Object Writing, Prose & Poetry Forum

April 20, 2019, 12:36:36 PM
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This week's words;

Sunday - Instructions

Monday- Motorcycle

Tuesday- Wildflower

Wednesday- Asparagus

Thursday- Stopwatch

Friday - Confetti


Word of the Day
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1  Prose, Poetry, Music & Lyrics / Prose & Poetry / Can I write here on: August 11, 2018, 02:31:14 AM
Just checkin'
2  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Re: Change on: June 15, 2017, 07:48:11 AM
like the " I am the loose change from loves lost years." metaphor
3  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Change : Object writing June 15 on: June 14, 2017, 11:00:07 PM

Walking along a city street, a rumble of trams and accelerating throats of carburetors, clicking and ticking of the pedestrian crossings, reach down for something in my pocket and feel the cold hard edge of some loose change, one bit of metal knocking against another. Thinking back to childhood, sitting on mum and dad’s bed, my father with a big greying beard like my own, the smell of pipe tobacco, a blue bag is emptied on the bed cover, it has  a particular smell the - the smell of money, sometimes you get it on your fingers after counting it, a dull metallic sort of flat taste, not as sharp as tasting aluminium foil. On the bed are threepenny bits, sixpences, shillings, made into piles, the gathering of monies to feed the seven or so mouths in our family home. Dinner taken around a table in a room with wallpaper with a pine cone sort of pattern in green long threads - spidering up the wall, the kitchen full of the smells of cooking; pastries and hors d’ouvres for the weekend business. If there was something I would change it would be that, that they just had a normal job instead of always being working. The hours are now fixed, a concrete path back to history is sealed and cannot be undone, the only options are for diversions on the road ahead. Making your own road, making the changes that you forsee to get you to were you want to be, levering the mental strength and will to turn the juggernaut in a different direction, the only thing that maybe keeps you on path is the vision, how does it look? How does it feel? How does it taste.  Amplify the colour, saturate the future, while the past may be all greys and monotones, the future can be bright, the now can be’ normal. Maybe the future is a Monet painting, a pointillist series of pricks, like a photograph or an LCD display, a thousand tiny fragment that make a picture, like a thousand tiny fragments that make a life. Shards and jagged pieces, smooth and formed and round, run the finger of your mind along the edge of so many memories to feel their texture, like you are running your finger along  a beam of wood, sometimes a splinter sticks and need be pulled out, it stings…..
4  Pat Pattison on Object Writing / Pat Pattison On Object Writing / Songwork's Object Writing with Pat Pattison on: February 26, 2016, 11:44:51 PM
Here's Pat explaining the fundamentals of Object Writing


