farts

[robertsona]

irish blood american heart

Somewhere in the peripheral vision of my family’s ancestry
is Ireland, green and stony and a reflection of its own seas:
prolific. Somewhere, in the back of my father’s father’s father’s
mind, the droning and incomprehensible sermon
of his motherland--somewhere, it left. It exited and left its crumbs
on the mat of the front door, and beckoned him to do the same.
My father’s father, I imagine, could see these same seas
that had haunted his own father for now uncountable decades.
They were ready--even he, as a small child on a boat travelling to
America--for change, that one-syllable absurdity that brings about
the worst in all people. My great-grandfather, feeling the boat’s
hideous breeze across his back, would have shouted at my
grandfather. He would have screamed and moaned and
shrieked of pure Irish torment until my grandfather’s young
tears dripped into the ruthless ocean. Perhaps this is why
my grandfather never once in his lifetime went on a boat
again. Perhaps this is why, in an act of youthful defiance that
never quite faded away, my father takes his own family, including
me, on a yearly fishing trip off the coast of Martha’s Vineyard. Perhaps
this is why I--once last summer and then again in a dream--saw
slick-scaled striped bass flop wildly into view and then quickly
disappear, covered by an oily film laid down
by the sun, into the cerulean sea.

on jeffery getting drunk for the first time

Jeffery was invited by a mutual friend
to a party the other day, whereupon arriving
he found that nearly everyone was already
passed out on beds and couches and--when all else
failed or was already taken--the floor. He stood
for a while and thought about driving home,
and then decided instead to stay and drink a discarded
bottle of vodka. It did not go down
easily. Yet Jeffery was able to withstand the
repulsive taste for long enough in order to
flop down on an L-shaped couch in the next
room and feel his face grow uncomfortably warm and
watch ten minutes or so of Out of Africa and say something
strange and irrelevant to no one in particular like Yeah
man I ****ing hate women
and then fall asleep.

[Mans0n]

Very nice! I actually enjoyed this, excepted the title is a little misleading.

[prefx]

Hahahaha second one made me laugh my ass off.

Very nice.

[robertsona]

i named it farts because that was my artistic influence

[prefx]

I ****ing hate women man

*Brain fart*

[sakura080789]

haha nice i like them good work

[robertsona]

untitled

When I was seven years old I stopped
eating and became so skinny that blue and purple
patches started developing on my
skin. I gradually leaked out of personhood and
became something subhuman;
something vague and undefined. I slipped
into small cracks in the kitchen wall
and mixed in with the furniture in the
living room, and when it came time
for church or dinner or to meet family friends
I would--not of my own will but also not against
it--slowly deflate myself into corners of the house.
My parents would come looking for me and I
would try to yell out to them and alert them to my
presence, but the surrounding atmosphere would
cruelly smother my mouth and my parents, frustrated,
would leave for whatever it was they needed to attend
and I would be left alone, collapsed in an obscure
nook of my house. Then, one day, I bravely
pressured my now almost two-dimensional body
into crawling sluggishly throughout my house until
I reached the kitchen pantry, whereupon I
proceeded to eat at first little nibbles
of crackers followed by slightly larger snacks
like nuts and pretzels and then finally
I began to devour whole boxes of cereal,
entire watermelons, a package of apple juice
cartons. As my impromptu feast went on, my skin
began to return to its normal color and I
expanded back into my normal size, like a balloon
hastily inflating itself. Lying in a heap of crumbs
and scraps that smelled both of shame
and victory, I heard my parents entering through
the front door. I was excited to see that
they had returned, as they would surely feel the
brunt of the bizarre psychological punishment
I had just inflicted on them, and would almost
certainly buy that new video game that I had
been asking for.

[ddrxero64]

Wow, I swear there's something hugely hidden inside this prose. I'm split between thinking it's some sort of joke and you're really just writing your thoughts carefully organized on different lines and that these words are definitely and poetically well structured. I don't know, you had me thinking hard though. I give this a 10/10 man, and I don't regret that at all. You couldn't have more spurred anymore thought in me.

[Phlegmatism]

You would be an incredible composer of copypasta. Do you have a blog?

[robertsona]

i have a tumblr which is close enough

it's pretty much stream of consciousness though, it's just like me posting dumb shit that i dont care about five minutes later

swagthef uckout.tumblr.com

remove the space

[robertsona]

Untitled

Two days ago a man named Ian Brennan hit and killed my family’s dog with his car while turning a corner on Hickory Street. Traveling from my house you can take two lefts and then a right and then drive straight for about half a mile and if you look close enough you can see the blood, dark red and now faded but still so penetratingly there. Thirty minutes after the dog--whose name was Anna--had been hit, my mother and father and I were deciding on how to bring the dead body home and eventually my mother called our family friend Kate Burton and said something ominously vague like Please come to the corner on Hickory Street. Something bad happened. I’m sorry. Just come. Kate Burton, who lived only a few minutes away on Robin Drive, arrived in her red Kia Sedona and got out and saw the blood and the dog and then said I’m so sorry and picked up Anna and put it in the backseat of her car. We all slowly and senselessly got into the car, trying to avoid sight of the dog. Wait, my father said as we left. The blood. What about the blood. We can’t just leave that on the road. My mother--she could call the pet cremation service and call the veterinarian and she could even put on the surgical gloves that had always been lying around in the kitchen desk drawer. But she couldn’t look at the blood on the road, and she could not clean it, and she could not call someone to clean it. We can’t leave that goddamn blood on the road, my father said as Mrs. Burton tentatively started putting the car in reverse. We have to clean it up, he urged. My mother’s eyes started welling. She bit her lip with such intensity that an instinctive yelp of pain emerged out of her throat and escaped through her mouth. No, her eyes seemed to say. You’re asking too much, her shaking hands said.

[robertsona]

i love dialogue without quotation marks such a gimmick idc

[robertsona]

woodlawn

I am sitting with my father
in a restaurant in Woodlawn, the
Irish part of the Bronx, eating
bread with raisins in it.
I do not remember what the bread is called.
But we are here, at this table
and there is a ketchup bottle turned
upside-down and a mustard bottle
right-side up. The bottle of ketchup
has no literary significance. Nor
does the mustard.
They are not the topsy-turvy
quality of pseudo-Irish family life;
they are not even the death
of the American dream.
A man comes out of the kitchen
and serves the adjacent table’s
meal. His mustache twinges with
sadness, but it too lacks a
metaphor. Disappointed,
I scan the room again and again until I come back
to the bread. The bread, my last hope
for homespun artistry in this restaurant, refuses to
budge in its inelegance. It is not a
symbol. At best, it represents itself: bread,
hastily embedded with raisins, sitting lonely in a basket
while a man a few tables away suddenly stands up
and points at a television screen and shouts:
“Man, did you see them Yanks? Did you see them
Goddamn Yanks?”

[Izzy]

You suck.

[robertsona]

[ffraxis]

Originally Posted by Izzy

You are a most excellent writer, please continue writing moving poetry and rhymes and keeping it fresh holmes

this was an interpretation; it was abstract but it was there hidden cleverly within those two words "you suck", a most hardy statement which can be considered by some to be poetic.

[SocoNhydro420]

epic...

[~kitty~]

Please, everything I write is a poem. This forum post is a poem in itself, because I am so poetic and capable of expressing the so-called "human soul" and what is considered to make us human. Dun dun dun. Just kidding.

[who_cares973]

Enjoyable reads keep it up sona

[sweetrowan]

Awesome. I will just keep lurking in the background, reading.