and again and again...check check

again.

once more. look again. Look just one more time.

just look one more time.

just take one more look...

just take one more look before crossing

that old subliminal bridge.

And his finger hit

that switch. So, the bombs come

you will make it alive.

But bring Here, with a few gears left,

tightening star,

pull a tad further in, faster, stronger, crank it

harder and harder closer, toward that

inevitable splattered speakers

hitting the fan .....

to separate from the wonder ...

on the verge of unraveling ...

Enough is enough.

Mass produce the cures and

open the alien museums. Yea _ let us

tear down these walls the sound placed

the eruption seriously Universal

understanding; trust me.

Or we selling Your shit back..]

“Give us the body” ..freshet shhheds

of shredded flophouse heads 5 rows deep;

ducked away;

pwish pwish pwish foots in prints

moshpit stained russet sheets;

and indefinable vinyl hung behind Radio,

that crinkled these:

“Mellacious bums mainly” descriptions, lyrics—

“fluorescent under shirts”—“tale flash scripts,

takingblankpictures”—scribed Sebastian

sings—“Nnnnicked-white. Reekoshay bright

myfidgets’doubleinthespot _ Liiiiiiiiighiight!”…

just jaggedly sketched like flyers

pinned to SUs tackboard; still-carries kids

a-hold of backpack straps –‘Extended Knuckles

WITH Raaaadiooooh tonight @8!!...’—

miscellaneously dispersing dreams forever in,

and out, down dormitory halls, blooming ‘lo-fi sounds

unfurling through the parted-sea_ofrrririddling’

very few knew about; like the white canvas.

T-shirt screennames,

perfect absence photographed; flames

undecorated souls reeed. One dude yelled

Sebastian’s, “pure snatch YOur demo Too-day,

AhhDeeDahhssSS!”

between sets, an intermission.

Shallow jaw, eye-circles contracting glances

shifting warmbodies, painted alive inside

shrouded fuzz, and,

[in the land of a thousand dances]

all-together etched such smoky

mingling pockets, creases at the edges

of long-sleeve layers

a new museum of voices

ricochet in a reflection broken

to the crouched raves so similar

to swift graffiti sprays/painted, large ‘RADIO’’

the once empty vinyl-white poster.

our Sebastian, “whatever dude,

evrything you wears,” pours further,

“..disparages California, bro. But..”

moistens lips, “all you display is the sinking

when every significant band makes one

one song, Flooding California….”

pierces the veil.

These destined cool cool saints,

With the end of his cigarillio

oracles mulling brilliance,

glided whispers waning;

discovering the band was one thing.

Radio coming undone, burns a hole

in the flailing as beat and pummels

like cheat codes accessing,

awaiting the kryptonite to subside

its heavy coated soak…. and

Like a corroded spine... so lit!

yet so slows me down the walls coming

but below the white banner, head in arms

across knees; but in the static,

ripped feeds backing raining seconds,

“ya-- short evocable transmissions – And cascade”. .

Sebastian festooned.

Thwaps advent pwatt pwatt patt putt patt pwutt;

then he originates trendy

dissented brow furrowed, orbit yearning sheer

emo relentless, honing fiddles,

xhausted fissure riffs, frisson rifts;

then “Launch of agony” restlessly drips

multiple echoed chords dragged from

pasted skeeves shuffled and garage-raw

blended, extended, chiseled, pierced innate

as heads scream it silently.

But In a melodic rush, unrehearsed,

blends of little feedback on cymbals

and distortion spiraled thick, hypnotized …

Sebastian shoegaze

channeled in it right before our ears/throats/gnarly-harsh

cries turned inside out __shjung jhjung jhjung j-jung jung —

mmm _ which can’t be interpreted,

swamping senses you just can’t...

you just can’t believe in dire addled..

..----Mystique - as along opposite wall;

Floating, the gravitating quilts draped

around the perimeter;

and in looks, she, rises about like

this brand new flame rolling like

{‘Crack open the energy and the lids

and the flashing soul reach

to embrace fiddles all vein-shard rippled}

ripped into anthem-like vinyl

scratches snagged subcity snug perfections Yo.

So her quicksilver slivers, so much cooler….

so extravagant, as if subsiding the volume,

hold her. Her breath holds, there,

a little too expatiating bright momentum

like we crash/link-connect-ing_shards

ever endless in these glides honing,

approaching fades of the raging innocence

electrifying cardboard carpets.

All unpinched, smooth luxurious,

chills diluted untouchable in drips

upon fingertipped horizons; as they happen,

as they open underneath the surface,

convert her angles, and fret blinks,

glints, as this eyelash clings

ohhh thats too too gorgeous anymore

and too too bold; forms goofy

little scrambled intuitions instilled

in the actual impact, in reflecting squints,

and rounded looks and piercing and drums and

our dude … Sebastian singing to her

Don’t get between a girl

Being sung to

Mashed movements, warmbodies

whip gazes underneath my brim

eclipsing thee stor-E in as mighty as ever has been ...}

she begs eternally, too infinite. Reflected,

“which song is this!?” breaks the silence

To me; within our real fluttered blips

of bad connections, transparently rolling

silhouettes where I was before I..}

She started seeing thee holograms of the

_yeah, just glowing mirages mirroring;

to everybody listening and ahhhhh

screaming -ADEEDAhhS!} flashing

gnarly fingers and fast plucks oh such,

oh such that folks {just shedding

the infinite as spine pouring as

flows of thin lines exposed…

One untouchable whereabouts,

held breath –her held breath...

Slid a bra strap together with spaghetti strip

a butterfly print/summer dress; over her shoulder.

Fanning wiled slits deeper than horizons,

parted strawberry blonde swipes

all ancient gasps; eyelashes dazzle

.. soooo… futuristic. She goes, “OH!

This’s gonna be my irritation I bet!!”

as tiny blinks and exhales cleft,

as a sliver of Mizzle’s silver moment ripped

very loose, and his veins infamous,

wiped upon his fingertip.

{Speakers ruptured, explode instant,

the atmosphere swept with artifacts

phones recording this 

that will be leaving every trace of

it - experience} …even the silverlash;

erupt her atlantic eyes, and patience

like skidmarks in pavement, or what smile

her face meant when Sebastian

yelled across like silence, {“NO! It IS your song!

} dialing ‘Snniiiuuu’ --phoom!

collapsing backs, echoes of swift gooseflesh,

like a wish off soundless —she blink, {Yes?}

as the silverlash into the plastic

the piercing, the fistula he breath

through the weep hole to the other side

in strokes of one Flooding California

 

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Written by Lynk in portal Long-Form Prose
floodingcaliforniassilverlash
If ever there was a real dream
this would be the one;
when Sebastian gone sincere,
guys screaming ‘In Circles’
(Sunny Day’s surge they always cover),
and figurines and expectations converged
in a Subcity living room
cardboard cross the floor so so much
on their ways in and a- about the place
where something always bout to emerge;
and Radio’s switched, definitively anthem-like
zoomed face sneaking embraces so sweet;
and ever since Sebastian dribbled thee opening
embarking moon soundmasking airwaves,
rising like scent of rain
and now distinctly reinforcing hearts;
twists in pranging shapes quiescent
like ignited lights – overlapping tingles,
lucid connections….
so cool. Like the general base for the tips
connecting our tongues/infinite
expositions
way in there, started the skids … in


[That which we are trying to change
into words; that which seams
immediate toothes
..as it had.. that hinting boomerang swoop;
that fantastic return in the smallest articulation,
smashed walls with silences
[damn you folks rock. wait. wait.
that which consumes us here...
in that vein..will just spray the barriers]
overfilled resonations that everyone
who already knew
but still could figure it out
Right?

