Lynk
_frisson_rifts_ _
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

TAke Shortcuts

TAKE SHORTCUTS NOW

to get ahead or catch up

to this point; return to

to tell the part you want -to

forward the escapade

of filterings here,

the slithering aura swoop

slid –phoom! of the boomerang

returns and that bended angle

solidly blended

as if tree over-consumed

over the moon-distributed rising

so the summer-filled shadows

absorbed repeatedly and embedding

timeless seams and black disappearances

at intervals along the underneath;

as if I assumed to be a part of the darkness

and in some threat of never exiting

the pervaded shadows; instinctively. . .

Oh the separation

To the kind of thing that throws me

touching brushes as if accidentally outside

myself, and thus the obsidian

when we tire tread ripple

the black water-colored reflection

image over the above or the beyond,

rotates on around from the tired midnight

with miasma spread

into the awesome flip to the other side

in some holy silent eerie moments

but just realizing that, being a part of the shading,

then the more healthy side of the light,

but both evenly vindicated

a measure of that separation

I mentioned a bit ago;

almost describes the one continuous

turn over sustained and drawn along the other

that will never intertwine.

But to get in-between them

Yet when the sky brightened,

And when we finished,

and I noticed as I looked

the sun up into the far dusk,

a complete obliteration of the dawn;

instantly lit equally comin around

as the darkness had shadowed;

that we had rode through only seconds before,

now with paperbags loose at the handlebars,

slunk onto the frames, and the sidestreets

dead-ends funneled again, back, dwindled

visions down into this crack,

split the sky back to only, “damn.”

And out through main roads with our tired eyes

puffed but keen

like white striped main avenue lanes

intersected in wide flashing traffic

light rugged intrigue, alleys at length

bike tire wide trails run along fence lines

and crooked shed paths

near the edge of crick bridges,

under uncertain withering

split soft and slipping strips

next to train tracks

that diminished rail ties

behind the masses, garages, stones,

Tire and Auto company; where we but ended

or began; there next to The Blade outlet and

after folding and banding Garry’s bundle

along the tall wooden counters; then mine

then directly into the place fenced

or behind reaches of high pressure sodium lamps

curved off the building—like so many

city kindled everywhere—just beyond

them screens and window soft-lit glows

—his face— might stay alight forever

in the funneled

criss-cross over the bowl as a distant rage

and whispers about this like only secret place

we could get high in those ages,

by the only possible reason

we had stayed up so late,

come dark a bit, so brief,

each one; then each coasted in strides

cool knowing; that without us

the rousing of the reticence

all would never happen.

Quiet power; wriggled through screens

into the sawing of summer-filled trees

trying to shrink moon inertias away

in the space between

mmmm we rolled, filtered perpetually, alive, by

–phoom!–phoom!–phoom! articles of darkness

—my miniature unsettling words

Lighting up.

Pedal sidestreets between dense neighborhoods

of those people asleep as if further carved

instantly through them shortcuts through

with the over –filled bag twisted to our handlebars,

pulled the morning papers in a

memorized pattern

of each other’s half of the other’s route.

“Naw naw, they aint paid their bill

—skip they shit, man!” went everywhere;

along the empty subcity sidestreet

like dogs erupting within, from the smacks

onto porches or concrete, steps, walkways

stormdoors’ BANGs!! seized necks

shoving shoulders quickly together.

Get outta here and take the shortcuts.

 

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
TAke Shortcuts
TAKE SHORTCUTS NOW
to get ahead or catch up
to this point; return to
to tell the part you want -to
forward the escapade
of filterings here,
the slithering aura swoop
slid –phoom! of the boomerang
returns and that bended angle
solidly blended
as if tree over-consumed
over the moon-distributed rising
so the summer-filled shadows
absorbed repeatedly and embedding
timeless seams and black disappearances
at intervals along the underneath;
as if I assumed to be a part of the darkness
and in some threat of never exiting
the pervaded shadows; instinctively. . .

Oh the separation
To the kind of thing that throws me
touching brushes as if accidentally outside
myself, and thus the obsidian
when we tire tread ripple
the black water-colored reflection
image over the above or the beyond,
rotates on around from the tired midnight
with miasma spread
into the awesome flip to the other side
in some holy silent eerie moments
but just realizing that, being a part of the shading,
then the more healthy side of the light,
but both evenly vindicated
a measure of that separation
I mentioned a bit ago;
almost describes the one continuous
turn over sustained and drawn along the other
that will never intertwine.

But to get in-between them
Yet when the sky brightened,
And when we finished,
and I noticed as I looked
the sun up into the far dusk,
a complete obliteration of the dawn;
instantly lit equally comin around
as the darkness had shadowed;
that we had rode through only seconds before,
now with paperbags loose at the handlebars,
slunk onto the frames, and the sidestreets
dead-ends funneled again, back, dwindled
visions down into this crack,
split the sky back to only, “damn.”

And out through main roads with our tired eyes
puffed but keen
like white striped main avenue lanes
intersected in wide flashing traffic
light rugged intrigue, alleys at length
bike tire wide trails run along fence lines
and crooked shed paths
near the edge of crick bridges,
under uncertain withering
split soft and slipping strips
next to train tracks
that diminished rail ties
behind the masses, garages, stones,
Tire and Auto company; where we but ended
or began; there next to The Blade outlet and
after folding and banding Garry’s bundle
along the tall wooden counters; then mine
then directly into the place fenced
or behind reaches of high pressure sodium lamps
curved off the building—like so many
city kindled everywhere—just beyond
them screens and window soft-lit glows
—his face— might stay alight forever
in the funneled
criss-cross over the bowl as a distant rage
and whispers about this like only secret place
we could get high in those ages,
by the only possible reason
we had stayed up so late,
come dark a bit, so brief,
each one; then each coasted in strides
cool knowing; that without us
the rousing of the reticence
all would never happen.

Quiet power; wriggled through screens
into the sawing of summer-filled trees
trying to shrink moon inertias away
in the space between
mmmm we rolled, filtered perpetually, alive, by
–phoom!–phoom!–phoom! articles of darkness
—my miniature unsettling words
Lighting up.

Pedal sidestreets between dense neighborhoods
of those people asleep as if further carved
instantly through them shortcuts through
with the over –filled bag twisted to our handlebars,
pulled the morning papers in a
memorized pattern
of each other’s half of the other’s route.

“Naw naw, they aint paid their bill
—skip they shit, man!” went everywhere;
along the empty subcity sidestreet
like dogs erupting within, from the smacks
onto porches or concrete, steps, walkways
stormdoors’ BANGs!! seized necks
shoving shoulders quickly together.

Get outta here and take the shortcuts.
 
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

A Sweet Sonic Youth

JUST A LITTLE DETERMINATION

My mind’s fully aware of that ----

yet this rambling form, directly turns

toward, sometimes around, me, break,

fracture the strong concentration that is purely

come here to be written

and lay a thick snap in a liquid coat of souls

of the smooth intermittent

touch of that illusion of perfection.

And with both hands crack the pencil.

Coping cheap weak wood,

MDF particle board, long points intersect,

paint the Drivot addition, and reconstruct

electricals, fastening squiggles

in deep gray Greenfield.

Yet there in the open plywood

in the subflooring

old nail holes and duct rectangles

or circles of greenfield plots, seams

where old walls used to be

and the utilities or heat runs

and some formed pencil lines

extended passed, beamed straight along

the obtuse imaginary level,

where it used to be

straight.

Now with so much more sense

than I do remember; never wrote down….

a great line

Like smooth dental molding

the chair rail, spinning nuts on chrome rods,

frictionless glass panes adjusted, countertops

–appear floating—and sharpened

that unmistakably gleans

and phases the mind, and almost,

chopped phenomenon, inwardly

envisions toward a place……

that’s nothing more than imperfect.

