THE YOUNG WRITER REVOLT

Roman Belopolsky, "Spring Hymn"

2011-04-15T14:53:00.001-04:00

The clouds open their mouths

And drool life’s sweet honey down.

The worms all dance and burn,

Flame leaks from the phoenix urn.

The skins are stretched again.

Sweat splashes as drums begin.

The eyes lick warm the rise.

Bees buzz in sticky hives.

And the blood boils to thick mud

As flowers of friction bud.

The rose reloads the bows

And pricks the runny nose.

The roars explode from pores.

Teeth gnash at forbidden doors.

And the sun knows where to come.

She is the maestro of the hum.

Beneath our feet- the ground

Sets the ancient tempo

And every heart shouts aloud

“Vale Sol, Entiendo, entiendo, entiendo!”

-Written Spring 2010, at Stony Brook University, Roman Belopolsky©

Check Out this Charcoal by Lauren Hughes

2011-04-14T09:57:00.001-04:00

Shannon Corwin, "Dropping Off"

2011-04-14T09:53:00.000-04:00

Fog in my skull,
It rolls with the tide.
Slowly I surface
And slowly I dive.
Each breath a barter
As I slip away
Into the billows,
Beneath the fray.
Measuring hours that are left on my lease
As crown plunges down to insidious peace.

Call for Thoughts and Responses to Japan's Devastation

2011-03-12T11:26:00.006-05:00

I've been reading article after article and looking over photograph after photograph of the aftermath of the quakes and tsunamis in Japan- it is absolutely unreal. It's as though every possible variety of disaster that can happen, has happened in Japan. Look at this photo: in one frame you have a residential area devastated by flood and covered in debris, there is a massive freight-ship smack in the middle of it (straight out of a post apocalyptic vision), and in the background you have massive stacks of billowing smoke, and a raging industrial fire. AND THIS IS JUST ONE PHOTO- In others I've seen, trains flipped like toys, cars on top of a pile of boats, huge buildings crumbled, an airport underwater, leaking RADIATION from a nuke plant, helicopters flying over entire neighborhoods that look as if their faces have been beaten in with the back end of a forty, cargo containers so numerous in their disarray that from above they look like legos, oh, and not to mention thousands of people dead, and who knows how many more are still buried, trapped, lost, and maybe- forgotten forever. Every time I think I've seen all the disaster there is to see, some new article comes out, new photos are released, new information is spread, the death tolls keep rising, and Japan is looking more and more like the anus of the earth. But part of me knows that the media will eventually tire of this story, and move on, and most of us will move on too. And although most of us will not be going to Japan to HELP, we can connect to it, learn from it, talk about it, and maybe help in some other way, even if its just caring.

Donne said it, Hemingway spread it, "never send to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee." Most of you know what that means, but for those who do not, it means: we are all humanity, and if one dies, then a part of ourselves dies as well, and the funeral bells you hear, are for the death of one, all, and yourself.

I want to see what people are thinking about this, poetry, prose, painting, whatever it is- as long as it is related to this tragedy. Send them to writerrevolt@gmail.com, or just post your thoughts as a comment.

-RB

“the horror, the horror”

2011-03-07T21:53:00.005-05:00

Roman Belopolsky

If it’s cloudy enough, even the full moon is just a pea in the bowels of the overcast. If you’re far enough

from those crooked hooks of civilization, from those night lights glowing for the damned, humming for the upper-middle-

lower class, night lights for the urban suburbans who’ve forgotten darkness and embraced dim and murky unripe cherry rouge,

because they think it helps them see it coming- but slob-

bering eyes are sharper looking out from shadows—

Upward- the moon somewhere in the recesses of the starry small intestines- I lit a fire on a flicked speck of forgotten beach, and

found the darkness that my own darkness had been reaching and screeching for. The water was all mouth and lungs- sighing rolling

Oedipus on a sick bed, on his last legs- and two feet from my two feet was that tiny temperamental flame- constantly on the verge of

sputtering out-

it spit wild frantic embers to bring attention to it’s tantrum- and Oedipus was eavesdropping

and as a native of the darkness offered me a translation in a single breath- his accent was too deep at first, but one word stuck out-

an unfamiliar foot creeps from behind a corner where no one should be standing

the word came out slow and violent- as if it were being born by the breath of a voice- it came out fricative first, I could feel the flap of a

fat lower lip as it freed itself from the grip of two buck teeth: “feed.” hunger is the fiend in us all, and thought- thought in the darkness

only illuminates that hunger is all- all eating, all eaten, and the universe is eternally giving birth: to a dragon that is eating its

mother’s head.

"she sees angels in everything"

2011-03-04T14:47:00.003-05:00

Roman Belopolsky

a slender branch bowed bent with snow
a few dead leaves left brown and hung
hung on neuces like forgotten bandits hung

a collage of rot and frost
death's leprous fist firm clenching triumph
but in a calm and quiet tone

she told me sweetly it was an angel
she sees angels in
everything

the leaves I thought were carcasses
she called them strong she called them wings
she sees angels in everything

even the dastard pigeons of old Bayonne
she said their gnarled claws carve
angels in the snow

she sees angels in everything
I don't, I don't believe in alchemy
my mind, my wand can't turn copper into gold

but if I'm blind then she must be deaf
she sees angels in everything
but when she laughs she doesn't hear it

maybe she's not listening the way I'm
listening
but even from the next room I can hear the round sound of

((fluttering))

THE YOUNG WRITER REVOLT is Back

2011-03-04T14:28:00.002-05:00

Ok, so I've been rethinking this whole blog idea and I have decided that I want to open this thing up to all mediums. If you make art in any way that can be shown on this blog, you are welcome to put it up. I'm going to try to update the blog as often as I can and try to give everyone the opportunity to have their work up.

Help each other out with comments-
i.e. "I really like that line but try this word in place of that word and see what you think"
or "Dude your photo made me wet"

REMEMBER: THINK... Before it's illegal.

Introducing: Shannon Corwin

2010-09-20T16:28:00.003-04:00

Hey y'all, Shannon is a talented writer and grad student from the New York/ Long Island Area. Let her know if you like her poem or some technique she utilizes or if you think you have some advice for her. Welcome Shannon!

"On Reliance" by Shannon Corwin

2010-09-20T16:24:00.002-04:00

These years of belief have crippled the mind,
Hobbled the senses, and rendered us blind.
Our march toward the future slowed to a trudge
Our lameness caused by a need to prejudge,
And plot and hope and scheme and dream.
Our grasp of the present weakened more per diem.
Hollow premonitions from a time now dead
Made lame wisdom’s power to reverse the spread
Of faith that proselytized stagnation
This God’s great power: to incite expectation
Of pragmatic outcomes and justified fates.
We’re left ill-prepared to watch us deflate.
Promises now hollow in an altered domain,
Prophet’s power extinguished while devout dissolve in pain.
All unnecessary, all in vain.
For the future can never be explained.
The soul's only balm for this injury
Is offered in a sensible decree
To keep faith buried under intellect’s firm earth,
Question often and honor doubt’s worth.

-Shannon Corwin, Contributing Writer

A word from the poet:

"On the surface, this poem is about people and their relationship with religion and how, if/when the faith runs out, it leaves people feeling lost. Deeper though, this is about any relationship with anything in which people become dependent on their outdated perceptions of what the relationship actually is and where it can go."

"Faded" by Lauren Hughes

2010-09-20T16:17:00.002-04:00

My body sits, extended outward in front of me like I am living proof of Descartes theory. A head, detached from its useless and mechanistic body; that is all it feels like. Am I losing it? Have I lost everyone? I forget what it is like to be needed by more than one person and am reminded frequently what it’s like to not be needed at all.

At a given point in time, I am orbiting the planet; the brightest star in line of sight. Sight changes, that much is clear. And as most critical pieces are viewed, it is up to the viewer to interpret me. I hear my irrational mind present a response; “the form is slightly altered, still beautiful; the capacity of it as a whole is capable of love, but I think we’ll pass for something that requires less attention to fix”. At a given place in time, I am sucking in the atmosphere around me. A star collapsed.

When did time catch up? When did it pass by? When did I become so transparent or for a lack of a better word, washed up? I am washed up. The words sink in like ink takes to paper, penetrating directly through to the heart of the material. I feel my mind mulling over the thought of written pages. To more accurately place an understanding of my importance to those that occupy my surroundings, I am the journal you find years after writing in. I, just like a star, illuminated dark nights and was full of passion and sparks. I – I, was a spark. Now after collecting dust for years, my significance – faded. Old.

I had a plethora of authors, each now removing me from their mind; out of sight, out of mind; isn’t that how it goes? And it is not anger that plies out my interior rather it is their innermost unconscious wiping away the ashes of where a candle once burned. My lungs burn. No one is capable of friendship without love; anatomy makes no difference. I make no difference. Distance separates me from being the difference. Distance bounds me to a location I loathe. I don’t loathe often. To think I have used the word home in reference to here. Home is dependable. This place has to look up the meaning in Webster.

I am alone. Sitting in my room I let a slight hole collapse into my chest with every breath; in and out. In and out. How representational. Into my lungs flows the air in which I breathe and those whom I hold dear to my heart; out wheezes the air and the loss of those who don’t quite care enough to, well, care.