Thus creatively stealing the….
but still wanting to, well, just check again.
twice. three times. four if necessary.
Look over your shoulder one more time.
check
check it again. and again and again...check check
again.
once more. look again. Look just one more time.
just look one more time.
just take one more look...
just take one more look before crossing
that old subliminal bridge.

And his finger hit
that switch. So, the bombs come

you will make it alive.

But bring Here, with a few gears left,
tightening star,
pull a tad further in, faster, stronger, crank it
harder and harder closer, toward that
inevitable splattered speakers
hitting the fan .....
to separate from the wonder ...
on the verge of unraveling ...
Enough is enough.
Mass produce the cures and
open the alien museums. Yea _ let us
tear down these walls the sound placed
the eruption seriously Universal
understanding; trust me.
Or we selling Your shit back..]

“Give us the body” ..freshet shhheds
of shredded flophouse heads 5 rows deep;
ducked away;
pwish pwish pwish foots in prints
moshpit stained russet sheets;
and indefinable vinyl hung behind Radio,
that crinkled these:

“Mellacious bums mainly” descriptions, lyrics—
“fluorescent under shirts”—“tale flash scripts,
takingblankpictures”—scribed Sebastian
sings—“Nnnnicked-white. Reekoshay bright
myfidgets’doubleinthespot _ Liiiiiiiiighiight!”…
just jaggedly sketched like flyers
pinned to SUs tackboard; still-carries kids
a-hold of backpack straps –‘Extended Knuckles
WITH Raaaadiooooh tonight @8!!...’—
miscellaneously dispersing dreams forever in,
and out, down dormitory halls, blooming ‘lo-fi sounds
unfurling through the parted-sea_ofrrririddling’
very few knew about; like the white canvas.

T-shirt screennames,
perfect absence photographed; flames
undecorated souls reeed. One dude yelled
Sebastian’s, “pure snatch YOur demo Too-day,
AhhDeeDahhssSS!”
between sets, an intermission.

Shallow jaw, eye-circles contracting glances
shifting warmbodies, painted alive inside
shrouded fuzz, and,
[in the land of a thousand dances]

all-together etched such smoky
mingling pockets, creases at the edges
of long-sleeve layers
a new museum of voices
ricochet in a reflection broken
to the crouched raves so similar
to swift graffiti sprays/painted, large ‘RADIO’’
the once empty vinyl-white poster.

our Sebastian, “whatever dude,
evrything you wears,” pours further,
“..disparages California, bro. But..”
moistens lips, “all you display is the sinking
when every significant band makes one
one song, Flooding California….”
pierces the veil.

These destined cool cool saints,
With the end of his cigarillio
oracles mulling brilliance,
glided whispers waning;
discovering the band was one thing.
Radio coming undone, burns a hole
in the flailing as beat and pummels
like cheat codes accessing,
awaiting the kryptonite to subside
its heavy coated soak…. and

Like a corroded spine... so lit!
yet so slows me down the walls coming
but below the white banner, head in arms
across knees; but in the static,
ripped feeds backing raining seconds,
“ya-- short evocable transmissions – And cascade”. .

Sebastian festooned.
Thwaps advent pwatt pwatt patt putt patt pwutt;
then he originates trendy
dissented brow furrowed, orbit yearning sheer
emo relentless, honing fiddles,
xhausted fissure riffs, frisson rifts;
then “Launch of agony” restlessly drips
multiple echoed chords dragged from
pasted skeeves shuffled and garage-raw
blended, extended, chiseled, pierced innate
as heads scream it silently.

But In a melodic rush, unrehearsed,
blends of little feedback on cymbals
and distortion spiraled thick, hypnotized …
Sebastian shoegaze
channeled in it right before our ears/throats/gnarly-harsh
cries turned inside out __shjung jhjung jhjung j-jung jung —
mmm _ which can’t be interpreted,
swamping senses you just can’t...
you just can’t believe in dire addled..

..----Mystique - as along opposite wall;
Floating, the gravitating quilts draped
around the perimeter;
and in looks, she, rises about like
this brand new flame rolling like
{‘Crack open the energy and the lids
and the flashing soul reach
to embrace fiddles all vein-shard rippled}
ripped into anthem-like vinyl
scratches snagged subcity snug perfections Yo.

So her quicksilver slivers, so much cooler….
so extravagant, as if subsiding the volume,
hold her. Her breath holds, there,
a little too expatiating bright momentum
like we crash/link-connect-ing_shards
ever endless in these glides honing,
approaching fades of the raging innocence
electrifying cardboard carpets.

All unpinched, smooth luxurious,
chills diluted untouchable in drips
upon fingertipped horizons; as they happen,
as they open underneath the surface,
convert her angles, and fret blinks,
glints, as this eyelash clings
ohhh thats too too gorgeous anymore
and too too bold; forms goofy
little scrambled intuitions instilled
in the actual impact, in reflecting squints,
and rounded looks and piercing and drums and
our dude … Sebastian singing to her

Don’t get between a girl
Being sung to

Mashed movements, warmbodies
whip gazes underneath my brim
eclipsing thee stor-E in as mighty as ever has been ...}
she begs eternally, too infinite. Reflected,
“which song is this!?” breaks the silence
To me; within our real fluttered blips
of bad connections, transparently rolling
silhouettes where I was before I..}
She started seeing thee holograms of the
_yeah, just glowing mirages mirroring;
to everybody listening and ahhhhh
screaming -ADEEDAhhS!} flashing
gnarly fingers and fast plucks oh such,
oh such that folks {just shedding
the infinite as spine pouring as
flows of thin lines exposed…

One untouchable whereabouts,
held breath –her held breath...
Slid a bra strap together with spaghetti strip
a butterfly print/summer dress; over her shoulder.
Fanning wiled slits deeper than horizons,
parted strawberry blonde swipes
all ancient gasps; eyelashes dazzle
.. soooo… futuristic. She goes, “OH!
This’s gonna be my irritation I bet!!”
as tiny blinks and exhales cleft,
as a sliver of Mizzle’s silver moment ripped
very loose, and his veins infamous,
wiped upon his fingertip.

{Speakers ruptured, explode instant,
the atmosphere swept with artifacts
phones recording this 
that will be leaving every trace of
it - experience} …even the silverlash;
erupt her atlantic eyes, and patience
like skidmarks in pavement, or what smile
her face meant when Sebastian
yelled across like silence, {“NO! It IS your song!
} dialing ‘Snniiiuuu’ --phoom!
collapsing backs, echoes of swift gooseflesh,
like a wish off soundless —she blink, {Yes?}
as the silverlash into the plastic
the piercing, the fistula he breath
through the weep hole to the other side
in strokes of one Flooding California
 
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Day(s) After

Your march made headlines

Your protests destroyed reflections

You left a mess in the streets

Your voices were heard

And repeating in the media

They reflect in every piece of glass

Shards scratch these bristles

But where are You?

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Day(s) After
Your march made headlines
Your protests destroyed reflections
You left a mess in the streets
Your voices were heard
And repeating in the media
They reflect in every piece of glass
Shards scratch these bristles

But where are You?
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Written by Lynk in portal Flash Fiction

Ahss3

1-oh.