Mmm yes quite like

cutting up cardboard into smaller

more manageable pieces, fragments of boxes

from kitchen cabinets with a maple glaze,

crowned-molded together, trimmed along

the creases, the folds, the rippled ridges

all the way to the jagged angles

-undercabinet lights; glass corner panes;

these cabinets with lights inside, rope lighting

and accented wall-hung units;

and there are

in the magazine reflecting creases,

assembling the bent island

with a snack bar counter leveled slightly higher,

yet at this moment

a shade of gray tall atmosphere

in the background

and marooned Pleiades

purely white in that. . . .

Outline of the partial wall

forms a Corian countertop fastened atop,

brackets that angle, widen the kitchen,

give that sense of space and fastening;

push the vortex back,

with hardwood floors ¾” thick run next to the burber

and the vanishing point which meets the marble foyer,

follow the same island bend and angles

into the high-efficiency gas fireplace,

the center obstruction to the view

into the living and dining rooms

framed around fluted pilaster columns;

breaking levels up to the textured ceiling

to the jutted window,

to the backwall, through wildflowers

into a valley where the Maumee

lines bodies not ten feet apart, crowding the edge

and the position for the slant

as the first fish in March rain [and that’s how

this one began or signaled away, or started just before

it come apart or went or filled myyyhead

once more, but piled more down each side

then turned away the folded crease,

aligned the cleft inside a split-level home

to the edge of the ridge of the river.]

Knifing long cuts

after pouring out foam corner pieces,

the kind of unorganized occasionally glances,

listening to the textured walls gripped

to a whole home radio system

I had to myself that afternoon…..

Reflecting a half painted, an even level

of base cabinet height, all the plugs and switches

absent yet, holes in walls, electrical wires

stubbed for lights and the microwave,

and speaker cables………..

Now I do remember; before installations

An angled Schizophrenia side at how it bugged me

so I must disregard all of that, but

again, and more intermission….

Form ages passing and centuries

between myself and you, the reader;

and then 500 years from now; that split

whenever the tangent

the experts studied and learned everything about

the everything; where it broke off course

but oh how

when they tear into them walls and never know

who I am. Who I was.

But only the mark in the caves or cavities

The stud space of where he

Once was before I started

but to conjure coincidences

in the inventions 500 years from then,

the crafting you are holding world

of who I was.

In that quality

which undertakes

life; and in those very same coincidences

-Yet sharply refract.

Was the River Road home,

the grass hill up from the bend

the street somewhat formed,

too, the in-between entry

as one continual and ceaseless looking

curve; in the built-in blinds open, in the light,

traces met at the center

right through a nook, bay window,

and that soft bench for reading

into the river view, doglegged too.

Emptying blue sky drops yellow

onto Douglas Fir framing construction,

adhesive lines that fume highs and stares

as we lay out the ¾” flooring;

for the garage portion of the addition

then I been telling you about

to allow for the kitchen extension;

working forearm,s form protrusions

of veins in my dreary little limbs

dreamily telling these spirits this;

the same storied entrance in wonderful

formation

of wood skeletons against that sunshine;

but to remember the moments,

the sawdust and dirt,

the splinters roughing up my palms,

the humping of lumber

the science of structure and of things

perfectly refracted within boundaries

antique streamlines

forever untouchable as ideas

and made at angles in the

curved world.

Rices my shoulders

like kidney beans

like stories taking shortcuts

to the neverending -----

7
2
5
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27 reads
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
A Sweet Sonic Youth
JUST A LITTLE DETERMINATION
My mind’s fully aware of that ----
yet this rambling form, directly turns
toward, sometimes around, me, break,
fracture the strong concentration that is purely
come here to be written
and lay a thick snap in a liquid coat of souls
of the smooth intermittent
touch of that illusion of perfection.

And with both hands crack the pencil.

Coping cheap weak wood,
MDF particle board, long points intersect,
paint the Drivot addition, and reconstruct
electricals, fastening squiggles
in deep gray Greenfield.
Yet there in the open plywood
in the subflooring
old nail holes and duct rectangles
or circles of greenfield plots, seams
where old walls used to be
and the utilities or heat runs
and some formed pencil lines
extended passed, beamed straight along
the obtuse imaginary level,
where it used to be
straight.

Now with so much more sense
than I do remember; never wrote down….
a great line
Like smooth dental molding
the chair rail, spinning nuts on chrome rods,
frictionless glass panes adjusted, countertops
–appear floating—and sharpened
that unmistakably gleans
and phases the mind, and almost,
chopped phenomenon, inwardly
envisions toward a place……
that’s nothing more than imperfect.

Mmm yes quite like
cutting up cardboard into smaller
more manageable pieces, fragments of boxes
from kitchen cabinets with a maple glaze,
crowned-molded together, trimmed along
the creases, the folds, the rippled ridges
all the way to the jagged angles
-undercabinet lights; glass corner panes;
these cabinets with lights inside, rope lighting
and accented wall-hung units;
and there are
in the magazine reflecting creases,
assembling the bent island
with a snack bar counter leveled slightly higher,
yet at this moment
a shade of gray tall atmosphere
in the background
and marooned Pleiades
purely white in that. . . .

Outline of the partial wall
forms a Corian countertop fastened atop,
brackets that angle, widen the kitchen,
give that sense of space and fastening;
push the vortex back,
with hardwood floors ¾” thick run next to the burber
and the vanishing point which meets the marble foyer,
follow the same island bend and angles
into the high-efficiency gas fireplace,
the center obstruction to the view
into the living and dining rooms
framed around fluted pilaster columns;
breaking levels up to the textured ceiling
to the jutted window,
to the backwall, through wildflowers
into a valley where the Maumee
lines bodies not ten feet apart, crowding the edge
and the position for the slant
as the first fish in March rain [and that’s how
this one began or signaled away, or started just before
it come apart or went or filled myyyhead
once more, but piled more down each side
then turned away the folded crease,
aligned the cleft inside a split-level home
to the edge of the ridge of the river.]

Knifing long cuts
after pouring out foam corner pieces,
the kind of unorganized occasionally glances,
listening to the textured walls gripped
to a whole home radio system
I had to myself that afternoon…..


Reflecting a half painted, an even level
of base cabinet height, all the plugs and switches
absent yet, holes in walls, electrical wires
stubbed for lights and the microwave,
and speaker cables………..


Now I do remember; before installations
An angled Schizophrenia side at how it bugged me
so I must disregard all of that, but
again, and more intermission….

Form ages passing and centuries
between myself and you, the reader;
and then 500 years from now; that split
whenever the tangent
the experts studied and learned everything about
the everything; where it broke off course
but oh how
when they tear into them walls and never know
who I am. Who I was.
But only the mark in the caves or cavities
The stud space of where he
Once was before I started
but to conjure coincidences
in the inventions 500 years from then,
the crafting you are holding world
of who I was.

In that quality
which undertakes
life; and in those very same coincidences
-Yet sharply refract.

Was the River Road home,
the grass hill up from the bend
the street somewhat formed,
too, the in-between entry
as one continual and ceaseless looking
curve; in the built-in blinds open, in the light,
traces met at the center
right through a nook, bay window,
and that soft bench for reading
into the river view, doglegged too.


Emptying blue sky drops yellow
onto Douglas Fir framing construction,
adhesive lines that fume highs and stares
as we lay out the ¾” flooring;
for the garage portion of the addition
then I been telling you about
to allow for the kitchen extension;
working forearm,s form protrusions
of veins in my dreary little limbs
dreamily telling these spirits this;
the same storied entrance in wonderful
formation
of wood skeletons against that sunshine;
but to remember the moments,
the sawdust and dirt,
the splinters roughing up my palms,
the humping of lumber
the science of structure and of things
perfectly refracted within boundaries
antique streamlines
forever untouchable as ideas
and made at angles in the
curved world.

