The Writing Room

I got into the house
and wandered from room to room.
her father's an author, he said
"I don't care what you do or
where you go, just don't set the house on fire,
don't get yourself hurt or killed but mostly,
don't come into the Writing Room.
you've got no excuses."

he closed the door
and she cried silently,
like the women in his stories.
There were
books all around, in fact,
you couldn't see a single wall,
not the
slightest hint of enclosure,
no fence of the mind.
it seemed like every time you took a book
there was another one behind it,
maybe a little torn apart,
maybe just a little worn out
but it was there nonetheless,
pushing you further, like a sin,
like a sin.

she said he designed the finest verses
and crafted polygraph paragraphs
out of mirror glass,
as the only witness, the only gauge
of his impassable mind.

next to the writing room we sat
in the living room, there were
comfortable cushy chairs,
sky-like marble stones, handwritten
manuscripts, the fireplace--
oh, that fireplace...

the only place without transcripts,
the only place that's letter-free
the one and only dead end
to infinity
she said that it always burned,
that for as long as she could remember,
she sat crossed-legged and watched,
the tiny men dancing in the flames,
the artists of the blaze.

I took her hand and we got high
a soft and creamy high
like iced cream in black coffee
and we tried to stay quiet
to not disturb the host
so kind in his absence.

when i asked, she said
that he wrote about nothing,
nothing and everything,
the pains in life and tragedies,
foreign countries, his family,
about how she looked like her mother...
i knew,
the blaze in her pupils.
she said
that he was well informed,
as I could guess by the books,
some he wrote and some he read,
most he knew as if he wrote them,
anyway, a great artist.

This is the point I'm having
a hard time to describe.
You'd need to ask her but for a moment
she poured a little bit of her soul
out in the room
to mix with the creamy smoke and
to fill the cloudy space.

she spoke of many things,
as if reading my mind.
answering all the questions
I would have never dared to ask,
if you don't mind
I'll keep them for myself,
but mostly why so much misery
in such a family--
she pulled my arm,
brought us to the writing room
without pretending that the house
was on fire or that
we were getting ourselves killed
she reached for the doorknob
of the writing room.

--and so he stood
pressed her against the wall and
collected himself in her matching eyes
the eyes of his daughter

I observed for a little while,
couldn't see anything in the room but them,
it seems
he could have died in those eyes
i understood, and realized
that there are some places a man can never
ever leave
Matty, what's up? This is quite a bit different than what I'm used to seeing from you. It's a pretty good read. A little drawn out in places, sure, and the word choice was suspect on occasion, but overall it was pretty interesting. It could use a little condensing but is fine as it stands. Nice work man.
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Oh, why now? This is a tidal wave in post-Victorian form, the tragedy of the librarian dreams of future writers in their adolescent phase of rebellious intellectualism. Nightmares, I tell you! It has been revealed what we are to become in the not-too-distant future, our sort, whether we are the kids in the living room, getting high on isolation, or a name on a bookshelf, imprisoned in the mind of the recluse.

When I say imagery, I'm talking about more than reality - film and dreams could not record this as well as words have. There is no brilliance, save for where there is, but the infinitely more important side of this is the truth in it, and behind it, on both sides of the writing room's door. 'I' must be subjective then, and subject to the moods of the author. Which?!

This is my thought: polygraph paragraphs out of mirror glass - not only does this just sound good, but pair it with the fireplace and I think I see motivation, purpose, reason. Why exactly has this been written and who specifically has it been written by, metaphorical fathers, the artists of the flames, the dancers on our ballrooms floor, the love that will fade with time, having been subdued by something much more consuming of the heart. Though she comes in many forms, there will always be a 'she,' right?
Anything at all that I could say about this would tarnish the mystic air and beauty that you've so wonderfully manipulated. Besides, oldboy above me summed it up better than I think anyone else could.
I have to say man, I don't know you... but I would give a lot to hear that song on the radio, or just randomly on my iPod. It was a little wordy in places but with editing, the song would just flow throughout the room.
you did a good job being very 'complete' meaning i wasn't asking questions as i read but moving forward with it. I dunno. I just thought this was a great read and a great comfort to read your stuff again.
Anatomy Anatomy
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Park that car
Drop that phone
Sleep on the floor
Dream about me
"I took her hand and we got high
a soft and creamy high
like iced cream in black coffee
and we tried to stay quiet
to not disturb the host
so kind in his absence."


"she sat crossed-legged and watched,
the tiny men dancing in the flames,
the artists of the blaze."

-Lovely. Makes me feel like precluding myself from the words on the screen. To substitute it with a seat beside a fire, well-stoked.

The ending is unforgettable.

I have a couple of qualms with the piece, but I don't wanna ruin anything.
That was incredible. If I ever write anything like that in my life I'll be incredibly happy. I also liked how by the end, it felt very complete, and throughout the whole thing it had a very warm and rich feeling to it.
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Maybe the price tag is clouding your judgment ?
yeah probably. Or the circuits.
Excellent piece Mat.

All you have to do is show up here for a day and post one piece and you win WotW.

I'm really not surprised.


Well deserved. This is a great piece.
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black
I can't even really what reading this was like. It was like I was tasting it, I guess. It more than earns its WotW tag.
Lovely lovely lovely <3
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it's official, vintage x metal is the saving grace of this board and/or the antichrist

e-married to
& alaskan_ninja

Mat is da man.

"Success is as dangerous as failure. Hope is as hollow as fear." - from Tao Te Ching

dear God.
There's only one thing we can do to thwart the plot of these albino shape-shifting lizard BITCHES!