Wet Wet Wet Round# 3

Below is a transcribed version of our drunken free writing activity.
The necessary form of release-- Eh, ano ngayon? This is NOT poetry!

You can also click on the audio to listen to this glorious garb of gibberish.

Round 3 07262011 Spazzio - SHANE by Amber_Light


Round #3, 1st line by Riley – read by Shane

It is not the best nor the worst of times.
I never said I’d bring the flowers. And
please, don’t call me ‘Ishmael’. I am merely
black ink on a tide of salty volume.
This is not the ocean
either. Nor is this the mountains.
This is just space—with
all the textures, with all
the flavors. With all the
“ifs”. Vast and undefined,
like the soft lines of your
palms, the curb of your
brows, the air that we breathe.
There is solace in all things
unnamed. I love the uncertainty
and utterance you bring forth
amidst all this static. But who
knows if we’re not far from the end.
From what we have heard, we’re not
far away, with every day… now I pray.
I confess to all the wrong I have done
and at the same time hope to see
the morning sun. For us, life as
we know it might be coming to an
end. I trust myself enough that
I won’t bend. I still want to
cherish every moment, as much as
I have unnoticeably lived by Shakespeare’s
every sonnet. As much as I love to
live, even just to give. I’ve learn’t
to love everybody as if they were
my own kid.

Ah! I know. I am cigarettes. Yeah, cigarettes. Or that awkward moment when a guy knocks on the men’s room door when you’re taking a leak. Yeah. Yeah. That.

                                                  _________This is not text on top of a line.___

Leaking. Licking. Lacking.
After that what?
Bad wet fucking?
Again I start,
depth-devoid logic,
shallow reasoning.
Meta my fuckin’
arse, I’m stickin’.
To all this graphic, sporadic,
to cadence. I create my own
world, exist in my mind, em-
brace my human mecha-
nism, acknowledge frailty.
It is necessary to deal with such
things: our complacence,
the final thought which haunts
us before sleeping. But still I
dream. Dream of a time where
there were no problems only
imaginary completeness. Nor
a problem in the world, just
happiness. Just love.
          If I were corporeal, even at least,
even if my ink were to sink, if I
were a whole, a shell to house my
memory, would it all change? Would
I sink or swim? Would my words dance
on the page or would they simply
bubble up the surface?


Riley, Jov, Cor, Shane


(Shane had to cuss by the time he read my part because my penmanship was growing harder by the hour to decipher. I'm sorry, dude. I blame it all on the Red Horse. Thanks for trying to read this though.)

Spazzio July 26, 2011