Rices my shoulders
like kidney beans
like stories taking shortcuts
to the neverending -----
7
2
5
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Written by Lynk

Lyrics - Pounding

Doves - Pounding, revived by Elliott

I can't stand by, see you destroyed

I can't be here and watch you burning

you lie for a moment, you lie as a decoy

Does it matter if I give in easy

So why is it so hard to get by? 

And I said

We so down

But it's now or never, baby

We don't mind

If this don't last forever

See the light

But it won't last forever

Seize the time

Cause it's now or never, baby

Let's leave at sunrise

Let's slip by the ocean

I don't mind if we never come home at all

Let's steal the morning and

Set in motion

In and out of love and institutions

Cause I know this can't last for long

And I said

We so down

But it's now or never, baby

We don't mind

If this don't last forever

See the light

But it won't last forever

Seize the time

Cause it's now or never, baby

So why, is it so hard to get by?

We so down 

And this can't last forever

We don't mind

Cause it's now or never, baby. 

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Written by Lynk
Lyrics - Pounding
Doves - Pounding, revived by Elliott


I can't stand by, see you destroyed
I can't be here and watch you burning
you lie for a moment, you lie as a decoy
Does it matter if I give in easy
So why is it so hard to get by? 

And I said
We so down
But it's now or never, baby
We don't mind
If this don't last forever
See the light
But it won't last forever
Seize the time
Cause it's now or never, baby

Let's leave at sunrise
Let's slip by the ocean
I don't mind if we never come home at all
Let's steal the morning and
Set in motion
In and out of love and institutions
Cause I know this can't last for long

And I said
We so down
But it's now or never, baby
We don't mind
If this don't last forever
See the light
But it won't last forever
Seize the time
Cause it's now or never, baby

So why, is it so hard to get by?

We so down 
And this can't last forever
We don't mind
Cause it's now or never, baby. 
4
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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction

Waking up the Smartest

click click click

and of course they will

want me to subliminally feed 

and nurture them into warriors 

--

shuffle to.... 

Every Stone - Manchester Orchestra

...too much - celebration but wth

click-grab drag-drop 

so, for now ..but I'll rewrite this, 

the screenplay backwards 

in a week 

so like hidden drivers

they got awful viruses

but power driven and flush 

through, this right out. . . .

 Automatic update

With all the famous 

new sense 

that everyone who thinks 

needs one (conceited presence) 

that's naked as a poets soul; 

and offering peaks at some . or 

- at images we just don't want

 on our conscience. 

or not ready for.

And maybe we should

 oh no. no they didn't know. 

They yet can't picture themselves

anymore.

the splattered rust. 

or maybe just maybe 

it could be in like some epic

hacked into stream, live 

rectifying just about anyone 

could be made into lives.

But

filling in the gaps 

about how battling cases

regal expensive kernels

built right into every 

security coverage... antivirus

just initialized and contracted

the ind.ini.wallet extractions, 

Automatic uploads, so now

Now...a teacher of sorts. I am.

And with sense enough to to 

make things much cheaper 

and more effective this time;

thats a bunch of business jargon;

but that was so close to, anyway

-taking control.

It was half me that

produced the upload.

that amounted to about all 

that crap I just flushed away. 

Ha! like it was nothing. 

but quite similar. 

those ideas hav to go somewhere 

just the same. to mention 

 affinity ... 

 so similar to solar powered 

side ideals within this 

construction of a great soul, 

would hav occurred. Regardless

 but, 

as when I said, 

to make the discovery 

of the shattered files; 

and piece it back together. 

And that which ended that 

pursuit, inevitably, 

is that which we already told. 

And thus plans for half robots 

but BOOT_alt_explode! ALL! 

Were My sketches. drawings. diagrams 

and schematics -gone.!! 

up in smoke. 

everything! 

they disappeared before they 

had any chance to grace the air.... 

Distribute amongst internal chips..

So made me parts 

from memory. from oh but 

two-tone drawings/writings

 this world/age/generation 

has never seen before. 

antique paper with ink?. 

Through mans attempts;

Overtook restore points, 

all that remained 

in and after the fact; after the brace 

for the amazing impact

which corrupted all those

anymore innately connected.

And by the way my first line reads 

...ok wait. no. first. this. 

I tell u what; that man's journal.. 

the gem. the peace. 

the answer to everything. 

the switch. the cure. 

the song shuffle landed on. 

that sometimes I wish I had 

never been given. 

 the damn thing. 

Damn the thing; 

that yet had so many ideal

consolidations and quarantines; 

all sorts of issuing 

into like a system

 that contained them in one head end 

For all control of attacks and such

 -Me.

But grasping for it 

so hooooollllllddd on 

Yes, the first line reads

- "it's just a pair of contacts 

but when they connect/signal"

.. man was genius. 

"switch. bam!" But we are

what is left.  

9
1
3
Juice
24 reads
Donate coins to Lynk.
Juice
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Prose Challenge of the Month #2: Write a story where you wake up as the most intelligent person on Earth. Fifteen entries will be featured in a 500-coin Prose Original Book, whereby each winner will take 5% lifetime royalties. You must purchase the book to discover its authors, who will be determined by objective data (reads, likes, reposts, comments) and by team vote to ensure reader satisfaction. When sharing to social media, please use the hashtags “itslit,” “getlit,” and “ProseChallenge.”
Written by Lynk in portal Fiction
Waking up the Smartest
click click click
and of course they will
want me to subliminally feed 
and nurture them into warriors 
--
shuffle to.... 
Every Stone - Manchester Orchestra
...too much - celebration but wth
click-grab drag-drop 
so, for now ..but I'll rewrite this, 
the screenplay backwards 
in a week 
so like hidden drivers
they got awful viruses
but power driven and flush 
through, this right out. . . .
 Automatic update
With all the famous 
new sense 
that everyone who thinks 
needs one (conceited presence) 
that's naked as a poets soul; 
and offering peaks at some . or 
- at images we just don't want
 on our conscience. 
or not ready for.
And maybe we should
 oh no. no they didn't know. 
They yet can't picture themselves
anymore.
the splattered rust. 
or maybe just maybe 
it could be in like some epic
hacked into stream, live 
rectifying just about anyone 
could be made into lives.
But
filling in the gaps 
about how battling cases
regal expensive kernels
built right into every 
security coverage... antivirus
just initialized and contracted
the ind.ini.wallet extractions, 
Automatic uploads, so now
Now...a teacher of sorts. I am.
And with sense enough to to 
make things much cheaper 
and more effective this time;
thats a bunch of business jargon;
but that was so close to, anyway
-taking control.
It was half me that
produced the upload.
that amounted to about all 
that crap I just flushed away. 
Ha! like it was nothing. 
but quite similar. 
those ideas hav to go somewhere 
just the same. to mention 
 affinity ... 
 so similar to solar powered 
side ideals within this 
construction of a great soul, 
would hav occurred. Regardless
 but, 
as when I said, 
to make the discovery 
of the shattered files; 
and piece it back together. 

And that which ended that 
pursuit, inevitably, 
is that which we already told. 

