sydney "be more specific" the geni insisted.
"i don't wish to bore with the minutiae of my travails" i offered, persuasively as possible.
"oh, you wish to be universal?"
how to respond, how to respond?
"then undress, walk naked, forget everything you know. 80 followers / 2.4k words
a ceiling fan revolves over the bed arrhythmically yellowed wallpaper archives a million cigarettes and fewer post ****** reprieves. from his fingers the snaking upward blue smoke of burning tobacco reveals turbulence. she has gone back into the world. Laying in the mise en scène of their aftermath he smokes like a figure growing distant in a cinematic moment expunged of heroism. The yellowed sheets roped around his ankles recall an inmate’s noose. She'd been inside. For twelve whole years. The way she assumed her role, in the act, always telling: face to the wall, silent as though it were a frank and basic meal, an intimacy of terseness. he drew deeply, and a ring of orange bloomed fugitively proclaiming love remained a chance. who could know? the fan swung in elliptic loops beating back the hot air and pummelling the lone smoker blankly. her parting glance was inscrutable. he watched the curtains billow from the room like a flag or a veil over the parking lot, as if something important were happening. A square of sky, framed by the window, spoke of larger things - and under the window a dog assuaged its thirst lapping at the drips that leaked from a pipe.
a re-write and re-post. I've strived for meaningful enjambments and a sense of metre while attempting to sound contemporary
When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest. I sighed for thee.
Just now it has come to me again: the sudden knowledge of everything that remains to be done though I worked my *** off this week, doing things, doing things. What is my style? is a question I have never asked until now, in the waiting room at my dentist’s, when this article in O Magazine encouraged me so cunningly to do so. Maybe it is not my job to surprise you, not anymore, says the spirit. O.K., I say. O.K. But still, I want one more crisp image, just one, though I know I don’t deserve it, I want it to appear the way money once or twice in my life has appeared in my line of vision on the street: some bill, nearly alive, green god, its skin giving off evergreen light, unaccounted for and then immediately mine, no questions asked.