-Lauren Hughes, Contributing Writer

A word from the poet:
"I believe one of the most difficult things to do as an individual is to confront and actually feel, what it is that we are experiencing. Happiness is among one of the simplest to express, at least for me that is, but diving into the darkest places in our minds, are uncharted and fearsome. Thus, this piece is an exploration; my look into something other than joy and pleasure; new territory."

Introducing: Spencer Troeller

2010-09-10T18:36:00.002-04:00

Spencer was one of the first writers to make an attempt at the little experiment I've presented the community with. This is what he had to say about his poem:

"If a cop read this poem to me, I feel they'd find themselves agreeing with it to some degree at least. Maybe even getting angry if they were standing in front of me looking at my ripped pants, tye dye t-shirt and long beard. But when they got to the end of the poem, hopefully, they would think twice before LOOKING for someone dressed as such and maybe concentrate on the people who are actually driving recklessly or beating people up, etc."

-Spencer Troeller

"Whoop Whoop This is the Sound of the Police" by Spencer Troeller

2010-09-10T18:33:00.001-04:00

I once though of a quiet time,
With many soldiers, yet non did whine.

For safety led us all to peace,
As flaming bottles throws were seized,
I never asked if not for them,
I never hurt a man not masked.

And though we tried to save their souls,
They never wanted pay the tolls,
Though blame them not for they blame me,
And it's rather this way that'd it'd be.

'Cause they never asked for me to ask,
And rather that I play the foo'
But before I pulled you over,
I thought...
Whoop whoop...
did he do?

-Spencer Troeller, Contributing Writer

Writing Challenge: An Experiment in Poetics

2010-09-06T21:57:00.002-04:00

Hey y'all,

So throughout the summer I've been writing ceaselessly, a large portion of which being poetry. And being completely submerged in my writing, I began to ask myself questions, the most intriguing of which was: WHAT IS A POET? And in some primitive sense I realized in some ways a poet is a magician. I know that sounds crazy, but hear me out, when the settlers came to the "New World," one of the things they often mesmerized the Native Americans with was the fact that one person could write any thought on a piece of paper and then hand to another, who could read it and know what the others' thought was. The Native Americans thought that was magic, and in some ways I don't disagree. If I write any of my thoughts on a piece of paper and have someone read it, my words become their words. A poet can make people feel their emotions, make them think or say anything they write.

So, long story short, here's the idea I came up with:
What if a poet could write poetry in which the reader inherits the position of the poet, and the poet (or someone or something the poet intends for) becomes the subject. Imagine giving someone a poem to read, and by the time they finish it, they realize they've just made an oath of love to you, or stated that they hate someone that they don't know, and so on. The idea is simple and with enough interest could be something revolutionary for poetry. Again, reverse the positions of the reader and the poet, in any ingenious way you can.

Send me any of your experiments to the writerrevolt@gmail.com

Read the poem below to get a clearer idea of what I mean.

"My Love for You" by Roman Belopolsky

2010-09-06T21:33:00.004-04:00

If you are, as a whole, a mystery,
Let me script you crumb by crumb.
How I buzz from pinky to thumb,
When the opera curtains of your lids
Open to the tenors bellowing romance
Within their hives of honey brown spots lights.

How safe it is on the bridge of your nose,
Which stands so proudly with the whispered legends of war.
Your lips as soft as bruised Georgia peaches in May.
How I do enjoy when they part to reveal
The overlapped embrace of your two front teeth.

Such are the secrets only told with time and the length of arms.

How I pray you would love me!
How I want your mystery!
And how perfectly you were named,
Roman Belopolsky!

-Roman Belopolsky, 2010

"I Am Nobody" by Karl Johnson

2010-09-06T21:20:00.001-04:00

Find me? You'll never find me, if I choose to hide.
Find me? You'll never find me, if I had my right.

I am one of ten sleeping pills you took to drift away,
I am the mattress in your empty flat on which you lay,

I am the parent through education you seek to please,
I am off the radar like a jetplane in Bermuda sea's,

I am the suction beneath the quicksand bringing you down,
I am a memory just a distant thought and a muffled sound,

I am the girlfriend you cheated on that didn't mind,
I am the answer to the question you'll never find,

I am a Chinaman in Chinatown at average height,
I am a blade of grass in your garden beneath the night,

I am the ring on no one's finger cast into the sea,
As the tides washed me away, i became nobody, nobody.

Find me? You'll never find me, if I choose to hide.
Find me? You'll never find me, if I had my right.

-Karl Johnson, Contributing Writer

"The Strange Necessity" by Ben-Ottar Johansen

2010-09-06T21:16:00.000-04:00

Mana running low.
Sand pouring out of my eyes.
Eyelids too heavy to handle.

Disconnect, auto-reconnect.

Three seconds idle,
then blindness again.
Dizzy, twirling darkness like a
roller coaster ride at hyper speed.

Watching ancient relatives looking back at me.

Monkey hanging from the treetop.
Charlie the Unicorn is still searching.
Searching for the candy mountain.

What a blissful world.

-Ben-Ottar Johansen, Contributing Writer

Promo Flyer Is Up!

2010-09-06T20:58:00.002-04:00

Hey y'all,

So I designed a flyer to help promote the Revolt to a wider range of writers. If you can find a free moment, please print the flyer and post it up around your universities or towns. This could really make a big impact if we each do a small part. Thanks again to all the Revolters for caring about the big picture of the Revolt and helping to create a worldwide writer community.

Roman

NEWS:

2010-08-31T11:19:00.000-04:00

Hey Y'all,

So as you can see, the Revolt is back- now that I have finished moving into my new house (which, for all you bohemians out there, is a bohemian utopia for the artistically inclined).

I am going to add the file for the flyer I have designed onto both of the blogs and anyone who feels like helping spread the word on the Revolt can download it and post them up or hand them out to friends.

Also, I have been experimenting with a new concept, and I will soon introduce it to you all (alongside a friendly contest to see who can take the concept farthest).

I'll put up a few of the pieces I've been working on throughout the rest of this week.

Keep spreading the WORD.

A brief word on "Woke Up Again..." by Jim Lopiano

2010-08-31T11:18:00.001-04:00

"This is definitely something that was able to reawaken a certain moment in time for me, and as such, is a piece worthy of sentiment. The real power of this poem is not the feeling it had described at the time it was written, but the strength and insight it has provided to me now..."

-Jim Lopiano

"Woke Up Again and Something Was Wrong" by Jim Lopiano

2010-08-31T11:13:00.001-04:00

The pressure subsides little by little every day…

Why do I feel hatred like I have not felt before?

My heart is straining to circulate thickening mud.

I do not comprehend what is going on.

Please don’t laugh, please.

My eyes are doing strange things again.

Salt water is brimming at their lids.

Burning my eyes and turning them red.

The sound of a pretty name.

The sight of a beautiful picture,

Is all it takes to keep me suffocating on the ground?

Well I’m no expert on love.

But a prescription for pain may be needed.

I know this broken heart will one day right itself strong.

One day I’ll forget this feeling.

I’m afraid, forever, for I’d rather feel sand in my lungs.

Instead I’m destined to feel amnesia take its sway.

My red turns to blue and parts this sea of sad again.

Something is wrong with me.

I’m starting to bet I know the reason why.

The pressure subsides little by little every day…

-Jim Lopiano, Contributing Writer

A brief word on "The Funny Thing..." by Hidden Self

2010-08-30T17:00:00.001-04:00

"...everyone calls out to something bigger, a faith they follow so blindly… Then something happens, that faith is shattered and they feel alone... no belief, no hope. Once they are entirely broken, something happens, something that makes this earth tolerable, something that make them believe in something again, to believe in anything. Time and time again, that thing they find, that truth, is love. They find love, safety, comfort, relief in the eyes of something else, from that person's touch, from that person's soul. Suddenly everything is bare-able again, they finally are able to pick up those pieces, different from where they started but in someone happy it shattered in the first place."

-Hidden Self

"The Funny Thing About Coffee" by Hidden Self

2010-08-30T16:50:00.002-04:00

The last day he believed in god
Was the day his father died
After seeing his mother
Drown her tears in the bottom
Of a whisky bottle
If only it didn’t snow
If only he didn’t go
If only if only

 
The last day she believed in god
Was the day she prayed
To be saved from this hellish life
No one answered, no one came
To stop the beatings from angry fists
Coming down on her
Coming every night around 9
Coming again, again

 
The first day he found hope
He spilled his coffee
All over her makeshift desk,
On her torn favorite jeans
He was lost in her endless eyes
Could he look away?
Could he love again?
Could he? Could he?

 
The first day she found hope
Everything got soaked in espresso
But she didn’t seem to care
She couldn’t move, couldn’t speak
Staring in his eyes
Seeing relief for once
Seeing light in the dark
Seeing again, again

 
The day they found each other
Was the day they believed
That love was stronger
Than any man, than any god
They saved each other, finally safe
Protected from the past
Protected in the arms
Of a lover, of each other

-Hidden Self, Contributing Writer

Introducing: Adina Raso

2010-08-30T16:42:00.000-04:00

Adina is writer and musician living in the New York City area. Although her work is generically titled, her poem is laced with a very personal style. She's the newest addition to the Revolt, so let's give her some young writer loving. Feel free to comment and criticize constructively.