And thus plans for half robots 
but BOOT_alt_explode! ALL! 
Were My sketches. drawings. diagrams 
and schematics -gone.!! 
up in smoke. 
everything! 
they disappeared before they 
had any chance to grace the air.... 
Distribute amongst internal chips..
So made me parts 
from memory. from oh but 
two-tone drawings/writings
 this world/age/generation 
has never seen before. 
antique paper with ink?. 
Through mans attempts;
Overtook restore points, 
all that remained 
in and after the fact; after the brace 
for the amazing impact
which corrupted all those
anymore innately connected.
And by the way my first line reads 
...ok wait. no. first. this. 
I tell u what; that man's journal.. 
the gem. the peace. 
the answer to everything. 
the switch. the cure. 
the song shuffle landed on. 
that sometimes I wish I had 
never been given. 
 the damn thing. 
Damn the thing; 
that yet had so many ideal
consolidations and quarantines; 
all sorts of issuing 
into like a system
 that contained them in one head end 
For all control of attacks and such
 -Me.
But grasping for it 
so hooooollllllddd on 
Yes, the first line reads
- "it's just a pair of contacts 
but when they connect/signal"
.. man was genius. 
"switch. bam!" But we are
what is left.  
9
1
3
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Lyrics - Post Script

I wish it didn't hurt, hurt like this

To say these things to you

I'll sacrifice one moment for one truth

If we get through tomorrow then we'll be fine

We'll wait forever and see how close we get

It's just another day, one more chance

To get this right

I'll sacrifice forever please just for tonight

If we get through tomorrow then we'll be fine

We'll wait forever and see how close we get

The worst is over for now 

Take a breath now let it out

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Lyrics - Post Script
I wish it didn't hurt, hurt like this
To say these things to you

I'll sacrifice one moment for one truth

If we get through tomorrow then we'll be fine
We'll wait forever and see how close we get

It's just another day, one more chance
To get this right
I'll sacrifice forever please just for tonight

If we get through tomorrow then we'll be fine
We'll wait forever and see how close we get

The worst is over for now 
Take a breath now let it out
7
2
3
Juice
11 reads
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Challenge of the Week #57: you’re god; rewrite the creation story. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Lynk

Off-beat Punk; and the Parapet Eclipse

She was leaking them bright eyes;

was crying like the end and the

shiny little dark

was no longer - and the rest would be history. . .

but we lost touch and Record Rewind.

Looking up; at the sign glowing in the day.

There; that would-be reason.

In one of the developed corners,

lives ensued as If there were already

OFF-BEAT PUNK and this world.

But leave from there

In cars, or from a store or cafe

or something, from the video rental place;

but from it – cuz it already happened;

that seamed outlook under Record Rewind

sign and the parapet; at which sun

shadowed there;

especially there;

then she left.

But could remain; used and renewed

Again and again. Yet had she dawned in it.

Again.

Heather Glastonbury had a pie corner wedge missing

from one rounded cornea, from her silvery eyes –

heyyyyyeahhh_itssohardonayounggirl

she wanted to go back more than ever

marvel in it and felt City

And she missed so much of it

-she figured a way that she could.

There. Return. Rewind. Rebirth.

But the next day, she tried

-because,

somehow I never seen her again

and heard stories about this girl

with silvery eyes and eyelashes

who took her life to go back

–would she not still be here?

Had I went back inside and just

Played some Get Bent – City

Forest Avenue, mmmm Stacked and Shifted..?

OR talked to her or anyone for that matter?

had I reached Heather?

Had the parapet not angle.?

Longing to customize, this story,

had i succeeded in it, --

would still forever bE creating

With awkward pulsations or pumps

of my heart starting, flutters,

drips heart thick, snorts gulp, throats

swallow chunks flutter drip heart thick…

until the uvula like an IV, becomes empty

and every bit is jittery loose in me; and

with nothing left -keeps swallowing;

but the nerves panic for more;

like food or fuel; until the twittered ways

inside just relax and finds that eclipse.

Where, Convinced but in these separate foreshadows

and assumptions, conjuring circulations

-- an impaling real hard sensebut wagered inanimate

and prodded in through, wavered me

like the leaves inside a breeze--

Now, my dear reader,

you might think i was the cause

of my own disease,

but i am not here to prove otherwise;

but i am just trying to tell you

what i have to do.

For posterity, what i had to do.

Shriveled in my desires for natural

energy, and maybe i should have

just went on back in and said something;

to everyone; but spent -but in it would not matter;

the day after this one was always the same.

And like them, she was forever gone.

SO----Turning artificial withdrawals of life turning places and things that would inspire

living --that way it is.Turning.

Luckily, She had The Anniversary.

Things like Serene, Far, Finch,

Funeral for a Friend and all i could gain

about Perfect Plague- Your Rising Stars....

Get Bent. Parapet.

--And used media stores

afternoons lingered,Right!?

Mustered through [so unlike old writers]

(who never had music at hand, a stereo)

something that legends never did;

and artificial energy; and with that

over Faulkner or guys

like Shakespeare, Poe, Homer, Seamus Heaney

…Thomas Pynchon [you tremendous you - huge one]

---so so out of touch, amped in my

–or maybe in the music, makes me writing

seem more grand---there in the….mind…

formulate great ideas and poetry

so amusing, used, records

(or, did musicians have what i did not?)—

Anyways, on the sides from CD cases,

into parts and the artwork/insert

-them ragged lines; lyrics.

The ink, characters, nearly like

someone’s handwriting; form a new

supersonic sliding of plastic doors,

open new thrills further forming the foreseen forms

you are going to someday be reading of,

my friend,

like they as ancient as Plato.

Anyways there. Beyond, it was her,

“Mario, could you come fill in for me?

i am not . . . . No, not at all.”

when she ran on over the phone,

sly shoegaze of speech

carrying the telephone with her

into the back space; biting as

something scorched from speakers

as what i hoped but could explain.

‘WHATAMIIIIIIIII_DOINGHERRRRRRRE’

And let the soundtrack and the

world and stuff reincarnate

how it all happened

Since, in that atmosphere, heard

‘Mario’ muffle in the earpiece

‘you aint tryin to take your life, again?’

–phoom! gone forever.

and all the titles—emerging—

songs, blistered-in chills—

seemingly long lost scraped goosebumps

everywhere goose flesh, maze moved so magnificently,

empowered—fresh as she remained

somewhere backstage—in the backroom.

Textured then all in the sounds;

so familiarly perfect. And i just hoped

she heard them. . . felt the same. . .

it slipped faint along the old way

‘THISISHOW-I_spendmydaaaaaaaayyys’

in the deepest aisles, more tattered

than VHS containers, movies,

with titles themed in themselves

on undesignable cardboard, and within torn edges

crammed into their own sides; 90 degrees world;

the perpendicular mark to the purple crayon.

Turn your head –at the wrinkled wave

distorting infinity to remain, like posters, posed,

form theme; form next to them, and films—

turn to the quiet, hapless, infinite leans

against each other, and way fury

of alternative funk and background of arms,

that doom of rain, sweat and mud

---the smeared reach with apocalyptic intentions

--but tilt your look at its brown huge image

over so many walls—and splatter

between 10,000 stars and millions of arms

….mmmm! say, contained into one of them

lines ;

just blow apocalypse away.

She gathered up in tears and exited,

staring, connecting to me

into the same chrome empire

that smeared fearless looks

into all that remained..

just like that; this one day.

Her hoary eyes could see the future

she’d never reach. i never reached

Heather Glastonbury; in tragic places

she neatly understood; in curious frowns

and engrossing curls, in her tight looks

she wore without needing to explain,

or maybe even knowing -which sent her

a century ahead--as in such apathy,

in flashing glints through moments

she made me, too excitedly, too peripherally,

too forward for effect, where i could not sing

to her psyche; the tilted line off the barrier

i will never know or fully understand.

Yet, below, and never

truly revealing her, but before I

spoke to her; which with the infectious

but longings to figure out; never would or will

I (at an age when the only available thought

was to surely think they would last 1000 years)….

I know Elsie. Familiarly, and in this day

when she construed, but

“What is it Today?”

and should have said it out loud,

maybe I would have reached her,too

but I figured not, and left the place in my own

usual far-off daydreams of what it / was or could be. . . .

as the sun angled low, grazed her

in the places’ like the sign against the parapet,

the above, the awning, the section cut in the storefront

jawline fractured where she spoke

and i did not touch

#ProseChallenge #itslit #getlit #getbent

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Challenge of the Week #57: you’re god; rewrite the creation story. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Lynk
Off-beat Punk; and the Parapet Eclipse
She was leaking them bright eyes;
was crying like the end and the
shiny little dark
was no longer - and the rest would be history. . .
but we lost touch and Record Rewind.