5  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Limosine July 20 on: July 19, 2015, 09:01:05 PM
A stretched hummer glides by, in black, maybe five doors long, how it turns corners I don’t know. There’s music inside, it’s loud, so loud you think that you can see the metal panels bulging back and forth like a beating heart. This ship is headed for party central, an eighteenth, a twenty first, a night of club touring, a hens party, a joyride sailing the waters of tar in search of the island of good times. Sometimes a window winds down while you’re at the lights  and you see a flash of  strapping over a bare shoulder, a can of beer being swilled, I hope the driver has a party proof shield to protect them. In the rear canters of spirits are mixed with wines and champagnes, a cocktail of party mix that tickles or burns like a volcano in reverse, motion sickness or overdrinking sickness must kick in at some point, does the driver have  a mop and bucket in some clever compartment, surely that is not a one off scenario?
6  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Tai Chi June 26 on: June 25, 2015, 09:39:27 PM
A group of people in the park, swaying in slow mo tion as if blown by a breeze from heaven, moving with grace and poise, purposeful swans in a sea of green,  moving like the arm of a Texas oil pump, round and round in perpetual motion, the perpetual motion machine, the bailiwick of science fiction, scientists in labs with white coats and machines humming and test tubes glowing and bubbles bubbling, Bunsen burners in science class, a trough full of of organic experiments, ignited by the rogue kid, the teacher with her black curling hair, rushing for a fire extinguisher, the rogue banished for 3 months, the sort of kid who has the wise comments, the big open smile of cheekiness. He rides his bike around town, goes out in the evenings with his ferrets and 22 rifel and shoots rabbits, skins them, sells the meat; an entrepreneur. His hands covered in blood and carcass by the end, the smell of fresh meat every time he opens the fridge, tensw muscles of each of the bunnies tightly stretched like a prisoner on the rack…..
7  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Jet-Ski - June 22 on: June 21, 2015, 09:28:59 PM
The sound of a mosquito buzzing echoes along the beach, waves rippling along the shoreline with a sizzling wash creeping up the beach, children’s voices and high pitched screams, a towel buried in sand, back to the sun that prickles and tickles and needs more lotion, shaking from a bottle onto hand like a sneezing fit, it farts its way out near the end, places behind you where you wrestle to get coverage. The ski dives back and forth out beyond the breakers where only the brave swim,  heads bob just above the surface like seals, neoprene clad bodies flail against curling surf others are poised for the ride as the curl begins they are up balancing like  wire walkers,  gliding along the glassy curve of the tube. Closer to the beach, kids are on boogie boards as the final remainders of the surfers waves make it to shore.  On the air ozone mixes with smells of cooked fish and chips and suntan lotion….
8  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Mist June 19 on: June 18, 2015, 09:48:46 PM
Mist, fog, drift, call it what you will. It’s walking through a speckle of mini rain drops that cover you like a slime, that seep into the pores of your jacket or clothes, spray your hair until the drops grow and enlarge and then becomes tears  that stream down your back, become a shower, with a nozzle pushing beads of hot water through a narrow opening, the pellets of water pleasurably hitting you on a cold winter morning when the heater isn’t on, the smell of perfumed soap and the shampoo as it rinses through your hair and a mist of water fires off and patters against the screen and a lather forms all over you, water hisses out of the overhead portal while the radio drones in the background, talk radio, no music  these days all talk, clever options, all comedians, preparing us for the coal face for the greyness of the merged letters and words of lifeless word documents and excel spreadsheets that are the only color in the day with pie charts that seem to hover …….
9  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Incense June 18 on: June 17, 2015, 09:34:30 PM
Smoke curling from a corner, wafting up and about like a belly dancer , like a viper caught in the spell of a snake charmer, the bustle of markets in Marrakesh, blazes of color leaching from bags of spices, yellows and ocher reds, cumin and  cardamom,  tooting of horns, the smell of exhaust from two stroke motor bikes, Men dressed in brilliant white robes sitting on corners smoking Hookahs, smiling at you with crooked gnarly teeth, shops with incense burning in the corner, dingy and dark, illuminated by one light globe sitting naked above the goods, naked like a prisoner in a mental asylum, waiting to be hosed down and dowsed, a Dachau prisoner, being deloused,  Nazis using gas to exterminate a race, the worst incense of all, silent and unseen, people gasping for life reaching for the last threads of awareness, the threads of their life flashing before their eyes, a billion memories stored in these amazing brains we have, flashing  in both slow motion and hyper-speed, curling away toward heaven.
10  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Parade May 3 on: May 02, 2015, 11:54:00 PM
Parade- a vague attempt at rhyming couplets in triple time....as per Pat's book

The Skies were grey and cloudy as the trucks began to roll
All the way down main Street, named After Manifold
Standing on the flat bed of a '67  Ford
The band played to the audience, who lined the street and cheered

They cheered us as we glided down the tree lined avenue
We played the songs from the Rolling Stones that everybody knew
Somewhere in the crowd was a girl known as Janette
I’d had my eye on her for weeks, but she hadn’t seen me yet

Hoped this might be moment when I could catch her eye
maybe it would be glassy as she came to realize
how good I was on guitar, how strident in my voice
and maybe we could strike it up next week and I could be her choice

The western chill came aching in to fingers all exposed
And soon enough they refused to do what I commanded them to do
Like a car that’s skidding dangerously on a road of blackest ice
My fingers on the fretboard  did not know the device