Sending Pakmwr Back in time. Before we reached/populated. To rewire shorts in . Told stories this way. The distance between Web's concave windows and Pakmers stun presence. . . .Murray reveals, "must have flasback reincarnated amnesias -sh_stop. No Transmit Web." Silence unravels for how long.

Call? Through Time Murray? Finally Pakmer clears%_ unscrambles appearances across Elliot's resolutions and the bright ignorance inside Web. Connect 100 ships RatKing Following orbits/coursed/set.. angles at the M-O-O-N. which Humored Pakmer, before he leapt, stated_said. Like Hope Pakmer told. 

To $+@&+○\/€&. He journal. Got it all partition. If you wanna touch the connection. Too much finger in the 

Translates to signal as texts across infinty and blackhole into Jumbled messages filtering tangled glimpses along wrist. Types Pakmer. Face shitleld burst. Shield Pakmer thrusts in illogical hosts.

"Call Pakmer." Murray ghosts like hollograms Web designs and clone. Who knows where in Time. Who knows . . Who knows . .

Gravity's Rainbow; and angels threw their weapons down. Cup. Too much finger and the cusp. Vding

#a#audiopool 

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Written by Lynk in portal Flash Fiction
Ahss3
1-oh.

Sending Pakmwr Back in time. Before we reached/populated. To rewire shorts in . Told stories this way. The distance between Web's concave windows and Pakmers stun presence. . . .Murray reveals, "must have flasback reincarnated amnesias -sh_stop. No Transmit Web." Silence unravels for how long.

Call? Through Time Murray? Finally Pakmer clears%_ unscrambles appearances across Elliot's resolutions and the bright ignorance inside Web. Connect 100 ships RatKing Following orbits/coursed/set.. angles at the M-O-O-N. which Humored Pakmer, before he leapt, stated_said. Like Hope Pakmer told. 

To $+@&+○\/€&. He journal. Got it all partition. If you wanna touch the connection. Too much finger in the 
Translates to signal as texts across infinty and blackhole into Jumbled messages filtering tangled glimpses along wrist. Types Pakmer. Face shitleld burst. Shield Pakmer thrusts in illogical hosts.
"Call Pakmer." Murray ghosts like hollograms Web designs and clone. Who knows where in Time. Who knows . . Who knows . .

Gravity's Rainbow; and angels threw their weapons down. Cup. Too much finger and the cusp. Vding

#a#audiopool 
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Written by Lynk in portal Sci-Fi

Ahold of Shoulder Straps pt2

_conflict

#manvsmoon 

I TELL YOU WHAT.. _while Murrays screaming falling trees...there's Elliot Lyngreen; only when hope is lost; hope is found...damn; ..No. no. no. Only when hope is found; hope is lost. good Lord help write Ohh about _ _ _ _ Yea Murray. Just like that. Murray Webster litters it one hand. Upon aphasia, filtering tangled glimpses contained metallic in them LED crosshairs. sniper peering wildlife…muted Elliot dots then dashes, fingers _ like it pearl jams carves stocking caps stun snag & scat in New Order disorder waves hooded sweatshirt; Yikes without filling the gaps, blanks, formatting the intangible ninjas, stung snuck sunk inside Web's ride; stunk w/_hope close to my own admiring of this great story; and u-turn down into their mmmurraculous touch. yea catch the glow. production. fear of the invisible beings ..,So ignore so ignoring the chaos, the pressure, the doubles dismal red-eye everywhere lingered inside the ride. a great big panic that; yea. That like that. they blast hypnotic. afterlife-like tech tonic torching futures; was..,,Murray Webster’s. So gripped. So cool. Getting a look....He's on our side of _...into Safar Mix. into then the real similar watching. like old undiscovered films as Speaks Pakmer intercepting tides reception, confuses further -with #Zykos......which mmm makes you realize your Myspace are odd tapes. cassettes. you are film. laser school notebooks are you. you vociferous bright goon. already you're the image. you are shredded awesome before they advent. so ho -oh unravel in miscellaneous scraps amongst Murray's/ trashed fwith fast food and fast fingers flying #Moviehome whwith memorize your eyes mixed more over myyeears. impeccable to shuffle and gripped wheel all in an amazing rut steering at that moon, always angles at the moon….I swear….and the thing would go straight. always right.? fucking Murray. busting lone arguments too wicked to escape; the dogged sense of being and of feeling misunderstood..as.Elliots clicking it all into some sense so, so Murray, a Taurus of reasoning [SO WHAT that be the catch. the shadow of electricity..?! eh. Imaginations meets realities. You wanna Touch the blue creativity. the 12,oooVolts. You transformer. crawl the single phase secondary to the marble dark side of the blessed introduction; and once again; surge into residences...hey ?] Reads Pakmer. here's a machete. u remember the way out. #fantastic:_production. poisonous blue shoes walk the moon -bam^click/stocks/+clip_clocks.rt #turntheradiodown and splice it in the time line. bullcrap. Returns Pakmer as simultaneous fiber ferrules link switches converted flashbacks and reincarnate a language but déjà Vu via an Amen that overfilled the bs ..cuz winter! is killing me -this year! call me Tokyo. I'm coming Home!!! Call me. the bells are sinking now. connect and attach if/then and here's hopes entrance] as roars Murray Webster, sincerely, "what!? I told you!! ....what if i am allergic to that inextricable knot? oh boy Pakmer said to put to put it -that it he's allergic to that there hope..." Transferred from the damn tightening as Web freezes breaths, "Link? yes!? type it up! Yes!" [don't wait for your wings to awake. follow the separate parallel phases to reach/ground. Jump ropes? I would. something about streams. and I dont want to be Dali. Scott. Scott free. Sends Pakmwr. don't make the shit up. they made it for me. ahead. write it down. get it... fold it up and leave it in my pocket. follow the brick road. aaaaand ahhhh. Here comes the code, Murray unloads, "Mars Pakmer.". . . . <-Pynchon's exit 

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Written by Lynk in portal Sci-Fi
Ahold of Shoulder Straps pt2
_conflict

