Object Writing Poetry & Prose Blog

admin January 30th, 2008

Tombstones are jagged teeth planted on a hill in a  cowboy movie, they bite into the hill and taste dirt, not just the surface stuff, but the rich stuff , six feet down. Digging in it’s like hacking away at an ice block, the ground so hard. The shovel handle becomes a rifle, shooting away at the earth, your hand wrapped around the butt/handle getting warmer and sweatier with each assault, gloves are Hessian sacks carrying your pilgrim hands, flagellating you with course weave or spongy leather hide. The soil deeper is moist, more of clay than topsoil. It’s like a big block of chilled butter, big slabs of it lift from the bowel you are digging, your feet suidge and stick to the soil as you pull another bar bell of dirt from the floor ’til you’re six feet under.After the wooden box has been hoisted down, and the anthill of earth has been transposed back into place the tombstone will sit at the head of the grave. Like the lettering on the tombstone chiselled into place the coffin has been engraved into the earth.  The grey rough stone tastes like an apple crumble pudding sitting atop a custard of grass. It sits there like the conning tower of a container ship, driving the departed soul into the afterlife, delivering its cargo….

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creative writing, creative writing exercise, creative writing exercises, home recording, lyric writing, Object Writing, pat pattison, poetry, prose, short stories, songwriting, writing

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admin January 29th, 2008

Tags: creative writing, creative writing exercise, creative writing exercises, home recording, lyric writing, Object Writing, pat pattison, poetry, prose, short stories, songwriting, writing

Bar codes are the black and white lines on the road of of consumerism, they flash past the camera eye of the reader. Imprisoned checkout operators, feeling numbed to the spot, pick up products with mechanical digger arm repetitiveness, and swing from the tarmac of the conveyor to the rustling collapsible bag with  traffic light monotony. As each commodity does a formula one past the fish eye it would taste like licking the white lines down the middle of the road, like licking one of those long thin iced confectioneries, the smoothness feeling like polished river rocks, or beach rocks worn smooth by time. A bar code sounds like a steel picket fence, the bars each sing with a different resonance, especially if you run your finger along them with a stick, a miniature church bell peel. The checkout operators at the church of consumerism are playing the peels all day long, playing the prayer of ‘I want to go home soon’.  They’re also digging their way into the till with the pitchfork of the bar code, toiling the numbers and figures into the tray, feeling the heaviness of the code, letting calouses form and send shooting pains from tired fingertips, tired of weeding their way through the tangled products.

Each product has a personality, but it is one dimensional……

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 28th, 2008

Tags: creative writing, creative writing exercise, creative writing exercises, home recording, lyric writing, Object Writing, pat pattison, poetry, prose, short stories, songwriting, writing

The carpenter is cooking up a storm, he takes freshly aged timber that smells of pine, a saw that wobbles like a spinning top, varnish and paint that tastes like treacle, glue that feels like those burrs that stick to your socks when you walk through a field and combine them all together in the mixing bowl of the workshop. Electric power tools send mini earth tremors through benches and tables, grinding stones, spin with a heavy hum and volcano sparks shower as tools are sharpened.  Boot polish smells waft as a table is French polished to shine like a new car. Each piece is on display like a new car at the furniture shop, polish and varnish so deep it’s like a pool of glass, hand bounces off if you try to reach in, . So deep and smooth you can water sky on it, see the reflection from the bank in it.A carpenter is the kettle of the workshop, the central ingredient in the ‘making’ of the cup of tea that we know as furniture. He pours himself over every grain, sweetens the wood with his touch, stirs the wood with his plain, until a steaming piece of furniture is produced, ready to be sipped. The pieces taste like a finely brewed tea, a well aged whiskey, sounds like a frozen lake in Finland. Silent, but knowing. Watching you. Power tools are snowmobiles…….

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 28th, 2008

The sky is a viewfinder for the stars, for the infinity. I taste the stars like sherbet on my tongue, each one a miniature expolsion, a frison, sending an earthquake inside me, these sherbet stars feel red hot, fire cinders glowing in my palm, looking out to me from a log fire heater. The flame dance playing out beyond the smoky stained glass, the handle creaks when you put more wood in, creaks like a high pitched frog ,a front gate in need of oiling.Oiling the bike chain, thick smudges of muddy oil over hands, thick and gelatinous, getting between the ridges in your skin seeping down like wood stain into the wood, Solvol, fake chemical smell as you wrestle the alligator lid off. The vacuum seal popping like a balloon, floating up into the sky  on a school fete day, a little tail, a little dot higher and higher , up to the edge of space, attaching to a satellite, a tiny sun arcing across the dark.

