Hi, and welcome! (Scroll past this post if you’re looking for the updates :))

This is my new thought and fiction diary! Here I’m going to be posting whatever comes to mind, experimenting with whatever I feel like at the time. There will be a lot of first drafts coming through here, but the quality of stuff should reach at least a decent standard. The first post (‘#1: for the sake of flow’) is actually an example of experimentation gone very badly, but you know what? Next time it’ll be better, and that’s the point of this secondary blog!

My previous blog is at ChasjngDreams, a blog that’s taken more of the spin of personal thoughts and rants. If you like what you read here, maybe you’d like the writer behind all of this too!

Hope you enjoy!

– j. NG

273: 7 x 7 x 7

1. 7x7x7
Find the 7th book from your bookshelf. Open it up to page 7. Look at the 7th sentence on the page. Begin a poem that begins with that sentence and limit the length to  7 lines.

F. Scott Fitzgerald: A Short Autobiography
“All that is by way of example.”


All that is by way of example.
The way snow falls,
We have saved for failing gracefully,
The surge of volcanic spit,
For heaving obscenities.
The way that seasons switch:
For melting between identities.


All that is by way of example.
Build a city upon a callus
And walls will be hard
Words will go unheard
Gazes will go past the sky.
No neighbour is close by enough
We’ll accept jostling like spare change.


272: Fun

i miss the Fun, letting him run
fearlessly across fields that leapt
to the bottom of his feet as he sprung
trembling into the air
down to the ground
trembling down past the grass
past the earth
into the dark
where instead of mantle, volcanic rock,
Fun touched God’s hair:
found him sleeping there,
at the core like a radiator.

when Fun returned
he told nobody but me,
but i told you, just now,
back then, a moment ago,
a line’s throw back.

ever since then
Fun’s not been quite as fun,
for he returns from his runs
with sealed lips, and in silence.

271: Edition

Two tomes of exact dimension,
Harboured in equal royalty upon the large wood shelves
Of a pair of lovers; sit, like gazers across riverbanks,
Wondering of the taste of the wind on the other side.

One friend, pristine, has spine straight like
Noble marble pillars and jutting edges,
As a comb underneath fingertips, teethy xylophone, might.
The other is torn and wrinkled,
Matted page creases, corners torn off,
And pages exhale with the fading scent
But deathless stains of coffee hugs.

Shall we state that on one shelf one showed love,
Or on the other the compliment of treasure trove –
Outside, in the spices of life?
Whatever the difference is, these lovers know;
Consolidated in the throes where bridges grow
And the wind and river make sweet moan.

270: Honest Fame

From the moment that I take the stage
I jump from invisibility to focal point.
I love it, the lights, I can tell you that I’m nervous
And make a claim that I was born for this,
And you’ll hear me, hear my story, my upbringing,
Through my lens and not some investigative enquiry
Shoved to the corner of a newspaper,
Yeah, I was poor, grew up almost on the streets,
Never had anything handed to me. I’m crying,
I know you’re crying, judges down there soothe me,
Their smiles ready. I take the mic.
My story’s come down to this.
The world will hear me, national telly,
Youtube streams.


268: Widow

When they pledged together,
Promising forever or at least
Until death did them part –
She’d not thought about if he’d
Be the first to go, and so young,
So young, the alcohol of some youth who
Stole the soul of a newlywed husband
And two children, so young, so young.

And when they pledged the dozens of years of payments
For a house with more shadows than light could reach,
Complete with sunbeams, child’s playroom, attics of mystery,
She never thought that dust would eclipse her vision
Instead of her schedule of breakfast, morning, eggs,
School visit, cleaning for cleanliness, health,
Running, reading, choosing clothes, toys,
Surprises for husband, her girl and boy.
When they took the mansion from her she had almost sighed
But there was already not much left around her bones
And if she had, she might have dried up, and dissolved.

And others did try to soothe her, at first with their company,
Their wholenesses and it did good to obscure voids,
But when they tried to replace recently promised spaces
With new faces she shrieked and tore away
And insults from ghosts bite the most deeply,
So inevitably, she was left alone, while falling years
Fell into leaves, into snow, into rain, into the sun’s glow,
And by the time she got up to leave herself,
She was not much more than a shadow
And the emptiness of ending swallowed her up
Silently in the way that only the vacuum of space can.