-Roman

"Poem #1" by Adina Raso

2010-08-30T16:34:00.003-04:00

what do you do
when all your friends are dead
how does it feel
when you're dead to your friends
and constancy ends
and pseudo-life begins
and nothing makes sense
not a fucking thing makes sense
and you give the excuse
that "it all chalks up to experience"
just to comfort yourself
and mend your own distorted morality
And your life is a cyclic paradox
--you regret living on impulse
--you embrace living like there's no tomorrow
and you're a damn hypocrite
so you don't give advice
you just talk and hope your words are like a freecycle
and people don't excite you
cause your so wrapped-tight cynical
but an optimist at heart, because like I said
your life is a paradox
Everyone's life is a paradox
It's not that you're a liar
or a thief
or a whore
You're just conflicted
because you're a paradox
But you don't have to be...
you can decide right from wrong without the gray

but I swallow the gray
everyday
to avoid the gray
and avoid life
and be an earth-angel
or live in the gray and be a cenobite

"To some we are demons, to others we are angels"

I don't know anything
It feels like I'll never know anything

-Adina Raso, Contributing Writer

"Lonely" by Tara Gleason

2010-08-26T13:58:00.003-04:00

I don't care what anyone says, I gotta get out this place. The foam layering the thin air is making me wheeze, cough, cough, the syllables of a rough scratching nail against a blackboard. I caress my brow, my fingertips layered with sweat and liquid disappointment. I can't do this anymore.

The silence around me is suffocating, its echo-less sounds reverberate into my motionless skull, bang, bang like a gun muffled through my nightmare pillow. The feather down silken comfort cant suppress the horrors that linger in my vulnerable imagination; they scatter and fragment, swirling their endless crackling screeches and moans till the tears pour relentless; oh how they pour, no, stream down the hazy rosy patterns of my cheeks.

The soundless is deafening, a claustrophobic vice swimming beneath my sensitive lids. Stars burn like candles in my memories of loneliness, and the flashbacks crackle like dying embers within my eyelashes. Gotta move, gotta run before it burns me alive. Then again, it would be different to watch me burn.

I purchased my ticket for the express train to nowhere, population no one. Welcome sign reads 'everywhere but here', but underneath is chiseled, 'anywhere else is just the same.' Nostalgia kicks in, churning within my chest of yesterdays and never-beens. Tomorrow is not just another day in my book; its the day. The day when the same happenings occur: only backwards, forwards, diagonal, zig-zags, slow motion, and lightening speed. After a while you get used to it.

You just gotta find the rhythm. The clap! the stomp! the beat clanging wildly in your chest. Everybody's life has its own meter and tune, and you're no different. In fact, you are different, just so different that you sound the same. Your sameness hides your uniqueness, your ability to mask your awkwardness clambers idle in your whispers of conformity, your echoes of ritual of day in and day out nonsense.

Me, I figured out the system. The tune of life is just a bad rerun in my head on the most played radio station in everybody's always running cars. Monotonous droning is what it hums in my head now; I can't even feel the vibrations lingering on my fingertips. That's why I gotta get out here; you stick around too long and you get overstimulated; numb even. I gotta leave before I can't feel anything anymore

Me, I'd rather be alone. Me, I'd rather be lonely. Awkward, stumbling, catching my breath, losing my step, clutching for dear life, singing off-key, missing the beat entirely.

Yeah, that's me. On the express train to nowhere.

"What are you looking for?" Beats me.

"Well, why are you leaving? "Change of scene.

"Why do you need to be different?" Cause everyone's the same

"What's wrong with that?" Well...nothing.

It's just...

You get so damned lonely.

-Tara Gleason, Contributing Writer

Update and Request

2010-08-12T12:16:00.002-04:00

Update:

Hey Y'all, so I apologize for the short break, things have been pretty hectic over in New York City. To make up for it, we've got a new writer to introduce, Tara Gleason , another piece from our Norwegian poet, Ben-Ottar Johansen, a new poem from the heartbroken Marissa J. Scacalossi, and poem from my own machine of thought.

Other News: I have recently begun working on a marketing strategy for the Revolt. The basic idea of what I've come up with is to design flyers and posters advertising the movement we've started here. When I finish the design, I will email it to anyone who is willing to print and post a few of them around their town, city, and most importantly their University. The Revolt now features writers spanning the US and Europe, and recent reports on Google Analytics show viewership stretching from the US West coast all the way to Russia, if we could spread these ads all over cities and Universities around the world, we could really take the Revolt to a new level.

I am also currently working on a video promotion for the Revolt, which should be up in a few weeks. But if there are any of you that have some talent in video production, let me know if you would be interested in creating your own ad, I would be very receptive to any ideas (especially if they're somehow rediculous).

Request:

I am glad more of the writers are leaving comments on their fellow writers work. But most of the comments are more compliments than useful critique. I know how vicious writers can be of other writers' work, which I don't want, but I doubt you all think every piece on here is perfect. Give each other feedback, tips, note mistakes if you see them, no one is going to have their feelings hurt because this is why we're putting our work up here, this is an essential piece of the Revolt's philosophy "Writers helping other writers." Please take this into consideration when posting comments in the future.

-Roman

Introducing: Tara Gleason

2010-08-12T12:09:00.002-04:00

Tara is a very talented young writer from New York City. We're proud to welcome yet another promising writer to the Revolt, and hope to see many more inspiring pieces by her. As always, give her some feedback if you enjoy her work.

-Roman

"Faint Mind" by Tara Gleason

2010-08-12T12:07:00.001-04:00

Please don't let me slip away underneath the fading backdrop of your memories. I am misplaced, indefinitely lost within this swirling chasm of deja vu, and struggling, helpless and afraid, of the lingering future fog that gently wraps itself around your faint mind.

I win for a moment, and lose for forever. I linger on the clouds of my dreams, until they shine purple and red beneath the crystal veins of the dragon's glare that haunts my nightmares. I can't hold onto the cliff because it was never solidly there, never present because it was snatched away with the storm that whisked you off so soon.

The noises, the movements, the moments that swirl around in your mind, forever compacting and compressing into childhood nuisances and nostalgia pressure my presence into slipping into the abyss of dementia and carelessness. I am hard to remember, but easy to forget. My image a vague outline, recently sharpened and traced, but soon to erode and fade.

The lips that traced my wrist, the fingertips that lingered over my neck, the breath that hollowed over my stomach, is a mist rapidly evaporating from my senses. The crudely etched hole inside my heart is bleeding afresh, the gore pumping out like rivers of golden intent and broken promises.

I don't know how much more there is left to bleed, how much is left to pour out of me. I am completely spent...until I see you again. Until then, please don't let me slip away underneath the fading backdrop of your memories. I am misplaced, indefinitely lost within this swirling chasm of deja vu, and struggling, helpless and afraid, of the lingering future fog that gently wraps itself around your faint mind.

-Tara Gleason, Contributing Writer

Explanation: "Faint Mind"

2010-08-12T12:03:00.001-04:00

"This piece of work I composed roughly a month ago after I returned from a trip visiting my boyfriend in his hometown of Detroit, Michigan. We've been seeing each other for roughly three years now, and unfortunately we are subjected to being in a long distance relationship. For those of you, who have never experienced this (and truly do care and love the person you are with), try imagining seeing them every single day, and suddenly, they are snatched away from you. Almost as quickly as a magic trick. The first day is painful; but not nearly as horrible as the second...or the third...or a year from then. It's a never ending cycle of vicious torment on your mind.

But it is even worse when you see them again, briefly. Most times its a week at a time. Sometimes its only a day. Regardless, this piece is from a day after leaving him again.

Usually for my writing, I don't have a specific technique. In fact, most of my writing is 'raw', unedited and only read over once. I believe that once you write the word down, the first time is the truth. Over editing and proofreading, you are trying to impress or get published by someone (this is not necessarily true for everyone; just my belief). This comment is not to discourage any hopefully-published-one-day writers (I myself am trying as well), or take away from their specific strategy of writing. For my short pieces, I suppose, I take a 'spontaneous' form of writing.

I hope, despite any sympathy or sadness you might feel compelled to have, that those of you who are reading this, find some enjoyment out of it. Thanks, as always, for reading"

-Tara Gleason

"Slipping Off Her Dress" by Roman Belopolsky

2010-08-12T11:50:00.004-04:00

How do I write her beauty?
Of beauty, many men have spoken,
But of her beauty, they will never cease to speak.
Such radiance eclipses time,
because time too, falls victim to her splendor
And watches with the rest of us in wonder.

How do I write her beauty,
If with every moment she is lovelier than the last?
How can I describe her to you,
If she is never still and always in the motions of a dance?

How do I write her beauty,
If her dress is never twice the same
and changes in imperceptible gradients
as magically as excited turning hands
pouring down a gushing waterfall of sand.

How do I write her beauty,
If her beauty is beyond the single sense of sight?
To see her, is to feel your lips reach.
To smell her, is a vision of carnations.
To hear her, is to taste Life.

She is- daughter, mother and wife.

How do I write her beauty,
If my hands tremble when she visits me in dreams?
Oh and how these dreams have become routine.

I am falling as she slips off her dress.

I close my eyes before she is nude,
All carnations Die- and with them their perfume.

She embraces me
And the only fragrance lingering
is that of her naked flesh.

I cannot open my eyes-
Because I cannot see her without her dress.

Because I cannot yet- come to accept Death--

-Roman Belopolsky, 2010

"this poem is my attempt at communicating my recent realization of mortality. Somehow the buffer of childhood has worn thin, and I find myself thinking about death in a new light. In the poem, death is to see the universe stripped of the fabric of life, nude and baring only its essence."