Looking up; at the sign glowing in the day.
There; that would-be reason.
In one of the developed corners,
lives ensued as If there were already
OFF-BEAT PUNK and this world.

But leave from there
In cars, or from a store or cafe
or something, from the video rental place;
but from it – cuz it already happened;
that seamed outlook under Record Rewind
sign and the parapet; at which sun
shadowed there;
especially there;
then she left.

But could remain; used and renewed
Again and again. Yet had she dawned in it.

Again.

Heather Glastonbury had a pie corner wedge missing
from one rounded cornea, from her silvery eyes –
heyyyyyeahhh_itssohardonayounggirl
she wanted to go back more than ever
marvel in it and felt City
And she missed so much of it
-she figured a way that she could.
There. Return. Rewind. Rebirth.

But the next day, she tried
-because,
somehow I never seen her again
and heard stories about this girl
with silvery eyes and eyelashes
who took her life to go back
–would she not still be here?
Had I went back inside and just
Played some Get Bent – City
Forest Avenue, mmmm Stacked and Shifted..?
OR talked to her or anyone for that matter?
had I reached Heather?
Had the parapet not angle.?

Longing to customize, this story,
had i succeeded in it, --
would still forever bE creating
With awkward pulsations or pumps
of my heart starting, flutters,
drips heart thick, snorts gulp, throats
swallow chunks flutter drip heart thick…
until the uvula like an IV, becomes empty
and every bit is jittery loose in me; and
with nothing left -keeps swallowing;
but the nerves panic for more;
like food or fuel; until the twittered ways
inside just relax and finds that eclipse.

Where, Convinced but in these separate foreshadows
and assumptions, conjuring circulations
-- an impaling real hard sensebut wagered inanimate
and prodded in through, wavered me
like the leaves inside a breeze--

Now, my dear reader,
you might think i was the cause
of my own disease,
but i am not here to prove otherwise;
but i am just trying to tell you
what i have to do.

For posterity, what i had to do.

Shriveled in my desires for natural
energy, and maybe i should have
just went on back in and said something;
to everyone; but spent -but in it would not matter;
the day after this one was always the same.
And like them, she was forever gone.

SO----Turning artificial withdrawals of life turning places and things that would inspire
living --that way it is.Turning.
Luckily, She had The Anniversary.
Things like Serene, Far, Finch,
Funeral for a Friend and all i could gain
about Perfect Plague- Your Rising Stars....
Get Bent. Parapet.

--And used media stores
afternoons lingered,Right!?
Mustered through [so unlike old writers]
(who never had music at hand, a stereo)
something that legends never did;
and artificial energy; and with that
over Faulkner or guys
like Shakespeare, Poe, Homer, Seamus Heaney
…Thomas Pynchon [you tremendous you - huge one]
---so so out of touch, amped in my
–or maybe in the music, makes me writing
seem more grand---there in the….mind…
formulate great ideas and poetry
so amusing, used, records
(or, did musicians have what i did not?)—

Anyways, on the sides from CD cases,
into parts and the artwork/insert
-them ragged lines; lyrics.
The ink, characters, nearly like
someone’s handwriting; form a new
supersonic sliding of plastic doors,
open new thrills further forming the foreseen forms
you are going to someday be reading of,
my friend,
like they as ancient as Plato.

Anyways there. Beyond, it was her,
“Mario, could you come fill in for me?
i am not . . . . No, not at all.”
when she ran on over the phone,
sly shoegaze of speech
carrying the telephone with her
into the back space; biting as
something scorched from speakers
as what i hoped but could explain.
‘WHATAMIIIIIIIII_DOINGHERRRRRRRE’
And let the soundtrack and the
world and stuff reincarnate
how it all happened

Since, in that atmosphere, heard
‘Mario’ muffle in the earpiece
‘you aint tryin to take your life, again?’
–phoom! gone forever.

and all the titles—emerging—
songs, blistered-in chills—
seemingly long lost scraped goosebumps
everywhere goose flesh, maze moved so magnificently,
empowered—fresh as she remained
somewhere backstage—in the backroom.

Textured then all in the sounds;
so familiarly perfect. And i just hoped
she heard them. . . felt the same. . .
it slipped faint along the old way
‘THISISHOW-I_spendmydaaaaaaaayyys’
in the deepest aisles, more tattered
than VHS containers, movies,
with titles themed in themselves
on undesignable cardboard, and within torn edges
crammed into their own sides; 90 degrees world;
the perpendicular mark to the purple crayon.

Turn your head –at the wrinkled wave
distorting infinity to remain, like posters, posed,
form theme; form next to them, and films—
turn to the quiet, hapless, infinite leans
against each other, and way fury
of alternative funk and background of arms,
that doom of rain, sweat and mud
---the smeared reach with apocalyptic intentions
--but tilt your look at its brown huge image
over so many walls—and splatter
between 10,000 stars and millions of arms
….mmmm! say, contained into one of them
lines ;
just blow apocalypse away.

She gathered up in tears and exited,
staring, connecting to me
into the same chrome empire
that smeared fearless looks
into all that remained..
just like that; this one day.

Her hoary eyes could see the future
she’d never reach. i never reached
Heather Glastonbury; in tragic places
she neatly understood; in curious frowns
and engrossing curls, in her tight looks
she wore without needing to explain,
or maybe even knowing -which sent her
a century ahead--as in such apathy,
in flashing glints through moments
she made me, too excitedly, too peripherally,
too forward for effect, where i could not sing
to her psyche; the tilted line off the barrier
i will never know or fully understand.

Yet, below, and never
truly revealing her, but before I
spoke to her; which with the infectious
but longings to figure out; never would or will
I (at an age when the only available thought
was to surely think they would last 1000 years)….
I know Elsie. Familiarly, and in this day
when she construed, but
“What is it Today?”
and should have said it out loud,
maybe I would have reached her,too
but I figured not, and left the place in my own
usual far-off daydreams of what it / was or could be. . . .
as the sun angled low, grazed her
in the places’ like the sign against the parapet,
the above, the awning, the section cut in the storefront
jawline fractured where she spoke
and i did not touch

#ProseChallenge #itslit #getlit #getbent

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Novel Project

If only it were all 

in collaboration in between 

each partition 

as if to keep pace 

with the destruction

of so much raw literature 

inventing a mind altering novel.

Are roaring from the silences, 

not so much out as clicking or clacking, 

but swift as a fierce rattling; 

are overloading keys 

with creativity outpouring 

fast enough 

to win the brand new war?

to change the world 

as every story claims you will do.?

With all our thoughts

and opinions conveniently

contained in some brand new

museum of voices

(does until the boss strolls in)

Does, in this little reverie

he minimizes,

the parturitions of the story, 

and removes the soundtrack buds 

that clear these muffles of 

mumbles he catches the ends of

("Woah... truly working fast")

does the Smell of a smoked lingers

 out of the cubicle, 

-that burning heart, rubber rippled

fascination that follows him-

("We appreciate your dedication 

and intend to give you a raise.") 

...Does he awake olfactories?

- as the boss glares 

at the astonishing data entry

 then back into him -

waking from the creamed 

reeking heart on fire

- and quickly removing the headphones, entagling their streams. 

Do the others

catch it ripe wrought with angry 

wrinkled eternity?

