#scribbing

• are these feelings set in stone or are you willing to accept alternate views..?

Laughter permeated A half-struck moon Dazed glances across Smokey rooms' abandon From another era's sanity. Sanitized quaint sensations Of solid laughter restless From a different time swinging Arms at invisible demons Caught in strobe head lights. A phobia conquering solace While reminiscing of old days Where solid nit wits ran away Avoiding projected sprawls As antipathy wanders a loner Stating coined conditions Tolerated in old magazines But with different meaning Satisfying hindsight's progress Tolerating participation amiss Recurrent the casual plunge As ideas split dice landing Sideways ringing spouts From lecture artists flipping out Over sordid romance dancing To ragged tunes surveying Clean sound systems on repeat Beating the crowd in rhythm Taking salient obscurities Drew schisms burrowing Amidst a crowd tapped out By cop outs desiring droughts Of surreal wisdom flowing Comfort's alienation christened A distracted contortionist's secret Words surmising pass codes Dripping from ceiling fans That flicked a finger's judgement Attempting to sort out the chaos Boiling withering vents signal A frown to smiling crowned Latitudes summed up a pointer Finger's hush signaled a solemn Dope used to coping collegiate Folks in an age of television Enhancing supervision detached From the superficial crimes Furthering human attachment

scribbing (eye drawing)

My artist picture scribbing by me. ☺

There she resumed her habitual use of the diner's decadent napkin. Drawing the repetitive attention from a waitress who had eventually aged to the point of being ageless. who always her a lukewarm grin in passing. Taking the young lady's plate of home fries; not saying a word but always noticing the onions were the only thing she ate. Nevertheless, her feet continued to hang off that stool. Cooling her hot feet on the clay faced tiles that always felt the same no matter what the room temperature was. It could have been just the word, but she never could figure out why she only ate the onions. Ever since that day in biology class when she learned that they were a starch. It could have been that word. Just the strong emphasis on -cher part. Playing with leftovers next to her. She never did just pull plate over but kept it there. For her to just grab the older gentleman with a bald head and a suit always sitting next to her. Leaning over, balancing her body and dignity she massaged her bottom lip with her top front teeth. Digging into that half-puckered fat; holding half of her mouth together—so the waitress once told her—or was it her mother? She couldn't remember which one had said that. She realized that what she was doing when the slight grazing of the starch-like chunk of how grease was soon stabbed in half with a wild fork. Meeting expectations yet coming off as a light taste of blood touched her tongue. Tasting like steel at room temperature, she locked her hidden lips once she distanced her metal from the oval-shaped ceramic. Detached yet rather alarmed by an intrusive piece of sharp wood—otherwise called a 'model splinters-snatched the starch-half on her plate'. Looking up, it was the curious bus boy. Tightening the trip on her eyes with his own; coupled with a loose smile with the slightest shade of yellow to match her shirt. She returned it with a tight grin. Just as the waitress grabbed the plate of home fries and walked away. Leaving her with the scent of onions' fried vapor lingering in the air. Maybe it was the contradiction between the aural emphasis and the written ending with '-cher' sound. It was like we were all taught dyslexic and then shamed if we the few of us actually caught onto to it's nuance. She continued....

Georges perec - ESPÈCES D'ESPACES NOVEMBRE2016 Jeu d'écriture