A correction: A poem from NORWAY

2010-08-12T11:45:00.002-04:00

(not Denmark, they are two different countries Karl Johnson, quit chasing the fit birds and swigging at the Scotch when you're writing me Emails) Sorry Ben.

"Mindpuzzle" by Ben-Ottar Johansen

2010-08-12T11:38:00.001-04:00

Perception confined to an empty room.
In space at the turning point of peace.

Green sparkles of light, mirrors through the window.

Pardon please, but who's the nearest exit?

Filling in for God. And this godly plan, of creativity.
Preserving parts of everything for individual growth.
The cost for growing? Great enough to beg?
At least in these times of weird, but epic moments.

Following an ancient path, seeking universal information.
Understanding piece by piece.

And really not at all.

-Ben-Ottar Johansen, Contributing Writer

Explanation: "Mindpuzzle"

2010-08-12T11:35:00.002-04:00

"To be totally honest, the poem isn't really about anything. I just let the random words come to me. I guess in the case of "kigo" your are talking about, it would be the last line. I don't really understand anything about the universe, and there isnt really any context here."

-Ben-Ottar Johansen

"Another One for You" by Marissa J. Scacalossi

2010-08-12T11:27:00.006-04:00

My heart,
A gravestone crudely engraved with broken promises.
Your deteriorating love,
My epitaph.

My soul,
Dig deep to the bottom of that chasm.
You'll find the lingering traces of your lips,
My memoir.

My body,
Open the crypt and retrieve it.
Revive me and keep me,
My desire.

-Marissa J. Scacalossi, Contributing Writer, August 6, 2010

Explanation: "Another One For You"

2010-08-12T11:23:00.002-04:00

"I've been in love many a time before, enjoying the roller coaster ride of this illogical, unpredictable game. But I was truly in love once. I still am. And I honestly believe he has altered me forever. A lot of what I write is inspired by him. This is my hope of being fixed one day."

-Marissa J. Scacalossi

Introducing: Ben-Ottar Johansen

2010-08-06T11:21:00.003-04:00

Ben is a young writer from Norway. He sent me this interesting piece of philosophical prose, which I greatly enjoyed. If you like the piece, show the Norwegian some love and leave him a comment.

Roman

"The Sun's Break" by Ben-Ottar Johansen

2010-08-06T11:15:00.001-04:00

Feel free. Look at what really hides beneath. Dont worry about what's not there.
Take it easy, and don't panic. What happens, happens, more or less.
The ones on the sideline just don't know better. How long has it been-
Since the first day of time? And what happened? Something. Something big.
Be happy. Experience. Feel, and get to know yourself. Embrace it, and never forget; the sun always shines behind the clouds. When it sets? Well, its really just us that's spinning. It's always there. As we turn our backs on each other, it turn its back on us. But just for a brief moment. After X-hours its back. And what is X-hours compared to how long it has shone for us?
Would it not be fair, if it also got a break?

-Ben-Ottar Johansen, Contributing Writer

"The Dancing Tree" by Roman Belopolsky

2010-08-04T11:09:00.002-04:00

This tree against which I lean,
With it’s brown coarse flesh,
Will outlive me.

It stands in lofty peace
And knows all,
But won’t tell me.

I ask, “what will be?”
But it dances
And ignores me.

I say, “I need to know,”
But it dances
and ignores me.

I tell it I’m frightened
And it bows
To console me.

I ask if its frightened
But it dances
And ignores me.

Then a man
Climbed into it
And ripped off a living branch.
I heard a whisper in the wind:
“The only thing worth fearing-

is humanity.”

As he climbed down he asked,
“Do you have the time?”

But I danced
And ignored him.

-Roman Belopolsky, 2010

Introducing: Lana Llemmeg

2010-08-04T10:57:00.002-04:00

Lana is a talented young writer from the Long Island area. When I asked her to explain her work, here is what she told me:

"Writing is something interpreted by the reader to suit where they may be at this junction in their life. This poem is: friends, lovers, children, and parents, it's specific yet doesn't rely on one explanation, one reason, one person. It is love, guilt, letdown and hope all at once.

I don't really like to explain, because personally, I read poetry and I like to take it for how it makes me feel and how it relates to me personally."

Well Lana, I hope the Revolt writers will feel something as potent as I felt.

-Roman

"A Tradegy" by Lana Llemmeg

2010-08-04T10:51:00.002-04:00

You smell of chain-smoked cigarettes

A cup of coffee, a shot of rum

And flowers in full bloom

At least to me you do

Darling, my dear

There is something

In your beautiful tragedy

In the pain behind your eyes

Reflecting the pain I feel

The aching I want to cease

I want to take the sting away

Make the world stop

So you can find your elision field

The belle reve of the world

So you can breathe for a second

Maybe two

Perhaps there is a little more

To these chain smoked cigarettes

Teaching us to stop- to breathe

Perhaps it’s this 4^th cup of coffee

Causing caffeinated Olympic races

To Pulse through our veins

And It probably boils down

To a little more, a tad less

Then the safety we both attain

From our own beautiful tragedies

The comfort in staying

With what we know

Some souls may run from

The knowledge of our splintered pasts

But our Baby blues act as windows

To our broken old souls

So when someone learns to love

These blistered bruised souls

Willing to excavate our shattered pasts

With open arms and an open heart

Then maybe the day can come

When we are no longer afraid

To let go of our dark pasts

And turn our faces to brand new sun.

-Lana Llemmeg, Contributing Writer

Introducing: Amanda Yu

2010-08-02T12:46:00.000-04:00

Amanda is a new face in the Revolt community. Here's a few words from the writer:

"I like to think I can seal away my memories and thoughts, good or bad, within these pieces. Writing has always been a way to compromise with myself, putting on paper what I really didn't have the guts to say out loud (and... I guess it doesn't help that I'm a little bit of a masochist when it comes to love and relationships). In these poems, though, I preserve my sanity, and even some respect for myself."

"Limits" by Amanda Yu

2010-08-02T12:41:00.002-04:00

intentions, those cruel ideas never quite
make it to the page.
send me those gestures
once more.
how stupid and embarrassing it is
to dwell in undertones and feelings
as if defense is possible
against your sickening definition
of love.
Try me, I dare you.
you seem to exceed
my perception of the worst
pain I could take or feel,
but most of all, its
coming back begging, degrading myself-
an exchange for those brief minutes of
civility, absent of love. Why
is it so painful for you
to show me what I mean to you?
my place in your world
sits just outside your precious fucking pride
out of reach, disposable, inconsequential.

Well now its my turn to speak up,
tell you how repulsive it is to even
look at you sometimes, let alone
insult myself to apologize;
your disgusting ego deserves none of it.

And yet I'm solely responsible
for these grievances. no one
watches out for me
anyway so why keep trying
when I'm the one
always left behind
like an abandoned house
covered in pain.
With memories torturing
even those passing by.

Leave me now
and give me that reason
to smile and understand.

You're done hurting me
my limit's been reached
pages ago.

-Amanda Yu, Contributing Writer

"Van Gogh-Inspired Prayer" by Amanda Yu

2010-08-02T12:36:00.002-04:00

under a starry night
yellow oranges beaming,
blinding: a prayer for all
the details in the stars, casting
moonlight off your lifeless eyes;
blood red sunsets and french roast,
too hot to the touch, as I once did bear
those rude ways, you've trapped me-
and my selfless tolerance, familiar now like
chain smoking till your throat went dry,
smothering, gasping through a face
full of tears

crying the tragedy
that once was a cover.

Lord, you covered me long ago.

-Amanda Yu, Contributing Writer

Explanation of "In the Land of Love"

2010-07-30T15:37:00.001-04:00

Warning: if you haven't read the story, read it first, then read the explanation if you don't understand something.

First, the creature: to understand what the creature actually is, you have to pay attention to the first few lines and put the clues together.

First: “Many sunsets, many seasons,…” informs the reader that this is something that originated in early youth and that the narrator is older now.
Second: “There was a game…” establishes that whatever follows is likely laced with a child’s imagination.
Third: “I could animate…but two legs and two feet…” is the key here, because it specifies which game is being referenced- a game children often play, a game most of us have played, when we pretend our fore and middle fingers are legs that can walk.

Now understanding that, the reader can also grasp that any fantastic place the creature goes to, is only the child’s own projection of common places.

-The significance of the child connecting the creature’s first story with his own bed, symbolizes the child’s imagination growing less independent of rationality and also highlights that the child is growing increasingly aware that the creature can only tell stories of places the child has seen and played in.

-The reference to things perceptively shrinking in the land of “carousels and revolution”= the child playing the game on the inside windowsill of a moving car (something I often did as a child).

The statement of purpose, “I can divulge the purpose of my story…”: here I tell the reader that whatever follows is the point of the story. So, the reader can then assume that the creature is not the most important element here, rather it is just a tool to explain what is.

What the “exquisite land” is:

First: the land has warmth and molds to fit, the way another’s skin can feel when your fingertips press down.
Now you can assume that the land is a living thing.

Second: the land is vertical, so you can assume whatever the living thing is, it is standing erect on two feet, and this point it is getting clearer that it is a person.

Third: The sloping meadow leading to two giant hills with a crevice between them is the back and butt of a person. So now you understand what side of the body the fingers are exploring.

Fourth: the aroma, the aroma is my clearest statement of femininity.