A ‘C’ became a F# minor a common ‘D’ an ‘F’
I swear I looked down at the board and my finger tips were left
As the flat bed rounded a corner I nearly took a dive,
and Fitzy’s Savage Tower of Power leaned in at 45

But we made it to the other end of the tree lined avenue
I never caught her in the crowd, maybe it was just as well
I gathered up my finger prints and scattered windy words
And left it for another year and for another girl…..
11  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / New York City Apr 29 on: April 28, 2015, 10:07:41 PM
It’s always been on a screen of some sort, cop shows, movies that sort of thing. I  imagine brisk winter mornings where breath freezes and hangs as you snort on the way to the subway, a cup of coffee  leaking heat through a mitten. Riding on the subway, the clattering of the wheels on the tracks echoing against the walls, the grind of the electric motor as it speeds and slows, it lives and dies. They say it never sleeps….. New York , New York, Frank Sinatra, singing Karaoke to  the song, what would it be like to be king of the heap? The DVD player throws up images of the city as the words flow with the bouncing ball highlighting your place in the song….’Start spreading the news’……Thoughts of the twin towers, sitting here in the early morning roused by house mates to watch the first tower implode and then the second, the unbelievablity of it.  An avalanche of ash and debris spreading through the city like a Sahara sandstorm and then stillness.  The statue of Liberty, bought over piece by piece by the French, the beacon of hope for those enterting the city,  headed for the Hudson, for disembarkation, a thousand thousand migrants, arriving with a  suitcase,  looking for a better life, looking to fulfill their American dream. Hands gripped tight around handles, the last connection with the old world, with home, a notion of what ‘home’ might be, family and heritage, embedded in genes.
12  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Slipper April 20 on: April 19, 2015, 09:51:23 PM
It’s winter, nothing like your feet inside a nice warm slipper, or pair of them. With tongues of lambs wool licking your pores and ridges, the edge of cold just sneaking up between ankles and bottom of pyjamas. Sitting in the kitchen knowing that your feet are separated from intense cold clinging to dark orange tiles while the fried egg is sliced up. Outside a dusting of frost is hanging lightly on trees and the remaining leaves of the fire ash that hangs over the  back yard like a threatening spectre look back like fading eyes. The ground a cover of yellow and brown reuniting with the earth. Starlings and blackbirds sit on the garage roof looking  for movement on the tundra of revegetating leaves. The slippers are probably more like ‘Uggs’ given that’s whom makes them but they are not the Ugg boot, just up to ankles, the outside is a canvas of creases that were once the inside of a sheep, Nasty when  you think of fit that way. Their little faces moving in a field with the rest of the flock, I recall train journeys to the city where they would all stupidly be lined up against a fence and would run at a pace as the train thundered past. Alone with them in a field at Prettty’s farm they are funny creatures up close, it’ s like their little hearts are beating at 300 bpm all the time.  I reckon you could have given them a heart attack if you sneaked up behind them. Russ didn’t have the classic sheep dog to round them up, we’d get on the ‘Ag’ bikes a Honda 90 cc, running off a mixture of petrol and 2 stroke oil, it had a petrochemical exhaust odour much stronger than normal exhaust, centrifugal clutch for dummies like me who could not co-ordinate the gear change,  that pull and kick of the clutch, a bit like trying to play a musical instrument by reading music-hard.  The pull of the bike as you twisted the throttle was exiting and dangerous at the same time. Here I am exposed , no helmet, doing a quite a few miles an hour, what if I come off, will parts of me be scattered all over this field? The wind hitting your face, the sounds of summer cicadas and crickets as the long evenings draw down, a long way from  winter where pairs of slippers are a welcome  friend in the evening…….
13  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Crosswalk APR 15 on: April 14, 2015, 09:01:18 PM
