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
Yes, I lied,
Pretended that in the pavement lines
Were your fortunes like in the stars
Scattered sparkling across the sky.
Said Whoa whoa whoa, hold up
As you passed me by,
Reining you back with a dull What.
Your sneakers creeped over
That line I’ve been seeing
I’d exhaling with prophetic drone.
So what, you’d repeat and I’d seethe slowly:
That was a fault line you rubbed together homie,
Only your life’s quaking’s and shaking and now quivery.
Most people’d forget or walk on without a thought
But come a day when some did drop
For falling’s part of the plot we play
In this knee-heavy anchorage of gravity based dreams –
You’d approach and say Hey –
Tell me, what changed that day?
So, I’d wave my hands in a circle
Like a shaman throwing dust in your eyes
And watching you blink and shrivel and gleam
Some hopeful some desperate some green with greed;
I’d tell you things like future roots have settled
For the woman without a home –
Or tell them that nature has been nettled,
For the jet-black business suit
Both with the same yank of the grassbank behind –
Plenty of tearing to do. Covered bare patches
With my behind.
Yet despite the cold snow
I stayed in my spot and kept my evaluative tone,
Still prophetic, still mortal.
Yes, I died, for soaked clothes aren’t meat.
And though my visions were lies –
Weren’t they better than what
You had always been forced to see?
I did my part justice – though nobody had assigned me one:
I slept in the snow, slept under the stars,
And I slept atop lines that cut up the street.
The following is satire that scrutinizes the mindset of a rejected groper. I do not at all encourage or support harassment in any way whatsoever. I do not think it acceptable, for the music to take over the body, for somebody to work themselves up, for someone to be in a setting or for alcohol to be involved. There is no excuse for sexual assault and this poem is about that, and how oftentimes we attempt to justify ourselves or otherwise, victim-blame. The poem has been written so that the logic does indeed make sense to the persona.
Tipfingering finger-tops, callused hot dogs,
Making their way down the tops,
Music all a-pound, Prudeness’ stripping all abound
Just here enough, fingertips at the hips
Since I’m here, I’ll creep down there,
To the delightful curves of your fine mounded buttocks.
It’s flattery girl, let me twirl you round
You see my face, frown, but I keep you bound
Your arms to mine, your crotch to mine,
We’re entwined by the music, bouncing, grind,
Grind, you wrench away, damn,
You’ve lost your mind, I’ll calm you
Hook my thumbs past the seams
In the open cleft of your jeans, your pelvic bone
We’ve come so far, come to my home
No? Just a corner, to be alone?
Damn girl, you let me get so far
Get so hard, leaving this dawg with a bone?
Bitch ditched me in this rut.
Stern disciplinarians sat in grim council
Food steaming from ceramic plates
Scent of the morning streaming from goblet mugs –
Faces turning – gargoyle living stones –
Gatekeepers – Watchers – Good morning is the code.
They stalk with us with visors down –
Waiting to report upon our whereabouts
Or how-we’ve-dones, on our sins, but in these crusades
Confessions make no order for delivery;
Perhaps only tips for penance – pay attention now,
You’re wandering again – five minutes left. Crisis averted.
We peek in once in a while before letting the door squeak and shut
Oblivious to how much they’d just giggled about not learning swears
In new languages, because they already know them all.
Idling in an emerald leafed forest
In a prism of straylight sunbeams
I run my hands down the mane of silence.
The air is temperate.
But a peal of laughter shakes my fine equine,
That crystalline shriek cuts into the steady breath
And the free runner, stander like a shadow huffs –
Hooves nervously pacing, stilling
As a responsibly running bus crashes through
The undergrowth, dozens with their behinds
Clinging to the seats, standing clung to poles
And the incoming drop of conversation comes falling,
Swelling into a flood and now
The beast is gone.
My sights are not mechanical madness
of the industrial ages,
But the look of insanity in silence
surrounded penguin suits
Trotting back and forth with music in their ears.
I see different skinned mothers
with no rights
In an age where we proclaim
that slavery is dead.
I see children with hollow minds – suspended –
since everything’s found
I see the sweat of my eyes
the brightness of heat over years rising to make
blind, blinking eyes –
I see all this and swallow
and gulp in fear.
It seems almost sinful how snappily struck
from the tongue are words
dropping like seraphim departing in the last
of the unholy days:
all of this when just crossing the threshold
of the office-place.
I’m not necessarily calling work the Devil,
but I might be saying it’s akin.
(I work as an Educational Assistant for students with special needs)
Factual pounding of chemical names
stirring the juices of the chemical brain;
but where does the signal fork?
Which dead ends were those
That made you different?
Scientific names hide from you no mysteries,
Nor are angles and shapes odd things to see;
The cogs and gears in these factories
Act and delight, for their precise deliveries.
So why does the mouth stutter, Chester?
Why do we wean you off of obsessions?
The looks you receive, whether obliging, or mean,
They’d set my soul ablaze;
I only pray that your reality is not the one I face.
Introvert in another’s house
It’s not so much that I’m feeling small
or that other things size up – giantize;
Simply that others seem far and the last,
Absolute last thing I’d want to pass
Is to have my voice – echo, echo, and then echo back.