Fifth: The tree and the bridge, the slender neck leading to the thick curly hair of a girl.

Now, whatever the creature feels and experiences is, again, only what the narrator can experience. And at this point the narrator understands this. That is why he refers to the land as “her” and calls it “the land of love,” because it is his own imagination dealing with consequences of an intimate moment with this girl.

And this is why the title is “in the land of love,” because the title (I feel) should be the defining reference to the point of the story, which in this case is: a young man realizing he is in love.

I hope this helps some readers understand my story.

"In the Land of Love" by Roman Belopolsky

2010-07-30T14:08:00.003-04:00

Many sunsets, many seasons, many birthdays, many years ago, there was a game I often played. I could animate a being whose composition included but two legs and feet. Although this creature was so unfortunately composed- it never once complained. You see, the creature was, by all anatomical understandings, headless- however, it was quite far from mindless.

Perhaps it was because it had no other essential limbs, no excretory necessities, no monetary necessities- perhaps it was because it was such a simple creature that it managed to grasp it- the sable moon fox, the answer which appears to bob and weave and evade all who desire it. In plainer, more effective terms, the creature knew it’s own absolute destiny. Imagine knowing, in simple, patent terms, what your purpose is. Imagine you found an empty box, and the outside of the box featured a very agreeable picture of yourself, a price tag, a bar code, a company name, etc. And on the back of this box, were simple instructions on how to use you and what your function was, as simply stated as the instructions one might find on the back of a bottle of shampoo- this was precisely how plainly the creature knew it’s function. The creature shared with me, as I am sharing with you, what that purpose was: “to travel to the most unimaginable of the infinite realms of the universe.”

Now, I must confess, I have always found my friend, the creature, to be a bit of an exaggerator, which I can say, because the creature and I shared quite the intimate friendship. In fact, there was hardly a place I went, where it did not join in the spirit of good company. And it was because of our constant proximity that I often, if not always, had trouble believing the stories the creature would recant of its’ travels.

For instance, one night I was laying comfortably in bed when- the creature interrupted my reading of a perfectly entertaining mystery plot with an announcement that: it had a far more interesting story to tell me! Being a patient and loyal friend, I put down my yarn and obliged to give my unrelenting attention. The creature then began to unfold a description of an impossibly fantastic world. A place, it claimed, where plush multi-colored mountains dominated the landscape, where the ground was as soft as feathers and also held another unique quality- with the slightest bounce, one could catapult oneself far above the ground.

“Like a trampoline?” I asked.

“Yes, but imagine a land where, no matter where you are, you can bounce as if on a trampoline” it said, and then added, “even atop the mountains.”

“And what color did you say the mountains were?”

“Weren’t you listening” the creature grumbled.

“You never listen- what I said was they were multicolored. They were checkered in fact, checkered with purple and blue and white.”

The description of those wonderful mountains reminded me of a pattern I’d seen before. A moment later, I realized the color scheme was familiar because it was precisely the same pattern as was stitched into my blanket.

When I brought up the coincidence, the creature began screaming incoherently. I only caught snippets, something about my being a terrible pal, and my having no respect, and how could a creature get so unlucky.

To say the least, I carefully avoided initiating similar conflicts in the future, however, I did learn that my dear friend, the creature, was either entirely mentally unstable or harbored an overpowering imagination.

As I grew into a larger version of myself, the creature began to complain of being forced to scream when holding a conversation with me- asking if I could shrink myself as it often said it had seen things do in the blurred, whistling land of “Carousels and Revolution.” But I was unfortunately and helplessly bound by the laws our singular reality of earth and likewise the laws of progression, and so, sadly our friendship deteriorated to the occasional visit.

At this point, you may be thinking, “yes, that’s all good and well and swell,” and some may even have found my friend, the creature, and its’ fantastical adventures to be of the slightest entertainment- but all must surely be thinking, “but what’s the point my dear fellow?” Well, if there’s one thing the creature taught me, it’s that every story needs an introduction, and now that I feel that I have sufficiently done so, I can divulge the purpose of my story- which is as clear and certain as that of the creature and/or the back of a shampoo bottle.

It was but two weeks ago that my friend paid me an unexpected visit. The creature entered my study in a rather boisterous manner, looking slightly older, wrinklier, fatter, hairier, having quite a few new scars it attributed to unbelievable close encounters with fire-breathing octopi and nearly two-dimensional sharp-mouthed dodos.

But I digress- So the creature entered my study and promptly began begging me to listen to the story of a land more exquisite than any it had ventured to before. Here is the story exactly as the creature had told it:

“Three days ago, I traveled to a land which radiated with a glow I can only describe as blesséd. When my bare feet touched down on it’s surface, I instantaneously felt the ground mold comfortably to my soles as a terrestrial sign of welcome. From below my tired feet, I felt a delicate warmth rising from it’s core- the way the shell of a hard boiled egg feels after you let it cool for a few minutes, except this was richer, because it was, in contrast, a living warmth.
Once I acquainted myself with the charm of the ground, I began to explore. Looking to my left and to my right, I got my wits about me and realized this world had the strange, but not wholly uncommon, attribute of existing along a vertical plane. Looking left, there was a sloping, curvaceous, peach meadow, which dipped until it reached the foot of two enormous hills. These hills were so massive they could have been considered mountains- if wasn’t for their gentle roundness and altogether playful appearance. I was tempted to wander towards them until I identified the valley between them as being terribly deep and narrow- almost crevice-like, and ever since my accident in the land of the “lunatical” wooden air-gobblers, I’ve grown entirely wary of the places.

And so, I turned to my right, or rather, my right, your up, and there I saw a wondrous beauty- At the tip of the furthest region of the north side of the land, was a tree unlike any other I’d ever seen or imagined.

The tree shimmered with distant flecks of gold caught in the vast expanse of its tangled blossom. The branches were impossible to note from within the thick wavy mass of its wild natural growth.

I nearly fell over from jubilation, from loud desire, and shivering felicity.
As I made my way towards the magnificent tree, I began to take notice of a non-distinct aroma. It was all at once, the smell of blooming lavender in the purple spring, and the smell of morning along the sea of the turquoise tortoises- and red, it certainly smelled like a rich, creamy, lively Carmen red. If loveliness could be attributed its own definitive scent, it would most certainly have been the aroma I discovered as I approached the tree.

When I reached the foot of it, I was puzzled to find that the trunk, which was perfectly slender as it was pretty and elegantly sloped, was also a bridge of sorts, and I found myself walking up the tree as casually as you might walk to relieve yourself at the mouth of that despicably gluttonous petrified gargon you choose to affiliate yourself with.
Once I reached the mass of its top, I found myself weaving through an ocean of soft lullaby, and I thought to myself

‘If there was a nirvana, I have found it, and if it isn’t, I’d prefer to stay here, dancing in blissful suspension.’

And there I stayed until the three suns set and I fell into a sweet peaceful dream.

But when I awoke, I was in another land, far from the only place I’d ever wanted to call home.”
Here it paused it’s yelling for a moment, and in thoughtful quietness resembled what a man with a head might look like when he casts it down in parallel with the ground. Then the creature recollected itself and looked at me sincerely and with hopeful expression asked,

“Can you imagine such a wonder?”

I smiled softly and replied, “Yes, my dear friend, I can.”

And then the creature asked rosily, “Really?! Do you think I’ll ever find such a land again?”

“Yes, I’m positively certain you’ll find her again.”

And then I added as encouragement, “And perhaps you’ll even wake from your dream and find that you’re still in the land of love.”

-Roman Belopolsky, 2010

A Short Introduction to "A Starless Night" by Lauren Hughes

2010-07-29T12:46:00.001-04:00

This story is of a young woman proudly coming out to her friend, who unfortunately cannot find it in himself to accept that, is who she is.  She asked that while I was writing this, I focus not so much on the discrimination itself, but the true meaning of the situation for her.  Thus before reading this, I would like you to read the following excerpt from the account she shared with me, so that you, as I did, cannot only read her struggles, but endure them along her side.

They believe that you are a lesser being because of who you are. How can you like someone, but not approve of them? I have never liked someone that I disproved of. Usually like and approval, go hand in hand. It wasn’t even that he didn’t approve of something that I was doing. He truly disproved of who I am. That hurt a bit. How can you honestly claim to like someone when you don’t “approve” of who they are? Who we love says a lot about us. Our loved ones are the most important people in our lives. And having someone say that who I love is what makes him uneasy doesn’t make me feel comfortable with that person. I refuse to be ashamed of who I love (and who I am attracted to).

"A Starless Night" by Lauren Hughes

2010-07-29T12:44:00.002-04:00

Her voice trailed into his ears —-

in his mind,

multiple paths lay there —- Undiscovered.

stories paint her Soul,

something that cradled a great deal of pride.

he Punctured her heart;

you are Perfect —-

with a few minor adjustments.

you two are meant to be,

if she —- was a he.

i Approve of you

in other words —-

if you cease to be You

the Winds silenced.

she loved Her heart,

that knew no bias —-

looking out the Window

she wondered if there was ever a time,

where tales ever Rejected their prince charming —-

Because he was not the Right kind of prince.

the moon Stood alone that night —-

without a Companion.

but it did not need the Starts —- nor the Sky.

it stood there, strong and Proud —-

loving Just the way it was —-

loving Just who it was —-

that Starless night.

