Here you go readers! Please view my finalized and complete creative writing project, Words From Paint. :]
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***this post is going to be completely updated!
|Cocooned within the picture. Each individual, yet a part of the same. Linked, but disconnected. A Piece of a piece of a piece.||The face appeared before them easy to see: eye socket, and the extended nose, which led to the lack of mouth. Rather curious, as it was still speaking.||Countering. Facing. Vased in. Hour-glass. Abstract. Lost in its own curves. A candle with an irregular mold.||Viewing overhead the mess to come is a curse & a blessing depending on your interpretation.|
|Words and meaning. The way it’s said, pronunciation is key. So is spelling, & grammar. But all of that is worthless without some meat/fruit/juice, whatever, take your pick, to keep the reader going.||The light shines down through a neon sheen. Goosebumps rise on the thighs, a steady hand, & controlled smile meet yours. The Moon greets the Sun.||Creating complicated, dramatic, compelling lives for people you encounter on the bus, only to blink it all away upon exiting @ your stop.||A sly fox donned a purple hat, met a pig, and jumped continents, only to zip & kick into a quaint boxcar.|
|Sometimes mistakes make the picture. Other times they fuck up the whole thing.||“Love becomes you, Dear. Your face glows & eyes smile. See you know it. Watch you blush. Isn’t love Surreal?”||A character, yes quite A character. Running along
On time, or not.
Night shows no bounds while you’re in flight tonight, quick, before the sun we fright.
|Wave—& foam writhe to no end & so does the ink, but in such more restricting, yet freeing ways. Both eternal & needed.|
|A cat scratching on a post. A hand nudged across a table. A way to bridge the way one painting was randomly started & became immense.||Loopy words & sloping meaning rush to fill the shore of understanding.||Hey square, look over there. <–>I don’t care.But you’ve come this far. Screw this, I’m taking the ship back home.||Elvis lived & died for Rock-N-Roll. Even tho he died clutching a toilet roll.|
|I form sentences to say to those people with zipper lips but then I delete my text in fear of getting stuck in their teeth.||I thought I saw an Angel in the scuff of mud from your shoe on the bathroom wall. Her wings swept back, her hair white, her body cloaked & draped. Will I ever wipe her away?||“La vie Boheme,” we sang through the streets. “La vie Boheme,” I scream, alone. “La vie Boheme,” I hum while working on other writing.||Blue: Rich, royal, sad, consuming, gentle, calm, boy, or girl, baby, blueberry, Ultra-, Aqua-, marine. And all the glorious shades in between.|
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When one love finds the other—
A yin hugging its yang.
Perhaps not so flip-flop on opinions.
Although there will always be ample debate
hats through the years. But maybe a fancy
moonlit walk that could turn into watching
the sun burst over the ocean.
Music streams from you and makes me
Now just add Monte Cristo.
But no matter, a slow dance is
Two hearts beating against each other in slow motion.
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They talk awhile like two fish swimming too close together.
Like the cherries clumping together on the tree.
four leaf clover lost somewhere in the center.
Here, just let me balance it out a bit.
Afterall, it’s a long fall from our golden copper roll.
A fade into the distance or perhaps rising above.
More annoying that a spot that keeps seeping through.
Gotta be careful. Don’t know which route goes where
until somewhat down the way.
But all things seem to come back around.
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The first time it was a refuge from the rain when he sprained his ankle hiking.
The second time had been a romantic weekend for two.
The third time he was alone, until he lost himself in the stars.
He felt the place needed a change from him in way of adornment.
On his fourth visit, he found a crack in the back wall boulder.
He picked at it until the entire stone crumbled into a pile of sand.
Stepping through the portal, he encounters a golden chamber.
Curiosity & awe led him through.
Strange & familiar symbols were etched into the luminous walls.
The limestone floor was carpeted with moss-soft under his feet.
Jade stalactites hung over his head, but he continued to the exit that grew with every step,
until finally he stood outside the cave in a scene of natural splendor.
Unlike the normal sun he was used to, he could stare continuously at it without hurting his eyes.
He thought it strange, but he felt better when he stared at the eye.
He tested his theory by trying to look away, but he couldn’t.
He sat where he came out of the cave.
As it got later in the day, the Eye’s light dimmed,
but it stayed the same visible gold, purple, and green.
He did not move from his gaze of the Eye.
A cup sat next to his hand to drink from the river, but he never picked it up.