#manvsmoon 


I TELL YOU WHAT.. _while Murrays screaming falling trees...there's Elliot Lyngreen; only when hope is lost; hope is found...damn; ..No. no. no. Only when hope is found; hope is lost. good Lord help write Ohh about _ _ _ _ Yea Murray. Just like that. Murray Webster litters it one hand. Upon aphasia, filtering tangled glimpses contained metallic in them LED crosshairs. sniper peering wildlife…muted Elliot dots then dashes, fingers _ like it pearl jams carves stocking caps stun snag & scat in New Order disorder waves hooded sweatshirt; Yikes without filling the gaps, blanks, formatting the intangible ninjas, stung snuck sunk inside Web's ride; stunk w/_hope close to my own admiring of this great story; and u-turn down into their mmmurraculous touch. yea catch the glow. production. fear of the invisible beings ..,So ignore so ignoring the chaos, the pressure, the doubles dismal red-eye everywhere lingered inside the ride. a great big panic that; yea. That like that. they blast hypnotic. afterlife-like tech tonic torching futures; was..,,Murray Webster’s. So gripped. So cool. Getting a look....He's on our side of _...into Safar Mix. into then the real similar watching. like old undiscovered films as Speaks Pakmer intercepting tides reception, confuses further -with #Zykos......which mmm makes you realize your Myspace are odd tapes. cassettes. you are film. laser school notebooks are you. you vociferous bright goon. already you're the image. you are shredded awesome before they advent. so ho -oh unravel in miscellaneous scraps amongst Murray's/ trashed fwith fast food and fast fingers flying #Moviehome whwith memorize your eyes mixed more over myyeears. impeccable to shuffle and gripped wheel all in an amazing rut steering at that moon, always angles at the moon….I swear….and the thing would go straight. always right.? fucking Murray. busting lone arguments too wicked to escape; the dogged sense of being and of feeling misunderstood..as.Elliots clicking it all into some sense so, so Murray, a Taurus of reasoning [SO WHAT that be the catch. the shadow of electricity..?! eh. Imaginations meets realities. You wanna Touch the blue creativity. the 12,oooVolts. You transformer. crawl the single phase secondary to the marble dark side of the blessed introduction; and once again; surge into residences...hey ?] Reads Pakmer. here's a machete. u remember the way out. #fantastic:_production. poisonous blue shoes walk the moon -bam^click/stocks/+clip_clocks.rt #turntheradiodown and splice it in the time line. bullcrap. Returns Pakmer as simultaneous fiber ferrules link switches converted flashbacks and reincarnate a language but déjà Vu via an Amen that overfilled the bs ..cuz winter! is killing me -this year! call me Tokyo. I'm coming Home!!! Call me. the bells are sinking now. connect and attach if/then and here's hopes entrance] as roars Murray Webster, sincerely, "what!? I told you!! ....what if i am allergic to that inextricable knot? oh boy Pakmer said to put to put it -that it he's allergic to that there hope..." Transferred from the damn tightening as Web freezes breaths, "Link? yes!? type it up! Yes!" [don't wait for your wings to awake. follow the separate parallel phases to reach/ground. Jump ropes? I would. something about streams. and I dont want to be Dali. Scott. Scott free. Sends Pakmwr. don't make the shit up. they made it for me. ahead. write it down. get it... fold it up and leave it in my pocket. follow the brick road. aaaaand ahhhh. Here comes the code, Murray unloads, "Mars Pakmer.". . . . <-Pynchon's exit 
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Written by Lynk in portal Micropoetry

The Tarantino Challenge

Start a new movie

@40:00 minutes left

It works

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Written by Lynk in portal Micropoetry
The Tarantino Challenge
Start a new movie
@40:00 minutes left
It works
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Written by Lynk

Untitled

Movies or novels, stories become reality for people

Why cant i take something that makes me feel better

Whats with writing these days, do u think they are going to find your books - no, i think they are going to look for them

I wanted to be a good person but my body wouldnt let me

Would you ask a blind person to see

Would you ask a cerebral palsic

To speak

At a rally

To lead?

I wanted to be a good person

But you led me to ask

If my body was in my head

It was the hate

That swarmed the plagues

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Written by Lynk
Untitled
Movies or novels, stories become reality for people

Why cant i take something that makes me feel better

Whats with writing these days, do u think they are going to find your books - no, i think they are going to look for them

I wanted to be a good person but my body wouldnt let me
Would you ask a blind person to see
Would you ask a cerebral palsic
To speak
At a rally
To lead?

I wanted to be a good person
But you led me to ask
If my body was in my head

It was the hate
That swarmed the plagues
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Dog Whistles

Morning breath mouths into contagious blankets,

pasty inner-lining of cheeks,

this sickness rolls over into the smell of spit

hyper quivering egress you can admit

reflects these reticent depths

I will never be able to go let alone dream

I will never hear you hearing me

I will never be able to let go (of those)

Of the fantasy I had this morning.

One exists not in the bed there

-I maybe do as I lay crooked, sides bend,

foam protrudes into my limbs

and intrudes from the same place

-or here; yet always like- in

swallows of what no one will see-

where no one wants to see-

the moiling strains

that’s the poison feels

as though I am being poisoned

somehow my own body

yet burns it in, the spit

and I have been awake a minute,

swallowing it.

From fetal position, my tirey body opens, from the suffering kill of the hornet sprayed.

And this pudgy kid named Adam

who smelled like cologne and (green) fyre, overlooked

as like the fat kid from Goonies

except with overlapping freckles and spikey hair

that mostly wanted to lightly pat over palms

in his childish attempts for girls hands

so picked on because Adam had no delusions

either --he could fully over-see the one

I am speaking of..

He's the only one I wanted to follow along.

It’s our freshman year

Taking Back Sunday is still so brand new

to me anyways

pulls up and beeps outside my window,

my ride is here

I wish I was the barking doberman or

the frequency it whistles

or even I couldn't hear

Like I’m much much older now

and the alarm wakes me for work

-that reverie is the same.

But, while the other one lay across

my gut fingers fiddled elbow heights

slightest splattered slothful loathes

beneath myself in the slides in thin orange

sunglints in curtains and the unmade sheets

of enormous stains from the ceiling hole

lathe shoved into the plaster

gaped hole into my consciousness

cracked lines stretched from the edges

water stained, jagged hole

plastic duct-taped around the window

shattered sky to the driveway

my mother’s home, still.

Adam’s car every morning and

crinkled plastic, orange blight blinding

That one neighbor’s Doberman howling

repeatedly, deafening, shrilling at nothing.

‘Can I just put ma goddamn shirt on here?.

Why is it such A big deal?’

Real multiple flexes chilled,

ran good breaths all over myself

to this, moaning, turning, back inside

when the shirt bit movements

and made it pressed to a point

that would trigger a reflex

closed my eyes 10,000 times

and the shirt bent over my head

subsided enough to go down

past foaming entities tickling the uvula

air of another sort, gulps, feathers, wafts

a tremendous compression of guts,

a tremendous awful curl of thoughts

of the depressions, or disgust, the blankless

stares into the street through the alley and plastic;

still tender, shriveled more and more

in movements slipped, snuck a poor pair of pants

but not gaggin

the stretches

the toes

into socks

carefully held tight at my belly for meals, then

shingles inside out

turn up the throat, but to not let them go..

I stuffed everywhere, the day with these

little excited bubbles beating me

to the alarm before I could make it, the day. . . .

I was never told anyone

possessed the possibility perhaps to predict the future.

Yet I wrote like I could never stop it

unbearably terrible. And yet like it was a secret

because, luckily, and never walked in on or found out

and ruined for even right here, right now.

There were the words, the thoughts, the complaints,

the regrets, the dog whistles, the shrieking shouts

of shriveling cells getting ready for

what I am not and what IS not..

Almost

I almost wish I could not hear them

the poet still pressing me on

like Adam’s folk’s Celebrity, the dog, radio, the songs

the one that went

_i’mgonnagitchoo/ifittakesmeallnightlong

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Dog Whistles
Morning breath mouths into contagious blankets,
pasty inner-lining of cheeks,
this sickness rolls over into the smell of spit
hyper quivering egress you can admit
reflects these reticent depths
I will never be able to go let alone dream
I will never hear you hearing me
I will never be able to let go (of those)
Of the fantasy I had this morning.

One exists not in the bed there
-I maybe do as I lay crooked, sides bend,
foam protrudes into my limbs
and intrudes from the same place
-or here; yet always like- in
swallows of what no one will see-
where no one wants to see-
the moiling strains
that’s the poison feels
as though I am being poisoned
somehow my own body
yet burns it in, the spit
and I have been awake a minute,
swallowing it.