-Lauren Hughes, Contributing Writer

Short Introduction to "Acquaintances" by Lauren Hughes

2010-07-29T12:41:00.001-04:00

I thought in the process of sharing individuals stories with you, the reader, I would share a piece of me, the author, as well. This light hearted and lustful piece was in the moment and as it brought a smile to my face, I hope it does for you too.

"Acquaintances" by Lauren Hughes

2010-07-29T12:35:00.001-04:00

Underneath my left breast

Thudding heavily my heart bounded excitedly,

Leaping out of my chest,

Begging to break out.

Her hands molded around my skull,

Gripping my hair down by their roots,

Tightly,

Not letting me escape the heat of the moment.

Sweet alcohol dripped from her breath,

Leading to the velvet lips,

That sat gently;

Waiting to be paid attention.

The night disappeared into the morning,

With bodies shuddering underneath one another;

And finally ending,

In a blissful intoxicated sleep.

I woke to a note,

Fluttering on the pillow—

Where her body and mine had intertwined

Into one, just hours ago.

The note read;

Thanks for the night,

I couldn’t find the heart to break you from your sleep,

This note is yours to keep.

No name.

We were nothing more,

Than acquaintances.

But I wasn’t looking for love either;

A smile slid across my face.

Do acquaintances ever meet again?

-Lauren Hughes, Contributing Writer

"A Place to Stay for the Night" by Jim Lopiano

2010-07-29T12:34:00.000-04:00

A quadriplegic action taken into offense.

A mentally-disabled smile scorned in court.

A police officer giving someone homeless a place to stay for the night.

After telling him to shatter someone’s window first.

A martyr shunned in paradise.

A priest raped by his beliefs.

A God giving someone faithless a place to stay for the night.

After telling him to burn down his brother’s first.

A man that finds it hard to trust women.

A woman that finds it hard to trust men.

Your girlfriend offering a place to stay for the night.

After sleeping at your best friend’s first.

A place to stay for the night...

Is it a sign of people's wealth of heart?

Or a distraction for you to play their part?

-Jim Lopiano, Contributing Writer

About Jim Lopiano's "A Place to stay for the Night"

2010-07-29T12:28:00.000-04:00

Writer Note: This passage was designed to instill upon the reader a sense of sarcasm, as well as subtle disappointment.The theme of authoritative figures in the piece are put into place to highlight the authority of lovers over one another and the power that they hold over each other's heart.The ending point-of-view, that of the man, is biased against the opposite sex. I have allowed myself to finish the poem this way because I am a man, and at the moment, do not trust the opposite sex.

"Cinematographic Ramblings" by Jim Lopiano

2010-07-29T12:25:00.001-04:00

Ideological consequences are at stake. You are at a loss for words.

Everything seen is a language; the semiotic components of thought.

The brain is an open window.

Sadistic porn. Masochistic melodrama.

Sadomasochistic horror: The realization of fantasy is a nightmare.

Societal mechanisms rust in the light of filmic thought projections.

Capitalistic reproductions of what we truly perceive.

The art;

The mechanical reproduction of reality itself,

Discontinued and stereotyped to near inadequacy.

A two-part harmonization…

The glass eye and the robotic ear;

The manipulation of your surroundings and all you have come to trust.

This is a mediated revolution, a generation of digital natives;

A conglomeration of business practices accompanied by the asserted values of semantic designs.

Technological masturbation at its best.

We are fixating the consciousness of the children into a filtered drain.

A whirlpool of statistics and advantageous advertising propaganda.

-Jim Lopiano, Contributing Writer

About Jim Lopiano's "Cinematographic Ramblings"

2010-07-29T12:21:00.000-04:00

Writer Note: This passage, I will admit, is not as heart-felt as I originally intended. I actually really like the way this one came out because it acts as a peephole into some strain of subconscious thought and solidifies it in a way. The passage is half streamed-thought-of-consciousness and half knowledge from classes this past year. A couple of lines are direct notes of mine, such as "Porn is sadistic, melodrama is masochistic, and "the realization of fantasy is a nightmare". The passage takes on a new angle / change of direction about halfway through the passage. A lot of my work happens to do this, yet, it never really bothered me much as I consider myself somewhat manic-depressive. The passage is poetry, and the second half is the part I feel deserves the most attention for analysis.

Writer Revolt Update

2010-07-27T13:12:00.002-04:00

So the Writer Revolt has been working on ways to expand itself and reach more and more writers.

First off, I'm proud to say one of our writers (who also happens to dabble in film making) is working on a short documentary-like trailer about the blog and the revolt we've started.

Secondly, the Revolt is going to be advertised on two different campuses in the US. The first being Stony Brook University in New York, the second being Washington State University over on the west coast. Come the start of the academic year, this should bring in a rip tide of new young writers.

***If you are still in Uni or in a masters program and would like to help the Revolt spread to your campus, please send us an email at writerrevolt@gmail.com.

Thirdly, based upon the poll I put up, it's looking like I'm going to introduce writing challenges. I will name a theme, then review all the submissions, and the winner will have their work put on a separate page on the Writer Revolt blogs, that will only feature exceptional winning works and their assigned themes.

That's all I have for you today, stay thirsty my friends.

Roman

A slice from the mind of Christian Kollgaard

2010-07-27T13:11:00.001-04:00

The talented Seattlean (or is it Seattlelite, or Satellite) is back from the land of Grunge and perpetual 90's with another short prose piece. Check it out and let him know what you think.

Roman

"The Denny Aurora Diversion" by Christian Kollgaard

2010-07-27T13:05:00.002-04:00

This morning, on my thirty-minute walk toward the rest of my life, I took the left side of the street, for a change, in hopes of catching sight of a man I’ve given the moniker Jovial Jim. Jim is homeless, and you wouldn’t know if from his merry hobble, but he spends the majority of his time in a wheelchair.

Jim stands on the street corner every morning, same time, same place, peddling Real Change newspaper to halted cars at the stoplight. The difference? Jim loves it and the cars love Jim. He tosses Real Change in the air like confetti on his birthday. Up they go, like indecisive balloons; up, back down into his weathered hands. Jim performs this act with the smile of a Cheshire cat, and the spirit of a junkie reunited with his best friend. His reward? Dollars. Their reward? A two minute show, during which our driver can forget about the “goddamn red light,” whether he should tell his wife about what happened last weekend or whether she should have worn a shirt with more cleavage for the presentation today.

Someone just walked by me and said “fuck,” that’s it.

What have I learned from this one-man circus act? Jim sells more than newspaper for a living; he sells minutes of joy and distraction from the monotony and afflictions of the everyday.

How much are we talking, Jim?

-Christian Kollgaard, Contributing Writer

Another work from the odd man Roy Lotz

2010-07-27T12:50:00.001-04:00

Roy is a multi-talented young musician who has been known to be seen wearing all purple. Check out his latest poem, and give him some commentary on it. Warning: Roy also has a matching purple AK47 which he carries around as a fashion accessory, so don't say anything upsetting about his work (Just kidding Roy).

-Roman

"Poetic License" By Roy Lotz

2010-07-27T12:44:00.001-04:00

This is a poem about citrus…

Attention, this is an important announcement!
I’m about to make a witty and pointed observation about our society
Are you ready?
That’s because I don’t have a driver’s license or a license to kill
I have poetic license

What I say is obviously too deep and important for me to waste time rhyming. I’m so good that I can say or write anything I want and call it a poem
Because I have poetic license

I can conjure incongruous images like a cow milking a person or deprived African children rescuing Angelina Jolie from a life of vanity and not relate them to the main point of the poem at all
Because I have poetic license

And just when you feeble minded readers think you’re about to grasp the profound point of my poem I’ll completely change pace with… mangos… and I’ll be sure to use plenty… of… ellipsis…
Because I have poetic license

And then all of the sudden I’ll get really ANGRY and use CAPITAL LETTERS because WHAT I’m SAYING is SO FUCKING DEEP and then just when you think I can’t possibly get more serious I’ll hit you with italics… oh yea
Because I have poetic license

Bam! Slam! Onomatopoeia! I enter into special effects and then all of the sudden… I ask you a rhetorical question? And then answer it myself! Because you obviously aren’t qualified, considering that
You don’t have poetic license (Boom!)

It’s at this point that I say something like, “the particularly poignant paroxysms of paralysis were nothing but a panacea for her pathetically pale predicament” and you will not know what that means, but you will say you do and then extol and laud me in front of all of your peers so that they feel inferior because they can’t understand me, but the truth is that no one understands me!
Because I’m a genius, and I have poetic license

And then you may form the question in your mind, “How did he get poetic license anyways?” And the truth is that I gave myself it, simply because I’m so awesome that I can do that. And why am I so awesome?
Because I have poetic license

And so I just created the paradox that I’m going to leave you with, but not before I say the same line one more time so that you simpletons can understand what this poem is about and I can go do something else artistic and incredibly important
Because I have poetic license

That was a poem about citrus

-Roy Lotz, Contributing Writer

The Revolt's first anonymous writer

2010-07-27T12:42:00.000-04:00

I had a feeling that sooner or later we'd start seeing emotionally charge work coming from anonymous sources. Well, here's our first phantom and they call themselves "Hidden Self." Hidden self or not, they wrote a fantastic poem. Give "HIdden Self" some feedback on their poem.