He had never felt better. He knew if he kept watch of the Eye he could explore any thought, any topic, any memory he might have.
He just sat there, and stared at the Eye.
Perhaps he is still there.
But he for sure didn’t see the strange wave of color flying through the sky that
Turned back around when it smelled him.
A portion broke from the group and curled and wriggled in glee and hunger.
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Hours & seconds of years run together
to form decades measured in memories
and rentable clichés.
Empty cups and stacks of paper.
Author as trapeze artist balancing
Originality & Influence
over the snapping, salivating jaws of the Media.
Was it the Red Queen who replaced the white rabbit’s carrot
with the pocketwatch to make him ever anxious of the time?
Or did he find it hopping through the woods and thought
it made him ever so sophisticated?
of essays of his thoughts for the mere pleasure of the calligraphy.
Comparable to a flower, the man’s continuous thoughts are baby’s breath,
there to fill in when content isn’t the main concern.
True writing spawns from cultivating the prim rose prose
that springs forth in the cracks of daily life’s time-table.
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Susie hugging her bear—Tim & Todd tugging her pig tails—
All three incarcerated in big sister Flora’s bored gaze.
She lies on her side in the soft grass and
Watches lithe clouds pass by, ever transforming.
Her imagination conjures up green spots, and
a tuft of black hair with a matching hat to its skin.
In her mind, the elephant opens a set of eyes,
And they are the same shade of blue as Jack’s.
She drifts on his image, but then shakes her head.
He said he’d call, she thinks. Phew! It’s still cooler
out here than in that house. Flora usually calls it their mutated barn.
The mocking silence of the kitchen phone, and
The kids on full-boil energy had driven her out of the coop
and into the valley next to where her family’s home resides.
There are some trees for shade—while being just out of ring distance—
but still within Mama’s scream—so Susie, Tim & Todd could have their fill.
Blink back to the present, and then she’s up with the swing. “Susanne!”
A flurry of blue cotton down the hill, and she separates
the mixture of children, dirt, & squeals of who started it.
“I don’t care. You are siblings. You have to be nice to each other.”
What a load, she thinks. Alice & Tom have never stopped picking on me.
On the crest of the hill, the kids clump closer together, & she realizes it’s
unnaturally quiet—Not a single bird chirping, or cruising, on this hot,
almost-summer day. Flora freezes & the children clutch to her skirt at the
horror unrolling in front of them. A colossal, swirling tower of wind,
energy, debris, & natural rage rips through their father’s barn and mother’s garden,
blasting Earth and everything connected to it into shreds.
She drops to the ground—huddles the—shaking—kids close; their young eyes
can comprehend complete destruction when it is right in front of them.
Glancing back at the scene she had watched for hours through a daydream filter,
the giraffe-elephant-Jack is little more than a loosely knitted gossamer veil.
The sky has turned peculiar colors; perhaps the green spotted cloud hadn’t been all her imagination. Forcing herself to face the situation—only to be shocked again—
T-minus 30-seconds until the whole things gone.
Alas, before the Monster goes through the front door, it slopes to the left and just takes off the remodeled den. The cyclones energy starts disappearing
From the bottom
until everything held high has dropped.
A surge of adrenaline—Flora grabs Susie & Tim—Todd runs along her side,
even running ahead and throwing open the storm cellar doors for her.
In any other moment, she’d praise his chivalry for wanting her to go before him—
but not while her blood is curdling from anxiety. A stomp of her foot,
and he descends—Tim & Susie follow suit.
Slamming the doors and then locking the chain,
She imagines a ring—Jack picking up & her heart singing—
because she can’t wait to tell him her story.
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This blog archives some of my poetry along with the random & lyrical prose that I produce for content. I also have a page on here called My Art that has chronicled past art projects I have been, or had been, working on. That page has not been updated in what seems like forever, even though I’ve made much art since then. But now, with the series of blogs in conjunction with HashtagOctothorpe that will start after this post, Words From Paint takes a large 18×24 acrylic painting I finished March 2012 and accompanies sections with narrative fiction, poetry, and microfiction.
The text that goes along with the pictures is not supposed to fix the meaning of the images, but instead to open up the interpretation of what could be. The stories are just one story that could go with each scene. Later perhaps I will come back and create entirely new stories for each section of images, but for now they stand as influenced stories to expand the meaning of the paint.
I will reblog the finished link to HashtagOctothorpe when it is up.