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december
florida    think about how your bare bodies touched for the first time. think about how it felt like an electric shock. think about how electrocution sounds …
December
26/F/Kuala Lumpur    Escapist
december grunge
M    15/m/my place to be as angsty as i want

Poems

Obadiah Grey Jun 2010
Mi fatha

Mi fatha wer a miner,
a big owd man wer ee,
wi  an eart so bold it wer solid gold
en that wer plain te see,
al si thee yung un he wud sey
as off te pit eed trot,
mi mam ed never know if eed be
cumin bak or not.

**** denaby pit e wud gu
a dank en dusky hole,
twer not much gud fer a man like im
ee wer’nt a ****** mole!,

bak brekin werk wer hewin coyel
en freekinin dark en all,
en colliers werst neetmare
wer wen th roof ed fall,
trapt **** pits n’ha way tu dee
en that ah’m tellin thee,
tis gud advice tu stop up top
ah’l tell thee that fer free,

ah’l allus remember copper  
e cem a knocking
mi mam she fear’d werst
wen ah’la sudden
a flooda tears did berst,

n’ha th pit ed got mi fatha
ee wer’nt cumin om at all
twer th coliers werst neetmare
th roof.. ed ad.. a fall.

Alan nettleton.

translation for non yorkie's

My father was a miner
a great big man was he,
with a heart so bold
it was solid gold
and that was plain to see,
I’ll see you young one he would say
as off to the pit he’d trot,
my mother never knew
if he was coming back or not,
down denaby pit he would go
a dank and dusky hole,
it wasn’t much good for a man like him
he wasn’t a ****** mole,
back breaking work was hewing coal
and frightening dark and all,
the colliers worst nightmare
was when the roof would fall,
trapped down the pit is no way to die
and that I’m telling thee,
it’s good advice to stop up top
I’ll tell you that for free,
I’ll always remember the policeman
came a knocking,
my mother she feared the worst ,
when all of a sudden
a flood of tears did burst,
now the pit had got my father
he wasn’t coming home at all,
it was the colliers worst nightmare
the roof it had .....a fall.

Alan nettleton
Cate  Dec 2014
Mayonnaise Malaise
Cate Dec 2014
I hear my last words
lose themselves
hanging from the precipice
of a precise demise.

Looking for nectar,
I pick at thorns and scabs
you name your regrettable yesterdays
though I won’t find any syrup
In your horseradish skull.

Tuesday’s malaise will spread
across the week turning sour and heavy.
Summer to fall I thought I had it solved.
Fall to winter,
I know nothing at all.



12.13.14. Cem copyrighted
edited 6.15.16
Rui Serra  Jul 2014
100 palavras
Rui Serra Jul 2014
Jorge abriu a porta do alfarrabista e um cheiro húmido invadiu-lhe a mente.
- Boa tarde. Bradou uma voz rouca do seu interior.
- Boa tarde.
- Então o que o traz aqui?
- Procuro um conto.
- Sim, mas de que tipo?
- O que procuro deve ter cem palavras.
- Que especificidade.
- Pois sim, tem alguma coisa?
- Huummm, deixe ver.
- Agradeço que veja se não tem por ai algum guardado.
O livreiro abriu a gaveta e retirou do seu interior o palavómetro. E após algumas medidas, eis que surge um conto, assim como este, com cem palavras, nem uma a mais, nem uma a menos.