Roman (if I had a anonymous alias it would be "the dancing crane")

"Hold Your Tongue" by Hidden Self

2010-07-27T12:33:00.002-04:00

Hold your tongue

Keep your head held high

You don’t have to say it

No, no not tonight

The persistent ache

Of these words on your tongue

Are pushed back in

Because you are still

Afraid they will run

So you write these words down,

You lie to yourself

Pretend they’re not there

So you can continue to exist

As if you don’t care

But your soul rips apart

And you wont admit it

Slowing falling apart

In your quiet despair

You sit and wait

With a sinking agony

Holding out for when

These words don’t have to be hidden

That you don’t feel like this

And you won’t have to pretend

No, not any longer

Because these words are free

But the freedom in these words

Heavily lingering in the air

Might not be returned

And that’s why you’re so scared

You can’t take a broken heart

Or these words not returned

Because they are seeping

Thru every pore of you

Running so deep

You need them like air

-Hidden Self

One of the Revolt's brightest is at it again

2010-07-26T11:13:00.001-04:00

Lauren Hughes is back yet another fantastic piece. Show her some love and leave her a few comments on her work. Everyone needs the love (but in brackets, people also need constructive criticism). So if you have either, drop it in the comment box.

Roman

"A Dance for Two" by Lauren Hughes

2010-07-26T11:02:00.000-04:00

My body moves with yours. We make like two ripples following one another, keeping form. Better yet, a mirror -- symmetrical and opposing images. My arm lifts and yours matches its direction, creating the most stunning angle that an arm could form with a body - movement always looks more beautiful when created by you.

Picture it. A young man sits on the corner of high-maintenance and foot-traffic central. Noise only comes surround sound now-a-day -- horns constant, sirens wailing - taking the lead, and birdies being released out of car windows. He has created an office that one unavoidably steps into as they wait for the stunning white outline to blink for ten seconds giving them the okay to cross before motor vehicles. Two worn down drum sticks sit loosely in his hands vibrating through the wood into the surrounding plastic, five-gallon containers (also known as his current way of living) and echoes into the heavy streets. Like a gospel church he manipulates a call and response. His call - the beat. The response - a dollar here, a dime or penny there.

We are a gospel choir. We are the call and response. My lips part and silky notes drift through my vocal chords like wind tickles a tree on a brisk fall morning -- a sort of sweetness that is silent, but fulfilling all at once. You let a loud note loose. You are the morning sun that accompanies the brilliant orange and vibrant combination of tie-dye green-red leaves. The tree shivers without you -- I shiver without you.

My leg swings up bending into a contorted position, still attractive, but nagging -- my foot sitting flexed at the end screaming to remain monstrously uneven. Your leg lifts effortlessly as if gravity does not exist -- your toe points and you balance the pose -- You balance me. Continuing the motion, my leg continues down allowing my feet to meet together and I half-heartedly bend in preparation to soar. My muscles work together and lengthen, sending a domino effect down through the short toes that sit imbedded in the ground at the end of my block-like-feet. I begin to take flight, and have low hopes of getting very far from the take off position - like a child learning to jump, my body anticipates only allowing its heels off the ground. Just as the arch of my foot makes a bridge with the floor, your hands mold to my waist like glue fits in the creases of shag carpeting and I go higher than expectations allowed for -- I am weightless and gravity does not exist. You have taught me to fly. My mind rejects the thought of being a bird with anyone else.

I feel gravity begin to catch up with our launch. A weight presses down through my shoulders and all my bones, and into you -- your hands, muscles -- penetrating your core. My body is heavy again. Effortlessly, your gentle perfection slows the decline, like a parachute saves a lead-weight from crashing into the earth. My skin makes contact with the ground as I could only imagine an angel would touchdown; a place somewhere beyond elegant and graceful.

Our movement stops. All I can hear is my lungs grasping for what they need - air. My dark locks coil up as I lay my head to rest onto your chest. Our fingers intertwine accepting the flawless fit -- the way spaghetti makes room for meatballs. Listening closely as my ear peers through your chest; I am entranced by the beating your heart is producing. It calms me. My breathing slows and my lungs stop seizing with greed. And that’s when I realize it. Our hearts are beating in direct step. -- We are doing a dance that can only be comprehended and flaunted by two. My body caves in with pure acceptance -- I will never be two without you as my shadow.

-Lauren Hughes, Contributing Writer

Another poem from England

2010-07-26T11:00:00.000-04:00

Karl Johnson is back on the Revolt with another one of his works. Check it out and leave him a comment or two.

"Heavy Rain" by Karl Johnson

2010-07-26T10:58:00.001-04:00

People said it was a crying shame,
To walk alone in heavy rain,
And the rivers are frozen,
So I tether my boat,
At least this way,
I can stay afloat,
The roads are blocked,
So bury me here,
It's about time,
I swallow my fear,
So I wade through puddles,
Right upto my knees,
At this late stage,
Ill do as I please,
So receive me gently,
I'm up above,
Because I'm short of feeling,
And I'm out of love.

-Karl Johnson, Contributing Writer

"The Romance of a Color" by Roman Belopolsky

2010-07-24T13:14:00.000-04:00

The Oceans, the seas, the pools, the lagoons,The noble, the eyes, her eyes, the moons,The guitarist, the beggar, the bruises, the pale,The sadness, the youth, the cold, the male,The berries, the buried, the dresses, and freedom!
Freedom rests on the full lipsOf a boundless virgin sky-
Which is never blue,But sometimes azúl.
-Roman Belopolsky, 2010

The Revolt has some questions

2010-07-23T12:04:00.003-04:00

So lately I've been thinking about how to expand the blog, because if the writer's mind is meant to be malleable and ever-expanding- so should the Revolt. I'm going to put up a poll and will also be willing to listen to random suggestions (which should be sent to the writerrevolt@gmail.com). Take a look at the poll and let me know what you think. As always, your thoughts are desperately needed and appreciated.

Roman

The Revolters in Fine Form!

2010-07-23T12:02:00.000-04:00

MJ and Lauren Hughes are both back with some interesting micro prose, give their work the time it deserves and let them know what you think. As always send, submissions or comments to writerrevolt@gmail.com. To all the poets out there, lets see some work that’ll fucking blow the roof off the Revolt.

Write. Read. Revolt!

Roman

"Life" by Lauren Hughes

2010-07-23T12:01:00.000-04:00

Life. I caress its essence between my fingertips like holding a pearl necklace, violating each surface to understand why it is there in my hands and how it came to be so imperfect with so little imperfection. Frustrated, I stop at the imperfect pearl – unfair. The pearl does zero work yet is sits here marveling in my fingers as gods given precious on earth. I am no pearl. Rather, a Corpse flower – rare to come by, and only beautiful for the one day they bloom; working hard to create all the beauty that I am. Like the Corpse, I bring disappointment to my viewers — they travel far with high hopes to only realize I am not ready to be seen, ready to open myself for exposure. And so, they turn leaving empty handed, heartbroken, and with an emptiness that could make the earth hollow. Sucking all of that from each passer-bier, you’d think that I would be full of power, but I’m not. My leaves and pedals perk up at every person footsteps pounding through my earth that I am rooted in, hoping that they will be the one to see me bloom, and yet I am still waiting, longing, and trusting that there is someone out there that can experience me, as I experience them.

When I was younger, I used to love putting together puzzles. My mother would get the 1,000 piece masterpiece that would take ages to put together. That is love. Love is searching through 1,000 (or tack on a few more zeroes at your discretion) puzzle pieces, each being individual and unique and hoping that it is a match for the one you are holding in your hand. The longer it takes the puzzle-master to put together the pieces, the more warn down the edges become. Time corrodes the perfect fit and makes it more difficult to identify where exactly that one puzzle piece is supposed to go. The other pieces begin to reject a once perfect match because it doesn’t fit like it used to, in its proper and unopened box. When I was younger, it took me ages to place all the pieces together with their rightful others. With scotch tape and sometimes a little push, I would finish the masterpiece, revealing something beautiful – what it was meant to be.

Life has a funny way of patching together its puzzle pieces or sending the right person to experience one of the most rare flowers known to mankind, when it — Life, is ready. Moving the pearls through my fingers once more, violating each surface, I understand why it is there in my hands, and how it came to be so imperfect with so little imperfection. Life.

-Lauren Hughes, Contributing Writer

"Observations" by Marissa J. Scacalossi

2010-07-23T11:44:00.000-04:00

She arrived with friends. She entered the room, passing through the haze of hookah, unnoticed, except for her adverse stance. She looked small and plain and she was insignificant. I greet the newcomers and focus my attention back on the girl whom I have my arm around. The small party continues as the added company settles. Conversations filter the room and stories are exchanged. She still hasn’t said anything. She’s awkwardly sitting, stiff, appearing to be listening to the surrounding chattering, laughing at the right moments. No one excludes her nor specifically includes her either. She’s omnipresent, always invited, but never intervening…until…Interrupting a joke, she excitedly announces that she’s going skinny dipping and extends the invitation to all party-goers. At first, most are hesitant, wondering if she’s actually serious. Not waiting for anyone to accept her proposal, she jumps up and starts on her way down to the beach. Seeing her sincerity, some brave souls follow suit, while the rest of us tag along to observe this strange girl and the strange turn of events. As she runs ahead, confidence exuding from her body, few whispers considering her sanity are swapped. I snicker with my friends, but don’t add to the topic. My thoughts of this eccentric girl are merely surprised and curious.
It’s a hot night. The smell of alcohol sweat and beach mist are a cooling combination. The party reassembles around our unusual leader who’s down to only her underthings. Apprehension fills the eyes of the crowd and some start to get cold feet. Recognizing the look in their eyes, our fearless conductor starts to lose aplomb, instead of urging her comrades further. Maybe the realization of her brashness has dawned on her, as well. She backs away from the water, gracelessly covering her exposed skin with the articles of clothing she had so eagerly shed. Breaking the awkward silence, someone finally suggests we head back and restart the hookah. It’s a quieter walk back, the mood of the party being slightly stumped. I turn back and see her standing in the sand, looking defeated, disappointed and…self-loathing? I throw my arm back over my gal, turn my back on the broken-looking girl, laugh at a joke someone cracked to get the party going again, and start the trek back to the apartment.
It’s after 3 p.m. The light stings my eyes and my head throbs. My arm has fallen asleep from the weight of the unconscious female body lying on it. There are three or four pals strung across couches and the floor, obviously the effect from a good night. I hear stirring inside. A buddy of mine sits on my couch, watching the news, eating leftover pizza. The headlines: “Body found along the coast of the beach in Montauk Point: Female.”