From fetal position, my tirey body opens, from the suffering kill of the hornet sprayed.

And this pudgy kid named Adam
who smelled like cologne and (green) fyre, overlooked
as like the fat kid from Goonies
except with overlapping freckles and spikey hair
that mostly wanted to lightly pat over palms
in his childish attempts for girls hands
so picked on because Adam had no delusions
either --he could fully over-see the one
I am speaking of..

He's the only one I wanted to follow along.

It’s our freshman year
Taking Back Sunday is still so brand new
to me anyways
pulls up and beeps outside my window,
my ride is here
I wish I was the barking doberman or
the frequency it whistles
or even I couldn't hear
Like I’m much much older now
and the alarm wakes me for work
-that reverie is the same.

But, while the other one lay across
my gut fingers fiddled elbow heights
slightest splattered slothful loathes
beneath myself in the slides in thin orange
sunglints in curtains and the unmade sheets
of enormous stains from the ceiling hole
lathe shoved into the plaster
gaped hole into my consciousness
cracked lines stretched from the edges
water stained, jagged hole
plastic duct-taped around the window
shattered sky to the driveway
my mother’s home, still.
Adam’s car every morning and
crinkled plastic, orange blight blinding
That one neighbor’s Doberman howling
repeatedly, deafening, shrilling at nothing.

‘Can I just put ma goddamn shirt on here?.
Why is it such A big deal?’
Real multiple flexes chilled,
ran good breaths all over myself
to this, moaning, turning, back inside
when the shirt bit movements
and made it pressed to a point
that would trigger a reflex
closed my eyes 10,000 times
and the shirt bent over my head
subsided enough to go down
past foaming entities tickling the uvula
air of another sort, gulps, feathers, wafts
a tremendous compression of guts,
a tremendous awful curl of thoughts
of the depressions, or disgust, the blankless
stares into the street through the alley and plastic;
still tender, shriveled more and more
in movements slipped, snuck a poor pair of pants
but not gaggin
the stretches
the toes
into socks
carefully held tight at my belly for meals, then
shingles inside out
turn up the throat, but to not let them go..
I stuffed everywhere, the day with these
little excited bubbles beating me
to the alarm before I could make it, the day. . . .

I was never told anyone
possessed the possibility perhaps to predict the future.
Yet I wrote like I could never stop it
unbearably terrible. And yet like it was a secret
because, luckily, and never walked in on or found out
and ruined for even right here, right now.
There were the words, the thoughts, the complaints,
the regrets, the dog whistles, the shrieking shouts
of shriveling cells getting ready for
what I am not and what IS not..

Almost
I almost wish I could not hear them
the poet still pressing me on
like Adam’s folk’s Celebrity, the dog, radio, the songs
the one that went
_i’mgonnagitchoo/ifittakesmeallnightlong


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Write drunk. Post sober.
Written by Lynk in portal Stream of Consciousness

Wanna hear some Zeppelin?

This one story home with a fire blazed in the backyard, a bonfire pile of flames just flickering to thee country night from way at the end of the road, outlook, and we could smell in the tiny shivering wait coasting over wafers piled ageless and indeterminate from each anymore oh the road to knock knock on the front door after miles in the Fairlane went straight for an hour turned and went straight for one half of an hour until we could see the lighthouse by bonfired flames in the warmest hole of the precious blizzard pouring from the ether; and inside from peered the windowlight, yelled a being “who is it?” a voice behind the beige linen the curtain nylon lamp layered world inside that Carlos responded, “let us in you dumb son of a bitch if is fucking cold out here!” he half flinched, winced and I almost puked with anticipation of the gritty houselight that mingled seconds with the warmth and the transition from our scene into theirs the older crowd of 30 year olds anyway that habitated the little bubble clear globe’s home in the sprinkle, “hey mono, grab some beers, get in here and get grab some beers, Sarah, little primo,” since they hardly used Mexican or Spanish but still the intricacies of our family and the tense realm fell into the quiet penchant accents that passed in the way they all called Carlos Carloz’ but so naturally as if the ywere saying mono or hombre, miho; yet used in such affection in the way a husband might say dear to his wife it was unnoticed, just blended into the warm communication and general magnificence of salutation as the roll of the ‘z’ went extremely slight and plural from the throats of their noses it made the whole group together invincible (and if they were gathered all night here last night Carlos would be still be alive I guarantee it); yet it is the way they had no idea, no concern that I was just outstanding and fascinated by these little imperfrections that separated a strange jealousy in me to be Mexican, which only evaporated when they addressed myself in similar tones and mannerisms exactly the same, inviting undertones of extended primo’s and strong handshakes that jerked me into firm eyes congenially amorous in every sort of family way but bonded into hugs with that handshake gripped between into depths as if true nature rather than science of relation made our blood one in the same.

Without attention another chorus of mumbles became clear and these lyrics took on a deeper beauty as the song ‘ohpilotofthestormwholeavesnotrace-likethoughtsinsideadream’ filtered so discernible in that least bit of awareness as Nine, sweatered and grinned then greased Carlos too and the sharp aftershave held as he gripped a brown beer bottle from his brown hand off the fake wooden speaker box that stood to his waist, knuckled over a sniff and this telemarketing grin focused real concerned with those black Indian balls of eyes caste as far as they would go into Carlos then Sarah, and finally myself, “how is it getting out there?”—“Nine?” Carlos disgusted, “there’s a two foot level of snow for miles in every direction out there, what do you think? I mean, have you been outside in the past hour heh?” He gaffed at the house as the soft bubble rained flakes, specks and the knickknacks of America warmed them eternally with looks from details of history with famous pictures of their black obsidian eyes, the canals, solid pupils looking upon the natives “ewwwwbabeh-Ibeenblind(Ibeenblind)’ and then Jose holding throttled corners out the kitchen like he only can, stole the show by standing in the center amidst the party circle and cutting people off to get his thoughts in. A taller Mexican, boyishly cute with high puffed cheeks and a fine black goatee trimmed ever so slick, all shoulders in a collared shirt, Jose shares that same grin Nine has, Carlos gets, even the soft-natured Rudy will slice, the spics the family of mine there, the happy without eyes grin, joined to all these round obsidian eyes that can remain ever so perfect when that grin comes on like the way Carlos could wriggle in his face and not be tripping anymore.

Mental note collages in the back of my head made these moments back here -phoom! infinite in life that meant nothing when it mattered, “where you guys come from,” Jose demanded details, “…home TJ. Where do you think we came from?”—“Yeah, but which way did you take, Metamora? Britton? Which way did you guys come up from?” Jose got real serious, lost the grin and became intense like Carlos who’s smaller than him was about to get his ass whipped had he make one more smart-ass comment to anyone. As Carlos explained half intimidated and half respectfully, Johnny ambled over from out of the circle around Jose and his big appealing eyeballs spotted Carlos grand secretively, displayed with high brows ‘follow me kid after your done,’ then retracted his arms as the one held a bottle normally but both the feminine fairy flanges bent up like a dog perched on its hindlegs; they always tapped and nudged to exaggerate situations to see if people who had not reacted were paying him any attention and they nudged Carlos talking with TJ, “look Tone, (since his full name was Tony Joe, though Jose was the most effusive as it was the name of our grandfather, whom we had never met), I think you need to understand. It don’t matter which way you head home. Shit’s everywhere. Listen, you’re just a little too intense right now talk to me from a distance, alright.” Johnny nudged Carlos again who jabbed him back at the shoulder.

