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Lord Byron with writers block, in the 1980's
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Lord Byron with writers block, in the 1980's |
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desert-spike Member
since 2006-02-01
Posts 194TX/USA |
Before I begin. let me just say that this is an experiment. and I have no idea where this is headed. About 2 minutes ago I read Pipster RedStoneEB's old famous poet challenge, and I have teken things from there. "She walks in beauty, like the night", dictated a gaunt voice in reflection of that first line which the voice's owner had just plinked out on the the green lit screen of an oldish commodore word processor. "She walks in beauty like the night...like the night....Like hell! It's 92 degrees and humid out there! If she were here, she'd be walking around in sweat soaked undergarments, comtemplating following Ophelia's example of immersing herself in the cool waters of yonder pond." he spat, and kicked out from his desk a bit more forcefully than intended; in a kick bourne out of frustration at the heat, and the moisture. Alone either was manageable. Together they a pair of master thieves, stealing away the creative drive as their bounty. His work station grew slightly smaller or so it seemed as the wheeled swivel chair sailed him across the room, and stopped with a delayed double jerk as it hit against a low stack of cardboard boxes. Boxes which contained his life's work. Boxes which, like his soul was under the threat of being besogged by a midsummer night's heat. "Man I need a smoke", he said rubbing his face in clammy sweaty hands. The sickly sweet odor of nicotine seeping from his pores only taunted that craving. Getting up from his throne of frustration, he walked from the study, passed through the galley kitchen where he paused once at the refrigerator to grab a couple beers, and headed for the door. Outside, the humidity was made all the more evident. An opressive reminder that the window box ac unit was at least doing its part. At the very least. There was heard in the the dark, the tell-tale crack hiss of a beer can being opened, its contents of spendour being roused from compressed slumber to do their work on an already too befuddled mind. Sulfer and magnese filled the air. The match was lit, living its momentary glory as it brought to life the harbinging slow destruction of a cigarette, then doused by air, so that only the cool orange circle of the tobacco filled straw pierced the blackness. The night was overcast, making already forest choked grounds around the country cabin seem all the more dark, and all the more strangled by all encompassing heat, and the dampness that was its love child with mother nature. The writer paced back and forth absently, taking intermittent pulls and drags respectively. After a time, the hollow sound of an empty aluminum can hitting the ground just off the porch rund dully in the night; its place taken by another crack-hiss of its replacement soldier being called into inspirative service. He crushed out his smoke on creaky wooden planks making up the porch, and turned to head back in. When suddenly he stopped; or rather jerked to a sudden, violent halt. There could be heard a glurb-hiss; the sound of a half bull can of beer hitting wood, spilling its contents as it rolled away, into the thirsty grip on the night. "Bloody hell!" Cursed the writer, spitting a groping as though the powers that be had just turned him into a certain cartoon critter moving like a sentient tornado. He pulled again and again at his face, his fingers comed back as though covered in scotch tape. "Bloody Spider webs!" He continued his rant to no one. "Never fails! You go out for a breather and then they get you! And always right in the face!" Moments later he walked from the kitchen doublefisting beers, returned the chair to its original position, and sat back down. Resting the cans on coasters, on either side of the green eyed beast which taunted him so, he poised his fingers like a knight with his sword, poised to attack, and had at once more. "She walks..." He typed, and paused respectively. "She walks into spider webs, in the night. "The demon silk, of night's little monsters, going annoyingly down her throat, like too thick cheese from Mario's Pizza Shack. "The kind of cheese so thick, if you swallow even a bit of it whole, you have to reel it out of your throat, lest you risk being choked to death." He frowned at his work. "Lord no." he said, just now realizing he'd wrote that as well as said it. Making the appropriate keystrokes, he tried again. "She walks in silk, like the spider. Hiking glisting chemise all the high-No, I don't think so." "She walks a a spider in the twilight, filling neighborhood children full of fright-Hmmm...." "She parades around naked with-Not even going to go there..." He paused for a long moment, and then a moment longer as the popping spots of full on inebriation set in. Finally, saving his work, he said rather than typed, "He has had enough of this humid spite, so he goeth to bed and calleth it a night." |
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Martie
Moderator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-09-21
Posts 28049California |
d-s This tickled me! |
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