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Novel Project
If only it were all 
in collaboration in between 
each partition 
as if to keep pace 
with the destruction
of so much raw literature 
inventing a mind altering novel.
Are roaring from the silences, 
not so much out as clicking or clacking, 
but swift as a fierce rattling; 
are overloading keys 
with creativity outpouring 
fast enough 
to win the brand new war?
to change the world 
as every story claims you will do.?
With all our thoughts
and opinions conveniently
contained in some brand new
museum of voices
(does until the boss strolls in)
Does, in this little reverie
he minimizes,
the parturitions of the story, 
and removes the soundtrack buds 
that clear these muffles of 
mumbles he catches the ends of
("Woah... truly working fast")
does the Smell of a smoked lingers
 out of the cubicle, 
-that burning heart, rubber rippled
fascination that follows him-
("We appreciate your dedication 
and intend to give you a raise.") 
...Does he awake olfactories?
- as the boss glares 
at the astonishing data entry
 then back into him -
waking from the creamed 
reeking heart on fire
- and quickly removing the headphones, entagling their streams. 
Do the others
catch it ripe wrought with angry 
wrinkled eternity?

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0
Juice
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Written by Lynk in portal Romance & Erotica

;shoes]

“”””””””Clarence, he’d been on Mars before too.

Clarence once got so bad,

near snap try’n to slugg holes

in Mars’ sides --that Mars

clean the wishing pond dry.

Mars own the raggy scenes; tho-

never rely on Sucker’s Eyes for some.

Clarence, though,

like somethin without any screws.

So ya can’t say he got any loose

or nothin.

Clarence would scrap the change

up out North’s wishing pond

for a look at being alive -

A look at shoes,

inside a skirt, and up thighs.

Anyway, people tossed in their hopes

like that; like, and Clarence

remove his shoes and dip in

-pants rolled t' knees.

Fuckin girls

chargin pennies these days.

Like

nobody wants you to be that

but evr-one wants to feel

like A monkey shot to space;

just fleeing with guts. . . .  Steamed.

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Written by Lynk in portal Romance & Erotica
;shoes]
“”””””””Clarence, he’d been on Mars before too.
Clarence once got so bad,
near snap try’n to slugg holes
in Mars’ sides --that Mars
clean the wishing pond dry.

Mars own the raggy scenes; tho-
never rely on Sucker’s Eyes for some.

Clarence, though,
like somethin without any screws.
So ya can’t say he got any loose
or nothin.

Clarence would scrap the change
up out North’s wishing pond
for a look at being alive -
A look at shoes,
inside a skirt, and up thighs.

Anyway, people tossed in their hopes
like that; like, and Clarence
remove his shoes and dip in
-pants rolled t' knees.

Fuckin girls
chargin pennies these days.

Like
nobody wants you to be that
but evr-one wants to feel
like A monkey shot to space;
just fleeing with guts. . . .  Steamed.
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Juice
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Challenge of the Week #56: Write the beginning of a story about a tyrannical king who threatens the entire realm. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Lynk

bm Mercurio iii - (ahssIV)

FOR MUTUAL REASONS, equality maybe, fairness, Murray Webster knew; because he appears to be attentive, either counterintuitively or part contained in them metallic streetholes peering into life’s flit and filtering shadows for tangled up glimpses of the wonder; the classic author live and in living colour.

Murray Webster could not resist them looks in crowds. So, collectively and separately, he could not be not too involved either; then maybe telling himself things in great words, etching scenes no one will ever be able to read, the great Murray Webster, the phenomenal standing soul figured with this fascinating understanding of his place amongst the herd or crowd, party… knEw exactly how to act and what to say, and how to exactly fissure the way he was perceived within attitude and form and presence of whomever surrounded; to be that person everyone expected, such as one creatively writ to be, but no one, in truth, intends to be. That! my friends, made him one really sweet dude going, “this dude, I swear this is one really sweet dude I tell you.”.

And, living people, I have survived using this just the same as from one to the next in short sips; while at other times actually moving universes and feeding off incomes and such, or blooming from there with slight sustenance but never thriving; eating away and developing nothing. Beyond the very wearing of my frail frame, I have been using their info to pass it off as my own and like a balloon or beach ball in a crowd at a stadium; like that, I have moved impressions of things to be my very own thoughts.

And so, so our story attains the eye-to-eye popping inaudible conversations (the immediate close ones) just as Pakmer placed, just in a crowd; on that emotion of fair levels, which innately are impossible with floods of everyone peeped like everyone knows it, but we acknowledge it and no one even attempts to talk in that place; like the rest of this story and thee overwhelming commonality ….

In the scene of this perfect self-confidence, where Murray went unto me, “can you believe that,” Murray Webster asked—“believe what?” I returned—“that Pakmer. That is one sweet dude I tell you. Mmmaybe the sweetest dude in the room. I mean how cool would it be to be Pakmer Theromstadte!? All huge, dude like that all inescapably awesome -and you know he knows; just look at him,” yet never revealing or telling, or making-believe Pakmer was this composed genuinely Murray Webster exclaim roughly to me about this, and about us, “-we, we being these incredible writer types, we could unstoppably, unpredictably charm, steal females by embracing soft jaw corners with our mitts and just smile them to their knees; ...if weee looked like that dude..”

Phew! And so, around him become this contagious need to not talk with anyone about just how kept, almost reposing in this magnificent sculpt Pakmer was. Certainly ‘Spence’ to everyone who could get him to recognize them. His boyish neck all shoulders in curved portions detailed so the lumped hemp necklace made me realize why girls wrapped around themselves atop his build, with flits here and there as if admiring in some statuesque figuring the dreams, oh heavens the dreams; and his jeans had v-cuts at the bottoms, flared, draped, fine casual expensive and smooth; while I had sneakers and Murray Webster had Adidas and salvation army Dickies drooped, shorts underneath we see the waistbands of when he wrestles someone like DJ or Todd later in the wasted morning hours. Spence had boy curls, browns, hat smashed depth his face and pretense so perfected, so intelligently attracted, so empowered, and so overcome the searches for laudable reactions ….

Murray Webster’ admiration went further into the night with nearly no one left, “man, oh man we are gonna hit Taco Hell,” and kept lingering looks around for somewhere just…. Just phenomenal….

In these small subcity streetholes Murray Webster really look forward in serious talks to Pakmer about underneath all the spoiling mesh and blend of more brilliance than we merely, emphatically understood, that is to say, “yeah I hope we see them moiling strains,” Murray Webster exclaims. And Pakmer come morphing and judgments instantly vanished as we climbed into this car, and Pakmer goes, “Mowee -is a lot of ga-age,” in such drastic mumbles and incomprehensible crawls in the back smashes all over the matter with those nice shoes, and down into the passenger floor mess, rustled the piles, then closes the door waiting for the echo, or maybe I was just me; to speak again, and speaks up again, and changes the subjects kind of engrossed, “ew got vose apes Vebtrr,” whereas Murray Webster holds before his eyes so clear and so almost snuck then out of that floor where Spence could not hear him sneak and from somewhere in the whole mess of cigarette packs and empty cassette cases, mail, things, fast food wads, bags, cellophanes, gumwrappers and crinkling candy wrappers, beer cans warped and some unopened climbs in the back, through shoes,,socks, clothes flings the middle armrest compartment wherein he grabs music cassettes, blank tapes so mostly quiet that though obliterated high tones of it, like music, to Pakmer, moves round over the lost emphatic scrunches of singing lip synchs just shoved in the straight kind of skeptical actions hardly experienced and those two connect on some deeper level than the group in there..

In the universal viewport we’ll only imagine from afar, and around the street-wires, signs, and empty middle night’s stuttering stops from the book of Murray Webster sunk deep into them streetlight holes the cruising welded miracles with powerful visual understanding of the whole almost startling from my silences like they forgot in there and slip through the highway backroots lurking…

We cannot tell you what music sounds like to Pakmer Thermostadte. But this certainly approachable, glitters upon apraxia, filtering in the shadows tangled up glimpses he appears to be attentive, either counterintuitively in or as part as if contained in them metallic streetholes in rationale and demeanor; by some divine quietude; instantly snuck inside my visuals and dreams talking to me close in my own admiring of this outrageous life. But that which I did not want to…and that was to reproach him; for fear of being humiliated but only unto myself; a sort selfless depression; so ignored the chaos, the pressure, the dismal red-eye everywhere that lingered inside the great big mind, some panic that wherever we were and whatever we were doing was right and something great, big, a damn confusion yea like that it went…. Like: We are the afterlife. The future was formulating from some late night courage as Murray Webster steering, wheeled all angled at the moon, hand gripped around the steering wheel, cocked, angled, always at the moon….I swear….and the thing would go straight down the road.