Before we even go deeper in the bubble than anyone has ever been or thought possible, here these two squared up at their feet unconsciously feeling the endless fever the snow’s endless blanket weighed upon the mutual feeling within them; we neglected and pondered the whole quandary whereas Johnny, who’s taller then Carlos and mostly everyone there was, even the women and the few white guys, all except for Nine, but Johnny, scrawny, drug thin and threat, arose, “boy, I’ll knock ya into next week Tuesday,” real country-like, hick, with a mesh hat of bold swoosh numbers—91—slanted and swoomed, –“just don’t touch me John. I aint playing. I am right here. why are you guys so insistent on being right in my face.”—“c’mon, c’mon man,” and Johnny tapped him again with a fragile backslide of his hand that tried to ease the tension and exchanged places with Carlos at the opening to the steps that lead into the lower level, a weakness magically exposed from him, Johnny; yet one reason to follow him united the radio rolled over ‘thereyoustood-that’llteachya’ sort of interrupted as Carlos leaned at the notion Johnny hinted towards and he went to Johnny invincibly, “hold on let me hear this song then we will be down”—“what? C’mon…!” Johnny tangled with 80s slams too that reflected off Carlos, “I’m not kidding, Johnny, hang on I like this song”—“alright you can stay up here but I am heading down hon. Want to come Elliot,” Sarah persuaded and I just retorted, “sounds good”—“you want to get on a threesome with the two whiteys, there? A scrawny farmboy and..well shit they both are gonna have thin peckers. That what you want?”—“oh yeah, you know I want it.” And Carlos mumbled some derogatory comment “finger cuffs eh?” about taking it up both ends at once and her ass bumped under his hip with the family members all dashed off to the fire and depleted, Rudy too so Carlos danced along behind Johnny downstairs as he rolled his eyes and Carlos sang exactly along, “we were high before the night started—kickin innnn”.

“C,mon c’mon, how much you got? All of it?”—“Sure did, but maybe I shouldna given it to you considering the way you acting tonight, Carlos”—“aw don’t be like that John,” then Jonny nudged me so I flinched some gesture to not encourage myself to have to speak as the preoccupation of uneasy pain made me look foolish and shy, turned toward his hands, “just messin with you guys. You know I’s looking out for you kids. Check this.” He set his beer bottle aside after a long wobbly spill gulped the rest into his real wide blinks, “gdaaaah” he gassed then onto the folding card table down there where the plastic blue straw and ceramic plate situated alongside the bottle he unclearly powdered entrails in the slick reflective coat, slipped one giant white wad of the corner of a bag then another and he went through about 5 pockets of them and finally goes, “there’s yours, I think,” which was minuscule yet tremendous to the eyes that would consume the coke. Johnny pushed a dead butt out of the ashtray to hit it, but when the arm fiddled to bump some one’s shoulder he held the fist shaking, the black ashed, lips lifted, twirled and went, “where did my smoke go now?” and he snorted a wrist across his nose with La Bamba blasted through the basement ceiling, “I am back upstairs now kids have fun,” gone. Carlos went down to the table with the plate thrilled by the size of the thing he left on top of the bag, “holy crap,” he went, “he never took money off us.”—“let’s blow it all up our noses,” I exalted—“just put some down on the plate and crush up three lines, you know, enough to get started,” Sarah guided herself into a seat enxt to Carlos—“yeah, but that would take forever, we should just blow it all right now. I like how you think Elliot,” and Carlos upturned that eyeless grin, leaned in at me and stole my thoughts, “why, it would be nice if we all had money to get our own bags”—“well I want some now, but I want some later too and we only have enough for one bag,” Sarah cleared the tension see we were struggling living together at the moment in the apartment, and I never seemed to have as much money as they had I guess I spent it all on food, eating like four meals a day that provided no energy or weight. Just then, someone came back down stairs; so Carlos scrambled to chuckles as he hid the little powdery corner of plastic up into his armpit. That person was Johnny who fumbled back but would not speak until he was close enough to nudge Sarah and the pressure of being stuck there swallowed me underneath the snow in that bubble; compressed thoughts to just go poop the anxious saliva swelling up in my throat listened as Johnny went, “that coke in front of you aint chors til I see some cash by the way,”—“oh don’t be ridiculous,” Carlos nudged Johnny mockingly then continued to dazzle time in his dark eyes upon the coke baggy; then from out of his armpit the concealed gem revisited our sights too. Thoughts pained more sleeplessness, the pleasure, the good numbing throat jubilation turned away and squeezed ever so bad so I wanted to leave the room just to flex out some of the panic tightened; just to loosen the knot; then the music loudened again as someone else came down, some girl who called for Johnny and he swiped the money from Sarah after she counted it, then took off to marvel in the embers I assumed.

#writedrunk_postsober @A

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Write drunk. Post sober.
Written by Lynk in portal Stream of Consciousness
Wanna hear some Zeppelin?
This one story home with a fire blazed in the backyard, a bonfire pile of flames just flickering to thee country night from way at the end of the road, outlook, and we could smell in the tiny shivering wait coasting over wafers piled ageless and indeterminate from each anymore oh the road to knock knock on the front door after miles in the Fairlane went straight for an hour turned and went straight for one half of an hour until we could see the lighthouse by bonfired flames in the warmest hole of the precious blizzard pouring from the ether; and inside from peered the windowlight, yelled a being “who is it?” a voice behind the beige linen the curtain nylon lamp layered world inside that Carlos responded, “let us in you dumb son of a bitch if is fucking cold out here!” he half flinched, winced and I almost puked with anticipation of the gritty houselight that mingled seconds with the warmth and the transition from our scene into theirs the older crowd of 30 year olds anyway that habitated the little bubble clear globe’s home in the sprinkle, “hey mono, grab some beers, get in here and get grab some beers, Sarah, little primo,” since they hardly used Mexican or Spanish but still the intricacies of our family and the tense realm fell into the quiet penchant accents that passed in the way they all called Carlos Carloz’ but so naturally as if the ywere saying mono or hombre, miho; yet used in such affection in the way a husband might say dear to his wife it was unnoticed, just blended into the warm communication and general magnificence of salutation as the roll of the ‘z’ went extremely slight and plural from the throats of their noses it made the whole group together invincible (and if they were gathered all night here last night Carlos would be still be alive I guarantee it); yet it is the way they had no idea, no concern that I was just outstanding and fascinated by these little imperfrections that separated a strange jealousy in me to be Mexican, which only evaporated when they addressed myself in similar tones and mannerisms exactly the same, inviting undertones of extended primo’s and strong handshakes that jerked me into firm eyes congenially amorous in every sort of family way but bonded into hugs with that handshake gripped between into depths as if true nature rather than science of relation made our blood one in the same.
Without attention another chorus of mumbles became clear and these lyrics took on a deeper beauty as the song ‘ohpilotofthestormwholeavesnotrace-likethoughtsinsideadream’ filtered so discernible in that least bit of awareness as Nine, sweatered and grinned then greased Carlos too and the sharp aftershave held as he gripped a brown beer bottle from his brown hand off the fake wooden speaker box that stood to his waist, knuckled over a sniff and this telemarketing grin focused real concerned with those black Indian balls of eyes caste as far as they would go into Carlos then Sarah, and finally myself, “how is it getting out there?”—“Nine?” Carlos disgusted, “there’s a two foot level of snow for miles in every direction out there, what do you think? I mean, have you been outside in the past hour heh?” He gaffed at the house as the soft bubble rained flakes, specks and the knickknacks of America warmed them eternally with looks from details of history with famous pictures of their black obsidian eyes, the canals, solid pupils looking upon the natives “ewwwwbabeh-Ibeenblind(Ibeenblind)’ and then Jose holding throttled corners out the kitchen like he only can, stole the show by standing in the center amidst the party circle and cutting people off to get his thoughts in. A taller Mexican, boyishly cute with high puffed cheeks and a fine black goatee trimmed ever so slick, all shoulders in a collared shirt, Jose shares that same grin Nine has, Carlos gets, even the soft-natured Rudy will slice, the spics the family of mine there, the happy without eyes grin, joined to all these round obsidian eyes that can remain ever so perfect when that grin comes on like the way Carlos could wriggle in his face and not be tripping anymore.
Mental note collages in the back of my head made these moments back here -phoom! infinite in life that meant nothing when it mattered, “where you guys come from,” Jose demanded details, “…home TJ. Where do you think we came from?”—“Yeah, but which way did you take, Metamora? Britton? Which way did you guys come up from?” Jose got real serious, lost the grin and became intense like Carlos who’s smaller than him was about to get his ass whipped had he make one more smart-ass comment to anyone. As Carlos explained half intimidated and half respectfully, Johnny ambled over from out of the circle around Jose and his big appealing eyeballs spotted Carlos grand secretively, displayed with high brows ‘follow me kid after your done,’ then retracted his arms as the one held a bottle normally but both the feminine fairy flanges bent up like a dog perched on its hindlegs; they always tapped and nudged to exaggerate situations to see if people who had not reacted were paying him any attention and they nudged Carlos talking with TJ, “look Tone, (since his full name was Tony Joe, though Jose was the most effusive as it was the name of our grandfather, whom we had never met), I think you need to understand. It don’t matter which way you head home. Shit’s everywhere. Listen, you’re just a little too intense right now talk to me from a distance, alright.” Johnny nudged Carlos again who jabbed him back at the shoulder.

