ok, who's up for another little experiment?

[butters]

a list of words. write a piece using them in amongst others of your own choosing just to see what arrives on your screen. it's just for fun

the list

balance

ping

intent

Singapore

newsprint

lamp post

coaxing

blight

fag

crossword

lime

hem

chestnut

twist

 

[bronzeage]

a list of words. write a piece using them in amongst others of your own choosing just to see what arrives on your screen. it's just for fun

the list

balance

ping

intent

Singapore

newsprint

lamp post

coaxing

blight

fag

crossword

lime

hem

chestnut

twist

The balance is a chestnut
twisted in the hem of a Singapore slit skirt.
This is the lime light,
not some fag ladyboy under a lamp post
intent with coaxing lonely the lonely German tourists.
It's not helping.
There is blight in the crossword
pull the newsprint wrinkle tight and reveal
nothing between the clues.

 

[butters]

The balance is a chestnut
twisted in the hem of a Singapore slit skirt.
This is the lime light,
not some fag ladyboy under a lamp post
intent with coaxing lonely the lonely German tourists.
It's not helping.
There is blight in the crossword
pull the newsprint wrinkle tight and reveal
nothing between the clues.

bravo, bronze thanks for playing! i love seeing where minds wander.. oh yes indeedy.

 

[bronzeage]

bravo, bronze thanks for playing! i love seeing where minds wander.. oh yes indeedy.

I wanted to use "ping" as a separate word, but I was faced with a poem about a golf club or a submarine.

 

[butters]

I wanted to use "ping" as a separate word, but I was faced with a poem about a golf club or a submarine.

or hacking computers... i just thought it worked the word in brilliantly. so kudos.

 

[Remec]

First draft...

Seperated

My balance was off,
a ping pong ball with too
much English to stay on track,
and it called my intent into
question; Why would I have
gone there? Better to travel
the world, settle in some
out of the way place,
Singapore, maybe, and sit
reading the newsprint of imported
papers under a yellowed
lamp post.

They can do all the coaxing
they want but I know,
deep down, she considers my
presence a blight—
“bane of her existence”.

So I ignore her, light a fresh fag
and work on the Times’ daily
crossword, sipping a watered
down drink that could use
more lime and wondering if
the hem on the chestnut
waitress always had that twist
to it, or if it developed
over time.
----

 

[butters]

a ping pong ball with too
much English to stay on track

how cool is that? ha!
i'll look out for where this one goes to, remec

 

[butters]

just a nudge for anyone who hasn't seen this yet and might like to take a potshot at it

 

[serpentwrap]

OK, lemme have a go at it...

I

Twisted like planted stories in the newsprint
Coaxing like the peristalsis of the oesophagus
Your words mock. The list grows. The balance shifts.
Suddenly arms akimbo, soul desolate,
You reach the crossroads, burnt rubber and all
Skid imprints of fading memories, pockmarked
Deep with holes of despair, a darkening blight in the future
Your intent, not so subtle. Sour like lime in a milk shake.

II

Like a running cloud I chased as a child with my eyes
Vignettes of our past start flashing, tempting, liberating
The water chestnuts we baked on the beach near Singapore.
We broke the shells together. And fed each other.
I recall sharing the fag, shivering with cold, and
Anticipation too, your hem line playing hide-n-seek
Eyes shrilling like a banshee with desire, waiting,
Like the submarine that pings and awaits its echo.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

...............

 

[greenmountaineer]

Nick Leeson's First Night in Changi Prison

He no longer sips his Singapore Slings
Nor twists two fingers of gin with lime
While he leisurely reads the Sunday Times.

After three hours of diarrhea
He’ll wipe his ass with newsprint if need be
From a brochure the chaplain gave him
While he listens to cross four letter words
From screws to the lags who long for the dark
Of lamp post whores leaning into parked cars.

He remembers their come hither hems
Coaxing him far from Chestnut Avenue
And he’ll smile like one when the big man pings
The metal rim on the bunk bed tonight
To bum a fag with unspoken intent
That the rent is due Nick balances with
The blight of his soul in Changi Prison.

 

[UnderYourSpell]

damn there goes my singapore sling back to the drawing board

 

[Angeline]

It was a Singapore Sling, the third
or fourth before I was on the other
side of the lime, hemmed
between a technicolor yawn
and the porcelain monument
to my own stupidity, always

trying to find the balance: a twist
of intent, a cross of words and me,
coaxing belief from a pool
of sorrow again. There were two
obituaries side by side,
and I read them until
only the newsprint was alive, ink
running letters blind like gnats.

A sister, a friend. The memories
spilt into the darkness like light
tossed from a lamp post. We ate
roast chesnuts outside Penn
Station, blew breath and smoke
from cigarettes we called fags,
sometimes Lennons and McCartneys.