……Oh who would not want to be a writer like Murray Webster, in his hoodies in the middle of such cold Northwest Ohio winters. Murray, who told him, told Spenceer, “sure, man, wh—wait a minute though” and hung us and my readers from this indifferent time unto when we finally found out what music sounds like to Pakmer Thermostadte.

Pakmer Theromstadte indifferently posed himself just how clever and impressive the guy truly is; to be so unsociable and bold, conceited; then I find Murray Webster telling him how much he was awaiting his response, after whatever it could be, Murray Webster just carrying on like he was anyone or like he was everyone, and the way Murray Webster always talks ultimate, the most prevailing, influential, extraordinary, quarreless reasoning with whomever, but ever taking to asking the statue, the David, to comes to life and stared at him uncomfortably as he shunned gullible innocent incredible astral gray gorgeous eyes and seemed more fragile and delicate than the thin air under which his grand sound was accustomed to hearing, that manhood disaster I thought for a second, stutters thickly tongued from those ears protruded with such a wondrous extension of shined looks, penetrated further within Pakmer Theromstadte than he could listen to. And Murray Webster turn to me just annihilated by such substance as if had read Macbeth, “see, I told you he was the sweetest dude.”

Ridiculously trying to make me curl knowing full well what I was thinking and assuming about Pakmer Theromstadte, since Murray Webster would later confess amazingly without my mentioning or maybe I did and he just agreed after I had told him about the impression I had about maybe that I can’t even imagine his curiosity to even listen but just the same unresponsiveness, content Murray Webster’s tapes broke loose in the airwaves of his vehicle and further our souls awaited ever the chance expelling from the way that understanding of the guys’ tremendous distraction coolly downward swirl as FADETOBLACK within vulnerable doubts began to push on me back inside wonder about that sparkling night and things I told to people, mmgeeky daisy, things, flabbergasted things there in the party setting in the sidestreet holes the streetlight holes a quiet underneath moonfilled trees and star scatters around an area where vacant sweepswirl roads kind of slip, shortcut through or something like a wrong turn down enterprise lane or business expressway where the workers used to cross in my youth but uplift, bend, zoom us under the highway overpass, pillared viaduct, underneath the bridge come across ramps disappearing onto the highway or turned, dropped off slow reality juxtaposed with acceleration around down down down this intersection splitting ramps up around them corners the light waits for, catches, consumes Time and us and so Murray Webster goes, “So Spence?” And and oh man and he goes, “Metallica..” clear as fuckin crystal I swear to heaven..And made the ride-along in the car that night cross the highway by fate in a kind of symbol of the broken tragic life when it gets caste to heal, instead of letting the nature devour the end of living there; and instead we hang on and alter now every organism so immensely appealing, inside compacted sidestreet holes and tiny front yards unearthing things to hide in the gaps of trucks and cars and the obstacles; and that merges, allows acceleration before squeezing full all vibrating some high pitched accumulation so Pakmer’s swaying feelings for it—drums double pound the blank lulls then come back a second time inevitably building again, whining magnificent the windows of midnight homes resonantly ignited along the ineffable city edges up grassy hillsides of the highway —right in there like they might have heard…

But alas the thing goes full throttle into the climax into the oblivion, into the soul, into the smacking and from those guitars, in the backgrounds in the twists of the drums and the paralleling feels out of steam pulsating magnificent writing you cant keep up with, writing or living you just fall flat and let take hold…..

In so many ways, a part, the immediate placement in the epoch thought of the insignificance chills and frisson rifts… See, Murray Webster, who had a car like that, but this one dude, gave a light peered green from in front where the radio buttons once were, and the passenger window had to be messed with just right to get up, rollup…… and nonetheless managed to carry everyone like that; and you could not tell anyone anything different; and that’s why so many ended crashing at his house or coming over and just hanging there all night, awaiting that dream and those snow covered streetless dark holes that made it all the way through, with stocking caps on and hoodies (cuz writers do not wear jackets anymore) of freezing uncontrollably; blank travels; yet with the character unbelievable… Murray Webster, who found out what music sounds like to a deaf kid..Murray Webster, who would take everyone to the moon someday.. Murray Webster iii - ready to take over the world

 

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Challenge of the Week #56: Write the beginning of a story about a tyrannical king who threatens the entire realm. The most masterfully written piece, as voted and determined by the Prose team, will be crowned winner and receive $100. Quality beats quantity, always, but numbers make things easier for our judges, so share, share, share with friends, family, and connections. #ProseChallenge #getlit #itslit
Written by Lynk
bm Mercurio iii - (ahssIV)
FOR MUTUAL REASONS, equality maybe, fairness, Murray Webster knew; because he appears to be attentive, either counterintuitively or part contained in them metallic streetholes peering into life’s flit and filtering shadows for tangled up glimpses of the wonder; the classic author live and in living colour.

Murray Webster could not resist them looks in crowds. So, collectively and separately, he could not be not too involved either; then maybe telling himself things in great words, etching scenes no one will ever be able to read, the great Murray Webster, the phenomenal standing soul figured with this fascinating understanding of his place amongst the herd or crowd, party… knEw exactly how to act and what to say, and how to exactly fissure the way he was perceived within attitude and form and presence of whomever surrounded; to be that person everyone expected, such as one creatively writ to be, but no one, in truth, intends to be. That! my friends, made him one really sweet dude going, “this dude, I swear this is one really sweet dude I tell you.”.

And, living people, I have survived using this just the same as from one to the next in short sips; while at other times actually moving universes and feeding off incomes and such, or blooming from there with slight sustenance but never thriving; eating away and developing nothing. Beyond the very wearing of my frail frame, I have been using their info to pass it off as my own and like a balloon or beach ball in a crowd at a stadium; like that, I have moved impressions of things to be my very own thoughts.

And so, so our story attains the eye-to-eye popping inaudible conversations (the immediate close ones) just as Pakmer placed, just in a crowd; on that emotion of fair levels, which innately are impossible with floods of everyone peeped like everyone knows it, but we acknowledge it and no one even attempts to talk in that place; like the rest of this story and thee overwhelming commonality ….

In the scene of this perfect self-confidence, where Murray went unto me, “can you believe that,” Murray Webster asked—“believe what?” I returned—“that Pakmer. That is one sweet dude I tell you. Mmmaybe the sweetest dude in the room. I mean how cool would it be to be Pakmer Theromstadte!? All huge, dude like that all inescapably awesome -and you know he knows; just look at him,” yet never revealing or telling, or making-believe Pakmer was this composed genuinely Murray Webster exclaim roughly to me about this, and about us, “-we, we being these incredible writer types, we could unstoppably, unpredictably charm, steal females by embracing soft jaw corners with our mitts and just smile them to their knees; ...if weee looked like that dude..”

Phew! And so, around him become this contagious need to not talk with anyone about just how kept, almost reposing in this magnificent sculpt Pakmer was. Certainly ‘Spence’ to everyone who could get him to recognize them. His boyish neck all shoulders in curved portions detailed so the lumped hemp necklace made me realize why girls wrapped around themselves atop his build, with flits here and there as if admiring in some statuesque figuring the dreams, oh heavens the dreams; and his jeans had v-cuts at the bottoms, flared, draped, fine casual expensive and smooth; while I had sneakers and Murray Webster had Adidas and salvation army Dickies drooped, shorts underneath we see the waistbands of when he wrestles someone like DJ or Todd later in the wasted morning hours. Spence had boy curls, browns, hat smashed depth his face and pretense so perfected, so intelligently attracted, so empowered, and so overcome the searches for laudable reactions ….