Before we even go deeper in the bubble than anyone has ever been or thought possible, here these two squared up at their feet unconsciously feeling the endless fever the snow’s endless blanket weighed upon the mutual feeling within them; we neglected and pondered the whole quandary whereas Johnny, who’s taller then Carlos and mostly everyone there was, even the women and the few white guys, all except for Nine, but Johnny, scrawny, drug thin and threat, arose, “boy, I’ll knock ya into next week Tuesday,” real country-like, hick, with a mesh hat of bold swoosh numbers—91—slanted and swoomed, –“just don’t touch me John. I aint playing. I am right here. why are you guys so insistent on being right in my face.”—“c’mon, c’mon man,” and Johnny tapped him again with a fragile backslide of his hand that tried to ease the tension and exchanged places with Carlos at the opening to the steps that lead into the lower level, a weakness magically exposed from him, Johnny; yet one reason to follow him united the radio rolled over ‘thereyoustood-that’llteachya’ sort of interrupted as Carlos leaned at the notion Johnny hinted towards and he went to Johnny invincibly, “hold on let me hear this song then we will be down”—“what? C’mon…!” Johnny tangled with 80s slams too that reflected off Carlos, “I’m not kidding, Johnny, hang on I like this song”—“alright you can stay up here but I am heading down hon. Want to come Elliot,” Sarah persuaded and I just retorted, “sounds good”—“you want to get on a threesome with the two whiteys, there? A scrawny farmboy and..well shit they both are gonna have thin peckers. That what you want?”—“oh yeah, you know I want it.” And Carlos mumbled some derogatory comment “finger cuffs eh?” about taking it up both ends at once and her ass bumped under his hip with the family members all dashed off to the fire and depleted, Rudy too so Carlos danced along behind Johnny downstairs as he rolled his eyes and Carlos sang exactly along, “we were high before the night started—kickin innnn”.
“C,mon c’mon, how much you got? All of it?”—“Sure did, but maybe I shouldna given it to you considering the way you acting tonight, Carlos”—“aw don’t be like that John,” then Jonny nudged me so I flinched some gesture to not encourage myself to have to speak as the preoccupation of uneasy pain made me look foolish and shy, turned toward his hands, “just messin with you guys. You know I’s looking out for you kids. Check this.” He set his beer bottle aside after a long wobbly spill gulped the rest into his real wide blinks, “gdaaaah” he gassed then onto the folding card table down there where the plastic blue straw and ceramic plate situated alongside the bottle he unclearly powdered entrails in the slick reflective coat, slipped one giant white wad of the corner of a bag then another and he went through about 5 pockets of them and finally goes, “there’s yours, I think,” which was minuscule yet tremendous to the eyes that would consume the coke. Johnny pushed a dead butt out of the ashtray to hit it, but when the arm fiddled to bump some one’s shoulder he held the fist shaking, the black ashed, lips lifted, twirled and went, “where did my smoke go now?” and he snorted a wrist across his nose with La Bamba blasted through the basement ceiling, “I am back upstairs now kids have fun,” gone. Carlos went down to the table with the plate thrilled by the size of the thing he left on top of the bag, “holy crap,” he went, “he never took money off us.”—“let’s blow it all up our noses,” I exalted—“just put some down on the plate and crush up three lines, you know, enough to get started,” Sarah guided herself into a seat enxt to Carlos—“yeah, but that would take forever, we should just blow it all right now. I like how you think Elliot,” and Carlos upturned that eyeless grin, leaned in at me and stole my thoughts, “why, it would be nice if we all had money to get our own bags”—“well I want some now, but I want some later too and we only have enough for one bag,” Sarah cleared the tension see we were struggling living together at the moment in the apartment, and I never seemed to have as much money as they had I guess I spent it all on food, eating like four meals a day that provided no energy or weight. Just then, someone came back down stairs; so Carlos scrambled to chuckles as he hid the little powdery corner of plastic up into his armpit. That person was Johnny who fumbled back but would not speak until he was close enough to nudge Sarah and the pressure of being stuck there swallowed me underneath the snow in that bubble; compressed thoughts to just go poop the anxious saliva swelling up in my throat listened as Johnny went, “that coke in front of you aint chors til I see some cash by the way,”—“oh don’t be ridiculous,” Carlos nudged Johnny mockingly then continued to dazzle time in his dark eyes upon the coke baggy; then from out of his armpit the concealed gem revisited our sights too. Thoughts pained more sleeplessness, the pleasure, the good numbing throat jubilation turned away and squeezed ever so bad so I wanted to leave the room just to flex out some of the panic tightened; just to loosen the knot; then the music loudened again as someone else came down, some girl who called for Johnny and he swiped the money from Sarah after she counted it, then took off to marvel in the embers I assumed.

#writedrunk_postsober @A

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Write the first several paragraphs of a sci-fi novel.
Written by Lynk in portal Sci-Fi

Ahold of the Shoulder Straps

--Instantly tunnel a telescopic view –shocks! Static Pakmer. Scourge arrangements rearrange power surges keeping alight the blurring. View aligns, again ... Secret planet chambers before him, bending. Temperate fuse blows. A force that detracts swarms. Magnetized temperaments. Electrostrung, magnetic chagrins, dark ignorance separately inundated.