Daylight brings blue or grey, blue or grey like the sea wall at Elwood, the clashing waves and bluestone hiss together, the sea running out to the sky on an Olympic sprint, merging into one sometimes, when the sea and sky share the same part of the artists palette. Each sunrise a new day is painted in, clouds are spatulated into place, white caps foam over grey  waves, running into freighters, and launches and yachts. Tasting of brine and saltiness, feeling abrasive , cold buoyant.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 26th, 2008

A sea horse dances around the aquarium like it is being dealt from a pack of cards and one by one a house is built, a fine structure, spidery web structure, but so easily fractured . Floating about like an astronaut in a space capsule, weightless, free, hovering in the water. A sunbird of the tank, tiny wings beating faster than an athletes heart, pounding vessels coursing through veins, singing the song of the sirens, the sea horse wings emit the siren song of the aquarium.

Touching a sea horse is like running your hand over a rough brick wall, it’s like they could crumble at any moment, but they’re not dry, like mortar or sandstone. A seahorse tastes like toast in the morning with no butter or jam, dry and brittle.  A seahorse smells like a suit of armour, metallic and tough. They’re always on guard against something- a Meerkat of the water, not quite so manic.

Inside the tank its a one way world, they can only look out and see our world through a giant difuse lens of water, like when your looking into a magniying glass from the side, all out of shape and the light bent at funny angles making shapes loom like interstate trucks around a bend , whooshing past, pummeling your car temporarily halting in the turbulent backwash of wind that follows, then smooth sailing again, boring, black ribbon, occasional thumps through the steering column of badly repaired sections of road, reaching for the water bottle and undoing it while you drive, the bottle warm from sitting in the sun, the water tepid in your mouth…..

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 26th, 2008

Sneezing as I look up to the sun, a snap back of the head , a convulsion. Sunshine  free as an eagle, sunshine, the giant radiator in the sky. Blue days that go on forever in summer, with wall to wall sunshine, lighting up unexpected places and things. The taste and smell of chlorine and excited voices, calling over the top of each other like ants crawling over a sticky sweet. Diving into a pool. Icy fingers  scratching skin going deeper and deeper down, holding breath like a hot air balloon, chest is exploding, hot and on fire like the sunshine, streaming down.

A movie theater projection of light playing out from the heavens on a big blue screen, sometimes cloud characters come and play bit parts, the sun tastes their cotton wool jellyfish offering and sweeps them aside with the brush of its streaming power. Desert sands rustle in the light wind and scurry of a lizard that basks in the feed from the sun. Drinking in the invisible yellow beams, tasting the sun.

Open fields of sunflowers, are as happy as the sunshine, glowing warm in praise and adoration, their smiling faces following around their god for the day, then comes night, the silence of the moon and stars rests on their petals until the sunshine party begins next day. There is dancing in the field, holding hands, a rock concert with empire state speaker stacks, and a wheat field of swaying bodies, pulsing with the music, pulsing like a  clock, pulsing to the rhythm of the sunshine.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 26th, 2008

The violins clap with sharp short notes, breaking into a running race of applause as the conductor urges the team to the finish line. A frenzy, a serenade of howling dogs in a thunderstorm as the orchestra reaches the peak, then a singular lonley clap from the concertmaster. One note, one string, one clap and it was over.

Their were footsteps in the hallway, she clapped herself along the corridor and into the office. It tasted like the sharp sting when you clap your hands together too hard for too long, numbing, throbbing, getting hotter and hotter like your hand is near an open fire.
It was such a beautiful sunrise it deserved a clap, instead a warm glow of thankfullness clapped its way up his inside, filling him with a bubbling frothy steady rain of appplause, right up through the heart being patted and cajoled by honeyeater winged hands, vibrating so fast, like a movie real sprocket, so fast that you don’t notice the motion, so fast , like a sewing machine, running down a tack, tacking a line for sprinters to race down. Steam train piston legs moving in well reahearsed stides and strokes, tired but energised, smelling the crowd urging him on.