Murray Webster’ admiration went further into the night with nearly no one left, “man, oh man we are gonna hit Taco Hell,” and kept lingering looks around for somewhere just…. Just phenomenal….
In these small subcity streetholes Murray Webster really look forward in serious talks to Pakmer about underneath all the spoiling mesh and blend of more brilliance than we merely, emphatically understood, that is to say, “yeah I hope we see them moiling strains,” Murray Webster exclaims. And Pakmer come morphing and judgments instantly vanished as we climbed into this car, and Pakmer goes, “Mowee -is a lot of ga-age,” in such drastic mumbles and incomprehensible crawls in the back smashes all over the matter with those nice shoes, and down into the passenger floor mess, rustled the piles, then closes the door waiting for the echo, or maybe I was just me; to speak again, and speaks up again, and changes the subjects kind of engrossed, “ew got vose apes Vebtrr,” whereas Murray Webster holds before his eyes so clear and so almost snuck then out of that floor where Spence could not hear him sneak and from somewhere in the whole mess of cigarette packs and empty cassette cases, mail, things, fast food wads, bags, cellophanes, gumwrappers and crinkling candy wrappers, beer cans warped and some unopened climbs in the back, through shoes,,socks, clothes flings the middle armrest compartment wherein he grabs music cassettes, blank tapes so mostly quiet that though obliterated high tones of it, like music, to Pakmer, moves round over the lost emphatic scrunches of singing lip synchs just shoved in the straight kind of skeptical actions hardly experienced and those two connect on some deeper level than the group in there..

In the universal viewport we’ll only imagine from afar, and around the street-wires, signs, and empty middle night’s stuttering stops from the book of Murray Webster sunk deep into them streetlight holes the cruising welded miracles with powerful visual understanding of the whole almost startling from my silences like they forgot in there and slip through the highway backroots lurking…

We cannot tell you what music sounds like to Pakmer Thermostadte. But this certainly approachable, glitters upon apraxia, filtering in the shadows tangled up glimpses he appears to be attentive, either counterintuitively in or as part as if contained in them metallic streetholes in rationale and demeanor; by some divine quietude; instantly snuck inside my visuals and dreams talking to me close in my own admiring of this outrageous life. But that which I did not want to…and that was to reproach him; for fear of being humiliated but only unto myself; a sort selfless depression; so ignored the chaos, the pressure, the dismal red-eye everywhere that lingered inside the great big mind, some panic that wherever we were and whatever we were doing was right and something great, big, a damn confusion yea like that it went…. Like: We are the afterlife. The future was formulating from some late night courage as Murray Webster steering, wheeled all angled at the moon, hand gripped around the steering wheel, cocked, angled, always at the moon….I swear….and the thing would go straight down the road.

……Oh who would not want to be a writer like Murray Webster, in his hoodies in the middle of such cold Northwest Ohio winters. Murray, who told him, told Spenceer, “sure, man, wh—wait a minute though” and hung us and my readers from this indifferent time unto when we finally found out what music sounds like to Pakmer Thermostadte.

Pakmer Theromstadte indifferently posed himself just how clever and impressive the guy truly is; to be so unsociable and bold, conceited; then I find Murray Webster telling him how much he was awaiting his response, after whatever it could be, Murray Webster just carrying on like he was anyone or like he was everyone, and the way Murray Webster always talks ultimate, the most prevailing, influential, extraordinary, quarreless reasoning with whomever, but ever taking to asking the statue, the David, to comes to life and stared at him uncomfortably as he shunned gullible innocent incredible astral gray gorgeous eyes and seemed more fragile and delicate than the thin air under which his grand sound was accustomed to hearing, that manhood disaster I thought for a second, stutters thickly tongued from those ears protruded with such a wondrous extension of shined looks, penetrated further within Pakmer Theromstadte than he could listen to. And Murray Webster turn to me just annihilated by such substance as if had read Macbeth, “see, I told you he was the sweetest dude.”

Ridiculously trying to make me curl knowing full well what I was thinking and assuming about Pakmer Theromstadte, since Murray Webster would later confess amazingly without my mentioning or maybe I did and he just agreed after I had told him about the impression I had about maybe that I can’t even imagine his curiosity to even listen but just the same unresponsiveness, content Murray Webster’s tapes broke loose in the airwaves of his vehicle and further our souls awaited ever the chance expelling from the way that understanding of the guys’ tremendous distraction coolly downward swirl as FADETOBLACK within vulnerable doubts began to push on me back inside wonder about that sparkling night and things I told to people, mmgeeky daisy, things, flabbergasted things there in the party setting in the sidestreet holes the streetlight holes a quiet underneath moonfilled trees and star scatters around an area where vacant sweepswirl roads kind of slip, shortcut through or something like a wrong turn down enterprise lane or business expressway where the workers used to cross in my youth but uplift, bend, zoom us under the highway overpass, pillared viaduct, underneath the bridge come across ramps disappearing onto the highway or turned, dropped off slow reality juxtaposed with acceleration around down down down this intersection splitting ramps up around them corners the light waits for, catches, consumes Time and us and so Murray Webster goes, “So Spence?” And and oh man and he goes, “Metallica..” clear as fuckin crystal I swear to heaven..And made the ride-along in the car that night cross the highway by fate in a kind of symbol of the broken tragic life when it gets caste to heal, instead of letting the nature devour the end of living there; and instead we hang on and alter now every organism so immensely appealing, inside compacted sidestreet holes and tiny front yards unearthing things to hide in the gaps of trucks and cars and the obstacles; and that merges, allows acceleration before squeezing full all vibrating some high pitched accumulation so Pakmer’s swaying feelings for it—drums double pound the blank lulls then come back a second time inevitably building again, whining magnificent the windows of midnight homes resonantly ignited along the ineffable city edges up grassy hillsides of the highway —right in there like they might have heard…

But alas the thing goes full throttle into the climax into the oblivion, into the soul, into the smacking and from those guitars, in the backgrounds in the twists of the drums and the paralleling feels out of steam pulsating magnificent writing you cant keep up with, writing or living you just fall flat and let take hold…..
In so many ways, a part, the immediate placement in the epoch thought of the insignificance chills and frisson rifts… See, Murray Webster, who had a car like that, but this one dude, gave a light peered green from in front where the radio buttons once were, and the passenger window had to be messed with just right to get up, rollup…… and nonetheless managed to carry everyone like that; and you could not tell anyone anything different; and that’s why so many ended crashing at his house or coming over and just hanging there all night, awaiting that dream and those snow covered streetless dark holes that made it all the way through, with stocking caps on and hoodies (cuz writers do not wear jackets anymore) of freezing uncontrollably; blank travels; yet with the character unbelievable… Murray Webster, who found out what music sounds like to a deaf kid..Murray Webster, who would take everyone to the moon someday.. Murray Webster iii - ready to take over the world
 
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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Dead Stars

Beautiful Lights

The dream is dead 

tonight

Just as some 

Of you

Yet still we fight to allow

Your burning from

Across the other end

As if still alight

And yet i cannot fathom

What will happen

When that reaches me

Tonight

 - the dream is dead

Yet still

Still, are we bringing you in?

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Written by Lynk in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Dead Stars
Beautiful Lights
The dream is dead 
tonight
Just as some 
Of you
Yet still we fight to allow
Your burning from
Across the other end
As if still alight
And yet i cannot fathom
What will happen
When that reaches me
Tonight
 - the dream is dead
Yet still
Still, are we bringing you in?
4
1
0
Juice
17 reads
Login to post comments.