But that is the blight of another
lifetime, another continent.
Ping, it's winter again
and the whore is dead.

 

[Tzara]

It was a Singapore Sling, the third...

Well, excuse me for saying this, but I frankly, darlin', think you should effing ditch that fiction thing and concentrate on poetry.

This is lovely. And coherent, which poetry often is not.

I don't know. It's my personal opinion, of course, but based on what sampling I've seen, you currently write much better poetry than you write fiction. Fiction pays better, of course. I mean, like, fiction pays and poetry doesn't. And I have complete faith in your ability to get to a point where you can write fiction that you can publish and get paid for it.

But hey. You've got that poetry thing down. Now.

In my opinion, anyways.

In any case, you and Mr. E. have a happy year changeover, y'hear?

Lovely poem. Just sayin'.

 

[vrosej10]

Here's my attempt.

All I Want is Ten Minutes
leaning up against a lamp post, having a fag break
when my damned pager went ping, ruining my moment’s peace;
each tingling, pinging, ting that thing springs on me is potato peeler in my heart,
a twist of lemon in my eye, a snag in the hem of my favourite ball gown.
that stupid thing’s the blight of my existence,
existing only to aid my boss in terrorizing errant members of his flock
and its his hostile, prodding message that is displayed on that Satanic knick-knack
so coaxing up my last drops of energy, with every bit of will and intent I own
I dragged myself back upstairs to that overly hot hell’s whore house of a kitchen
and the pot of Singapore Fish Head Curry I was cooking,
tasted it and threw in some lime.
those fishy eyes bother me, but I bet it beats hake with chips in newsprint,
reading a greasy crossword as you eat,
in a park under a morton bay chestnut,
having to balance the whole mess on your lap…
and then the boss slips up and pesters me about daydreaming…​

Sorry it's so long, it just seemed to keep going...

 

[vrosej10]

Well, excuse me for saying this, but I frankly, darlin', think you should effing ditch that fiction thing and concentrate on poetry.

This is lovely. And coherent, which poetry often is not.

I don't know. It's my personal opinion, of course, but based on what sampling I've seen, you currently write much better poetry than you write fiction. Fiction pays better, of course. I mean, like, fiction pays and poetry doesn't. And I have complete faith in your ability to get to a point where you can write fiction that you can publish and get paid for it.

But hey. You've got that poetry thing down. Now.

In my opinion, anyways.

In any case, you and Mr. E. have a happy year changeover, y'hear?

Lovely poem. Just sayin'.

I do very occassionally get paid for poetry, but it's about enough to buy another notebook...

 

[vrosej10]

He no longer sips his Singapore Slings
Nor twists two fingers of gin with lime
While he leisurely reads the Sunday Times.

After three hours of diarrhea
He’ll wipe his ass with newsprint if need be
From a brochure the chaplain gave him
While he listens to cross four letter words
From screws to the lags who long for the dark
Of lamp post whores leaning into parked cars
With their come hither hems that coaxed him once
From his upscale Chestnut Avenue flat.

And he’ll smile like them when the big man pings
The metal rim on the bunk bed tonight
To bum a fag with unspoken intent
That his rent is due Nick balances with
The blight of his soul in Changi Prison.

Bravo!

My beloved Great Uncle Fred was in one of these places and barely survived. His health was permanently destroyed and he died in his sixties of lung cancer those he never smoked. He was the sweetest man who was so traumatised by his experience that he was unable to marry till he was in his fifties. He went on to be of huge service to our local community and when he died, he had the biggest funeral our town had ever seen.

 

[Angeline]

Well, excuse me for saying this, but I frankly, darlin', think you should effing ditch that fiction thing and concentrate on poetry.

This is lovely. And coherent, which poetry often is not.

I don't know. It's my personal opinion, of course, but based on what sampling I've seen, you currently write much better poetry than you write fiction. Fiction pays better, of course. I mean, like, fiction pays and poetry doesn't. And I have complete faith in your ability to get to a point where you can write fiction that you can publish and get paid for it.

But hey. You've got that poetry thing down. Now.

In my opinion, anyways.

In any case, you and Mr. E. have a happy year changeover, y'hear?

Lovely poem. Just sayin'.

Yknow I kinda thought that to myself after I wrote it. I have a long, long way to go with fiction. But I did when I started with poetry, too. Maybe I should continue with both.

Anyway thankee. Such a compliment means a lot to me coming from you. Happy New Year to you and Ms Zed, too.

 

[butters]

OK, lemme have a go at it...

I

Twisted like planted stories in the newsprint
Coaxing like the peristalsis of the oesophagus
Your words mock. The list grows. The balance shifts.
Suddenly arms akimbo, soul desolate,
You reach the crossroads, burnt rubber and all
Skid imprints of fading memories, pockmarked
Deep with holes of despair, a darkening blight in the future
Your intent, not so subtle. Sour like lime in a milk shake.