One clap is the sound of a thousand starter guns, they all merge into one.  Inside feeling as hot as midday sun in arizona. Death valley too many degrees to count, as numerous as ants. Carcasses and skulls lie about like weathered teeth, sandblown, fly blown.  A jet engine take off swarm of flies at every peice of rotting meat.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 26th, 2008

A robot kangaroos its way around the factory, its construction crane arm swinging like a pendulum in a grandfather clock. It tastes the metal as it welds, it tastes flat, neutral, makes the tongue spring back like it’s tasting boot polish. The robot is like a car off the produciton line, the car its offspring. The tacks and welds of automation are the DNA of the vehicle, arms go flailing up in the air when the baby is in need of attention. The mechanical droid/robot is as straight up as a flagpole, motors and servos whirr and twitter like birds on a wire as it moves. Darth vader synthesised voice makes requests, like a tram conductor. Intelligence considers options like a train on a turntable but in a nanosecond.

Factory robot, stealth fighter, pinpointed target, precise as an engineering drawing, smells like an aluminium fishing pole, makes a hollow sound- rings like a muted bell, feels like your hand upon a stair railing, cold steel.

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 26th, 2008

 ooooh a toughie today…not so ‘objecty’Out of bounds, as soon as I hit it I knew that’s where it was headed. That small white dot mangled by a sledgehammer left hook to the upper body. Now sailing , a satellite, in it’s own orbit , a Sputnik with no hairy aerials, no wires and no remote control, heading towards the bathroom mat of fur on the left.

Walking through knee high grass, searching, grasses, pleading for freedom, grabbing at my knees like I’m some sort of saviour that can let them go. Covering the ball to make me stay  a little bit longer. It’s dry as a river bed here, the  golden straws need a drink badly. The ball reveals itself,  sitting up in this nest of grass like a little egg. I cautiuoulsy lift it from its position, the grasses make a  final attempt at grappling with my clothes . I shake them off.

The ball rolls on the ground like it’s just come down a lottery shoot on the smooth carpet of green. I taste boiled egg as the club arcs through the ball, a happy golf club smile of an arc. Perfect! I think of ‘crazy golf ‘ as the plateau of the green gets nearer, those luminescent green fake grass matts, and holes placed at bizzare angles where the concrete has been poured such a way that the ball rolls away at the last moment. Bolts of frustration slide into catches.

[ I think this is a bit too ‘commentary’ for my liking I did get some sense stuff in there]

Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

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admin January 26th, 2008

A full moon is a ghost sitting in the firmament, sending whispy ghost riders out to ride on invisible trails  who bring clouds to a halt, with a puff of their cheesy breath, such grace yet such cheese.

The landscape becomes a frozen moment of time in the stillness, still like a clock that has stopped ticking, still like a lake that is frozen over, still like a broken down car. Caught in the magnetic moonsweep.

The waves of the full moon radiate to earth, like party poppers, streams of confetti paper which merge into a single glow, a glow you can warm your hands on. The moonglow that taste like the tides.  The seas are magnetically pushed and pulled in the push pull magnetic waves of the full moon.

Tides become plasma bags, artificial hearts, pumping the blood of the world, from Costa Rica to Bejing, the moon rules everything.

On the moon , on the dark side, legions of slaves operate fantatsic machines, generating hurricane forces to control the tides. They labor and sweat for hours, sweat running down foreheads like rain on the windscreen. Wiper arms and hands reach up to slingshot another round of perspiration into the dry dust of the full moon, so dry, a cake mixture of dust before water is added. But here there’s no beater, no mixing bowl, just the toil, of making the tides rise and fall .

ON earth everything is clearly defined, crystal edges like everything is a snap frozen moment, trees, lanes and fileds are whispering a lullaby to each other, holding their breath until the moon goes down, holding on holding on. The night is holding on.
 
You can take a spoon outside on a full moon and scoop it through the sky and take a slice out of the big ice cream moon, wash it down with a hint of moon shine, burning away the cold.
Join the Object writing forum at ObjectWriting.com and exercise your creative writing skills by completing the ten minute ‘word of the day’ challenge.

For more Home Recording hints and tips remember to visit MyHomeRecordingStudio.com often.
For Wealth Creation Strategies and 100 Free Ebooks on Making Money visit MyMillionaireBuddy.com

Tags: creative writing, creative writing exercise, creative writing exercises, home recording, lyric writing, Object Writing, pat pattison, poetry, prose, short stories, songwriting, writing

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