Chosen Pakmer.

An ancient protrusion, pustule -glows in the mushing; visions of civilizations, Atlantis; tunnel a glimpse, immense, triangulates Pakmer’s perfect view.. snuck//stream-sequence _shallow-charge-across, cloaks escalating sound [whisk between] pulses, crisp thrusts.… A lifter on one hip, hydraulic clicks. (1) mile below surface. Circuitry snaps, static rips.. Heliox connection breaks..

Mars telescopes unbelievably into fluttering view.

Curious Pakmer turns (knots throat) with both hands... glowing cog in a hub and spoke configuration. Surrounding hyper-explodes ... Naturally rotating.. . .

Frisson rifts lifts--fires phoom! shhhhhhhhizz whip, c-cuts him to particles, instincts, turns inside out, quick shudders but further onto/upon_wires/tubes -reverse through folds_overlapped in; soft blasting tunnel; twists, spinning sickly, supercharged in the excess, flashing scrambles. Reaches for the expected other side .....

.. finally awakes.. Constant beep beep-beep beep beeeeeee.. Facing slivering chunks of full-face burst. Out to froth-covered rubble, fuzz wrath unrecognizable. Vehicles. Bridges. Buildings. Equipment...? No. Rocks and stones.. – Awestruck Pakmer.

Wonders burst centuries before or after... ? A maroon sand pours and stretches over marred points, softens mountainous, neat corners, reflects fiery in electricity. Watering electrically.

Covered Pakmer... -immensely sand/fine-mold-covered. Remnants spill....- spits quickly in tubular spat froze before reaching ground. Starred.

Ahold of shoulder straps, malfunctions seine. With steps amped, ineffable charges, high resistance, visible heat streams; bending grains, dusts, surge. Soft stems and branches//petrified lightning//multitude of fulgurite blooms in a background of infinite pearls, sparks surge. Coin-flicker crests, coated rubble down the drains of arroyos . . . . All to a fine fine moss that trickles off, through Pakmers grip….

    

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Write the first several paragraphs of a sci-fi novel.
Written by Lynk in portal Sci-Fi
Ahold of the Shoulder Straps
--Instantly tunnel a telescopic view –shocks! Static Pakmer. Scourge arrangements rearrange power surges keeping alight the blurring. View aligns, again ... Secret planet chambers before him, bending. Temperate fuse blows. A force that detracts swarms. Magnetized temperaments. Electrostrung, magnetic chagrins, dark ignorance separately inundated.

Chosen Pakmer.

An ancient protrusion, pustule -glows in the mushing; visions of civilizations, Atlantis; tunnel a glimpse, immense, triangulates Pakmer’s perfect view.. snuck//stream-sequence _shallow-charge-across, cloaks escalating sound [whisk between] pulses, crisp thrusts.… A lifter on one hip, hydraulic clicks. (1) mile below surface. Circuitry snaps, static rips.. Heliox connection breaks..

Mars telescopes unbelievably into fluttering view.

Curious Pakmer turns (knots throat) with both hands... glowing cog in a hub and spoke configuration. Surrounding hyper-explodes ... Naturally rotating.. . .

Frisson rifts lifts--fires phoom! shhhhhhhhizz whip, c-cuts him to particles, instincts, turns inside out, quick shudders but further onto/upon_wires/tubes -reverse through folds_overlapped in; soft blasting tunnel; twists, spinning sickly, supercharged in the excess, flashing scrambles. Reaches for the expected other side .....



.. finally awakes.. Constant beep beep-beep beep beeeeeee.. Facing slivering chunks of full-face burst. Out to froth-covered rubble, fuzz wrath unrecognizable. Vehicles. Bridges. Buildings. Equipment...? No. Rocks and stones.. – Awestruck Pakmer.

Wonders burst centuries before or after... ? A maroon sand pours and stretches over marred points, softens mountainous, neat corners, reflects fiery in electricity. Watering electrically.

Covered Pakmer... -immensely sand/fine-mold-covered. Remnants spill....- spits quickly in tubular spat froze before reaching ground. Starred.

Ahold of shoulder straps, malfunctions seine. With steps amped, ineffable charges, high resistance, visible heat streams; bending grains, dusts, surge. Soft stems and branches//petrified lightning//multitude of fulgurite blooms in a background of infinite pearls, sparks surge. Coin-flicker crests, coated rubble down the drains of arroyos . . . . All to a fine fine moss that trickles off, through Pakmers grip….
    
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Kick the Tires

I am sorry Holloweeds

but you have warped minds

And bled our pockets too dry.

So when

Opportunity turns to me

and I go

 I say 

so anyways

 oh strap a camera to the trees. 

better yet -to their visions.

Cinching, them disparages 

them falling distortions

 the imaginations and raging

 inspirations; from which ones 

got bent, gloomy in your wilderness. 

Will ascend into there; rises 

of the layered auras 

and the feverish dyes 

-with infrared focuses, now--

and whiplash what it is to be...

Into thee old resin and wintry exhausts will snap necks 

Cuz you are only performing Reality.

Just all shaky and quivering with 

expectations, these figurines, 

Now glowing in the wedged ...surround...

Eyes just longing..

Near sight them in the

most perfect burst. 

Cells well captured in a Flir lens...

 yes! That's what am I talking about!

Night vision and

But through peep holes, long sights,

insanely mad within that, 

 Sniper vision, and like that 

 finish them. 

Flex their lights, decapitate,

carve them like meat

off the flesh of history,

like the ones in the trees.

And picture yourself 

In the shit -Right?!. 

If this war reaches, another century

You're still sketching

journals with smeared sinuses 

pressed against ear sneaks...

About these things, trying

to.... cry

Or make me..

the same kick the tires rip

taking off from pavement,

with those subliminal clicks

Bang!

I'm -jamming the brakes in stones, dirt...we found our roses.

But thank you for everything.

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Kick the Tires
I am sorry Holloweeds
but you have warped minds
And bled our pockets too dry.
So when
Opportunity turns to me
and I go
 I say 
so anyways
 oh strap a camera to the trees. 
better yet -to their visions.
Cinching, them disparages 
them falling distortions
 the imaginations and raging
 inspirations; from which ones 
got bent, gloomy in your wilderness. 
Will ascend into there; rises 
of the layered auras 
and the feverish dyes 
-with infrared focuses, now--
and whiplash what it is to be...

Into thee old resin and wintry exhausts will snap necks 
Cuz you are only performing Reality.
Just all shaky and quivering with 
expectations, these figurines, 
Now glowing in the wedged ...surround...
Eyes just longing..
Near sight them in the
most perfect burst. 
Cells well captured in a Flir lens...
 yes! That's what am I talking about!
Night vision and
But through peep holes, long sights,
insanely mad within that, 
 Sniper vision, and like that 
 finish them. 
Flex their lights, decapitate,
carve them like meat
off the flesh of history,
like the ones in the trees.

And picture yourself 
In the shit -Right?!. 

If this war reaches, another century
You're still sketching
journals with smeared sinuses 
pressed against ear sneaks...
About these things, trying
to.... cry
Or make me..
the same kick the tires rip
taking off from pavement,
with those subliminal clicks
Bang!
I'm -jamming the brakes in stones, dirt...we found our roses.
But thank you for everything.

6
1
0
Juice
7 reads
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