II

Like a running cloud I chased as a child with my eyes
Vignettes of our past start flashing, tempting, liberating
The water chestnuts we baked on the beach near Singapore.
We broke the shells together. And fed each other.
I recall sharing the fag, shivering with cold, and
Anticipation too, your hem line playing hide-n-seek
Eyes shrilling like a banshee with desire, waiting,
Like the submarine that pings and awaits its echo.

thanks for playing, serpent wrap really like the way you've overlapped flavour and image with these two phrases.

 

[butters]

He no longer sips his Singapore Slings
Nor twists two fingers of gin with lime
While he leisurely reads the Sunday Times.

After three hours of diarrhea
He’ll wipe his ass with newsprint if need be
From a brochure the chaplain gave him
While he listens to cross four letter words
From screws to the lags who long for the dark
Of lamp post whores leaning into parked cars.

He remembers their come hither hems
Coaxing him far from Chestnut Avenue
And he’ll smile like one when the big man pings
The metal rim on the bunk bed tonight
To bum a fag with unspoken intent
That the rent is due Nick balances with
The blight of his soul in Changi Prison.

i knew this thread would bear creative fruit in abundance... i was right.

those opening three lines, read so ... so... english. so Noel Cowardish english. all the better to work as a foil to the squalid nastiness that follows after.

 

[butters]

It was a Singapore Sling, the third
or fourth before I was on the other
side of the lime, hemmed
between a technicolor yawn
and the porcelain monument
to my own stupidity, always

trying to find the balance: a twist
of intent, a cross of words and me,
coaxing belief from a pool
of sorrow again. There were two
obituaries side by side,
and I read them until
only the newsprint was alive, ink
running letters blind like gnats.

A sister, a friend. The memories
spilt into the darkness like light
tossed from a lamp post. We ate
roast chesnuts outside Penn
Station, blew breath and smoke
from cigarettes we called fags,
sometimes Lennons and McCartneys.

But that is the blight of another
lifetime, another continent.
Ping, it's winter again
and the whore is dead.

ai, carumba, angeline - so solid, so crammed to the brim, a PING of a poem. the bold speaks the loudest but even the whispers finger my heart.

 

[butters]

All I Want is Ten Minutes
leaning up against a lamp post, having a fag break
when my damned pager went ping, ruining my moment’s peace;
each tingling, pinging, ting that thing springs on me is potato peeler in my heart,
a twist of lemon in my eye, a snag in the hem of my favourite ball gown.
that stupid thing’s the blight of my existence,
existing only to aid my boss in terrorizing errant members of his flock
and its his hostile, prodding message that is displayed on that Satanic knick-knack
so coaxing up my last drops of energy, with every bit of will and intent I own
I dragged myself back upstairs to that overly hot hell’s whore house of a kitchen
and the pot of Singapore Fish Head Curry I was cooking,
tasted it and threw in some lime.
those fishy eyes bother me, but I bet it beats hake with chips in newsprint,
reading a greasy crossword as you eat,
in a park under a morton bay chestnut,
having to balance the whole mess on your lap…
and then the boss slips up and pesters me about daydreaming…​

Sorry it's so long, it just seemed to keep going...

never apologise for length

great run-ons of sound in this, vrose

what's a morton bay chestnut?

 

[PoetGuy]

He no longer sips his Singapore Slings
Nor twists two fingers of gin with lime
While he leisurely reads the Sunday Times.

Villanelle of the Cashiered Derivatives Trader

He swirls his tonic, gin, and lime,
Fits "Singapore" to crossword grid
In the folded Sunday Times.

The newsprint streaks his slacks with grime.
He's out of fags. A pack's six quid.
He swirls his tonic, gin, and lime,

Adds one more twist. This gin's sublime,
He slurs to self, intent amid
Enfolding Sunday's soggy time

When gentlemen, with coaxing, climb
Some random lamppost, which they've slid
Down swirled in tonic, gin, and lime.

His balance—hem!—is not quite prime,
His gait unsteady as a squid's.
Legs fold like Sunday's bloody Times!

He bleats, a blight, a Chestnut Mime
Who homeward now pings, pongs, and skids
With his folded Sunday Times,
Aswirl in tonic, gin, and lime.

 

[butters]

chin chin, toot tot and pip pip, old chap, this one's sublime

not sub-limed. yep, *polite applause*

 

[mynameisben]

Fame is a Fleeting Fantasy

Ping was a flamboyant Singapore fag,
forever intent on appearing in newsprint.
Lamp post thin and with hair dyed lime green,
he resembled a chestnut tree stricken with blight.
Coaxing reporters by hiking his skirt hem clear to his navel,
he finally made the papers one day. But here's the twist:
Although his picture appeared on Page 1,
the story balance was buried on Page 24, below the crossword.