Day after day it stands there, everybody walking all over it without care, without concern, being pommelled by the relentless flows of traffic, rained down on with thundering feet and flailing  rubber, coughing and choking on the layers of pollution and grime deposited without thought.  It is a heavy hearted crosswalk, somewhere in the middle of town, with traffic lights drooping, its white walkway lines running like mascara tears. It overhears conversations, deals being done, the “you wouldn’t believe what happened last night’ conversations blurted on the corner, the scolded child conversations. Everyone is taught to stand and wait until the red crossing man goes green, but some don’t listen. There has been the screech of anxious brakes, broken too late, the sound of a body fall at impact, the crosswalk has tasted blood, been embraced by fluro green Medicos and has even assisted with CPR, Lying patiently beneath an 80 year old  heart attack victim. The crosswalk is very old school, very conservative , formerly dressed, smart white on a black background. The ebbs and flows of human traffic are not governed by the moon or stars, but rather by the whim of the controllers at ‘Central traffic’ at non-peak times, it’s a regularly timed click of the crossing buttons. But when the lights are red your way, the box tick tick ticks like a bomb and then jumps into a frenzied morning alarm clock as it ticks over  saying ‘cross now; ‘ cross now’ Unlike that scene in Blade runner where the overhead police vehicle says ‘don’t walk’ and  ‘move on’. Do they have crosswalks on Alien worlds? Systems for funneling the ant beings like us? Does the creator being look on down at us in our human superhighways as if we were ants?
14  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Calculator Apr 14 on: April 14, 2015, 11:37:09 AM
The numbers felt squashed within the liquid crystal display, nudging each other left and right as each calculation was entered, the plus, the minus signs. Subtractions felt like it was being thrown into a depression and then in a bi-polar flip it was up with the additions. It was never quite sure of itself when the divided sign was used and felt the need to run when asked to use the multiply function. Within the electronic  highways and corridors were laneways of confusion, tunnels of despair and open fields of hope. It always seemed as if something was missing, something was being sought. The calculator was always unsettled. It just wanted to find a nice McDonalds somewhere and pull up in the car park and have a big Mac, Slurp down  a thick shake and dust off an apple pie. OHhhhhh yes the calc dreamed of apple pie in its limited digital imagination, a stray one or nought that crossed over the line of imagination. That apple pie with its sugar sweet syrup that would give it hiccups all afternoon. But the closest it had ever got was in the bag of ‘Jed’ as his parents took him through the drive though after school, oh it could smell the fries , the burgers hear the fizz of the super-size-me coke. Dreaming, dreaming of swimming in lakes of fizzing coke, sliding down waterfalls of apple pie juice……
15  ObjectWriting / Object Writing Word Of The Day / Junk Apr 10 on: April 09, 2015, 07:57:23 PM
Out on the streets on hard rubbish day you find a tundra of discards. Things once important to somebody sometime. That ‘Ab King Pro’, with its cracked and faded vinyl seat and sweat embedded in the back board is going to a better exercise yard in the sky, or the nearest tip more like. That vanity mirror from the 50’s in its cracked tortoise shell lining is wearing the black clothing of mourning and sorrow as it departs for the grave.  In the early morning hours as the fresh nip of late Autumn pinches the face you walk past these objects of once desire on the way to the bus, it’s a graveyard of discards. They are laid in strips outside houses, rested against trees with their heads hung low these once proud items of consumer culture. Some will be bound for the recyclers, some for the knackers yard. The recycling will be sorted by low paid workers into piles of useful and not useful, the metals, the plastics the papers. All will be boiled and congealed into a reusable state, the smell of  burning furnaces, of paper de-coagulants, all will be attested by various arms of industry as they repurpose our once purposed materials. The cycle of consumer culture will run again, from exploitation factories in China to the super splendid advertising campaigns from the Majors and the drossful fakeness of the shopping networks. We will hang with our tongues on the floor imagining our lives enriched with these new items, our fantastic plastic in hand, our fingers ready to run over the numbers in a brail like way, punching them into a remote computer database somewhere in the Balkans, where Russian Mafia bosses will smile while taking draws upon their Havannah cigars as another Westerner is suckered in and an identity is acquired and stolen……
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