267: Face of Competition

Smiling face. Teeth.
Shape like a watermelon peel.
Upwards. Teethless gums
All the better. Contrast.
Rest. Relax. Next photograph.

Resting. Peaceful child.
Mother. Stop frowning.
Resting bitch face?
Keep it to yourself.
You’re not angry?
Take a look in the mirror
Then tell me that.
Scene of serenity.
Mother’s in the restroom,
Crying her eyes out.

Thin nose. Large eyes.
Large melons. I mean peels.
Your smile, nice, wide.
Keeps my eyes here.
Photoshop perfect.
Those real? No, not your breasts.
Your nose. Not professional?
Get out here. Next!

Ah! Dwarf. I mean, small person.
No, wait. Lannister!

No! Let me apologize.
The previous client
Was quite a handul.
Working here makes me
Sometimes forget the people.
The first shot’s on me.
Alright, let me adjust, here.
Strong jaw. Love it.
I want to put a caption
And call it something stout,
If you don’t mind,
Led first with a question.

So, since you’re short
Did it hurt when people
Threw you headfirst into
Label bins without checking
For who you are within?

Angry at camera.
Regret for the past.
This year my photos
Ain’t comin’ in last.

266: Wrong Hole

We’ve all done it,
When the sweating, grunting, mouth down,
Sweet words, swift tongue is done,
And the the thrust remains, awkwardly placed,
And the slow is when we should have been fast
And the hard is too soft or the long lasting love
That you dreamed of once is far too harsh,
Maybe too fat, body odor strong, or a prick,
You’re remembering now
He or she in whatever this may be said something racist
But you were so drunk you let it slide,
So close to closing you feigned deafness,
And now halfway towards your personal, climactic heaven
You remember the words — and it surprises you —
And too fast, too short, it’s over.

Sprawled next to each other, you wish sleep would come
Talking would be like treading land mines
Any word that’s real to begin with better not depart
With a ship, you don’t want to be rocked off to sleep,
You want to take off, and then nose dive into dreams.
You never planned this, you peek eyes open, back’s to you,
You don’t remember the face, or the name.
You jumped into this contracted soiree of disappointment blind
Leapt down into the pit fully awake, partners in crime
Trying to lie together, remembering that somewhere along the way
You’ve jumped way too deeply down into the wrong hole,
And when you landed with that penetrating thought,
Goddamn, did that realization hurt.

264: on Paris.

Shells dropped onto countless specks of sand,
covering glimmering speckles of cinnamon,
Robbing them of sun, dragging them down
to the airless depths when the tide rolls in;
I like to imagine that the fireworks that are shot
and go unexploded travel up into space –
It is where they belong, not on this mortal coil,
where we flash in scattered, divisive sparkles;
But up in the unlimited, uninhibited valleys
of the universe’s embrace, far above the weight of this human race.

– j. NG

263: Blunted Point

You might find my words crystalline,
Or dull, lengthy, full of pointless lulls –
Or perhaps my verse is pretentious (I’d agree),
My diction choice simplistic (ditto that) –
But regardless, in readership I have often heard this:
“I wish I could be just as creative”.

Yet my creativity’s the same as the links
Between trains, car to car, track by track,
Rumble of fast passers, screechers at stations,
Brakes for short breaks, line after line,
Row by row like Excel formulae,
Except instead of SUM and IF,
I have rhyme, anaphora, and some line breaks.

All creativity takes is a different language
Within already assumed word lists –
But Excel Maestroes already know this:
Yoga teachers make melodies with muscles;
Managers can make an office sing.
Auditors harmonize numbers with reality;
And though for one moment – I might get close to beauty,
Don’t doubt for one second that poem after poem,
Title after title, each one doesn’t fall into its own singular beat
Into the same dull, and drumming thrum.

I have never known language as just language
And I will never be creative in that.
That, my friend, is a sky that you possess,
And you, will need to paint me that.

– j. NG

I couldn’t figure out how to end this poem without sounding like I was mocking ‘uncreative types’.