-Marissa J. Scacalossi, Contributing Writer

Footsteps Introduction

2010-07-21T14:12:00.001-04:00

I’ve been working on this short story for some time. A close friend described to me one of the most horrific memories of her life, something she still thinks about to this day. My version is not the exact story I was told, but embedded within it are many of the same elements of her story. There are many themes built into it, but the most tragic of them is denial. The story is actually two different stories being told in fragments, but because their content was of the same nature they overlap comfortably.

Let me know if you enjoy it, or despise it, or relate to it (fear is not only the stuff of women, men should certainly be able to understand paranoid fear), or have some thoughts.

Roman

The Revolt Spreads!

2010-07-19T19:19:00.003-04:00

Hey y'all,

Check out the Revolt's new sister page on wordpress. From this moment on, I will publish each piece on both sites, giving writers even more exposure to the world. The address is writerrevolt.wordpress.com.

The submission e-mail will be writerrevolt@gmail.com for both.

Now that I've updated all this, the Revolt will resume accepting and publishing submissions.

***Also, a note to writers with blogs or acquainted with those who run literary blogs, please email me about exchanging link slots. It would be great to set up a network to increase exposure.

Roman

a moment under clouds

2010-07-15T14:09:00.002-04:00

.................................................... There.

The gliding clouds above me,
Strolling in massive silence.
Soft, pink velvet along the tips.
Comforting, kimono silk against kissing lips.

Laying here, staring only
Vibrating,
Meditating to the bass
Of a slow-- sad, surrender in a song.

“Life is a pool of grape jelly,
and right now,
I’m extra chunky peanut butter.”

If you were lying next to me,
You might understand
What I meant then.
But most of us, and sadly not all,
Have lain there once before:
In the warm cuddle of her arms.

To feel helpless is:
The condition of prey.
To feel helpless and happy:
Is love.

-Roman Belopolsky, 2010

Introducing Lauren Hughes

2010-07-14T14:38:00.003-04:00

Lauren is the newest addition to the Revolt. When she first sent me this piece, I was blown away by her talent. Here's what she had to say about herself:

I am a twenty-one-year-old, born and raised in Seattle, female writer. I am in love with the connection between the mind, ink and paper. I have recently started ricocheting ideas off of my first blog Taking Baby Steps: www.likeapaperweight.tumblr.com where I am shifting hardships into tangible lessons.

If you enjoy Lauren's piece as much as I did, let her know, or let the blog know and I'll post it. As always, send longer comments to writerrevolt.gmail.com

Write. Read. Revolt!

Roman

Ghosts turn human with inspiration

2010-07-14T14:33:00.002-04:00

Ghosts turn human with inspiration.

I am transparent like a sliding door freshly Windexed. I find no flesh as I look down hoping to see a body, but rather I am floating organs, still beating, somewhat alive. My limbs are limp, lacking muse, and begging to be awakened. They look up at me with pleading eyes that could not and do not exist; like a puppy after you have scolded it shamelessly. And as any dog owner knows, knees buckle, heart gives, and you cave. My response -- I need to look my finest tonight.

I am waiting. I made a date with inspiration and it is five minutes late. I am the dark haired set of curves that stands waiting at the bar. A red dress drips off of my caboose and hangs erect. Like I do with every date, I start to second guess it before its even begun. Twenty minutes. Thirt-fourty minutes -- An hour. I look inside the cavity of my chest where my heart is shuttering with laughter.

“Naive child. You will find nothing you are searching for, if you are in fact searching. It will find you.”

I am sitting in my living room sticking to the leather chair because the heat will not allow us to remain two separate materials. I let my head tilt back into the cranium of the chair allowing my feminine figure to become contorted, comfortably. My plastic computer sits idling on my lap generating yet even more heat. The icons on the screen all sit there silent -- all but the one in the front row. A blank page is opened. It is like looking at an empty theatre stage after a performance of Rent. And as any Rent fan knows, ears strain, vocal chords contest, and its emptiness sits, waiting to be filled. My response -- I need to do my finest tonight.

I am writing. I have lost track of time and couldn’t tell you what day it is. I am looking down at my fingers and am stunned to find the flesh that surrounds my purple veiny bones. Five minutes pass. The red polish sits contently stripped and destroyed around the edges -- never have I been so ecstatic to see the wear and tear that -- I -- have created. Twenty minutes. Thirt-fourty minutes -- An hour. I look at the outskirts of the cavity of my chest where my heart is creating a bulge in the skin, attempting to be heard. But I do not need its commentary, it needs mine.

“Ghosts turn human with inspiration.”

I smile.

Concept/inspiration: Influence behind the piece Ghosts turn Human with Inspiration was fueled by my newly kindled relationship with writing. Without inspiration, we are a thread of misguided ghosts moving aimlessly around, and it is not until the spark ignites that we are really alive.

-Lauren Hughes, Contributing Writer

Ladies And Gents, May I Introduce: Karl Johnson

2010-07-13T13:05:00.002-04:00

Karl, a dear friend of mine with whom I share many drunken memories, hails all the way from Norwich, England. He is a writer and musician, and he agreed to showcase a couple of his briefer pieces on the blog. Please let him know what you think, leave comments on the log or email writerrevolt@gmail.com. Also check out his blog: http://karljohnsonuk.blogspot.com/

A million thanks to Karlos the Sandbaggin Son of a Bitch!

Roman

My Day Is Not Today

2010-07-13T13:03:00.001-04:00

I'm making footprints in the snow,
as the wind controls the trees,
a placid square but where to go,
would you leave a man to freeze,

there is a niggle in my heart,
a jagged stone within my boot,
will we ever reach the point,
when your ready to recruit,

now i'm chasing footsteps in the snow,
i know exactly who was here,
and it warms my broken heart,
puts a stopper in my fear,

conscious of shadows in the park,
and the bandstand will not play,
awkward fumbles miss their mark,
and my today is not today.

This piece is about being constantly one step behind the one you pursue.

-Karl Johnson, Contributing Poet

Sleeping Pills

2010-07-13T13:02:00.002-04:00

Perhaps these sleeping pills will let me sleep,
and in my dreams lead the life i want to lead,
full of vanity and greed,
then i wake and realise
real life is full of lies,
we fill the gaps and hide the cries,
until its time for us to die.

A few words about battles with insomnia and drifting in and out dreams.

-Karl Johnson, Contributing Poet

A Word from Marissa Scacalossi

2010-07-13T13:00:00.000-04:00

I come off as a reserved person, but on the inside I'm a torrential whirlwind of emotions, many of them dark. My hands are the windows into my soul. With them I draw and write and pour out the contents of my being. Half of what I've written on this blog are just tiny instances in my life that I've made seem bigger than they are in reality (i.e. the simple miscommunication between an adult and child/mother and daughter). The other half is due to a broken heart. But I'd like to hear your opinions (as readers). I'm listening.

Thanks Roman!

-M.J.

4 Letters

2010-07-12T21:26:00.002-04:00

Four letters. A four lettered word.
You spit it out and it stings your tongue
Worse than the time when he bit down
To taste the river of blood and spit
That flowed and dripped off your chin.

After consulting your bedside Bible
Three times and then once again
For good measure.
You come to the conclusion (though inaccurate):
That the fallen angel created temptation.

The fallen angel. A shell of a man
Once pulled taught with convictions
And theories and serious opinions.
He asks of you – What had he done?
What had you done?

Nothing.
Intentional killing
And reliance
On board games
Like Candy-Land.

An addiction to nicotine
That we succumb to
While televisions advise us not to,
Blurred with smoke
…and mirrors.

Mirrors into which we take solace
That our outsides do not match our insides.
Standing there,
Motives called into question.
Waiting for a reply.

You eat that apple.
It would go so very nicely with honey.
Honey that drips and sticks everywhere,
But honey reminds you of bees
And bees of that sting.

That sting
That you feel every time you see
What you’ve left behind
In Sodom.
And in sorrow.

Four letters.
You spit them out,
They hang in the air.
Uncomfortable.
You lick your lips with that tongue.

If you had only consulted the Bible once more
you’d know the truth.
The fallen Angel did not create temptation.
The fallen angel
Is temptation.

Four letters,
You spit them out
And it stings your tongue
And instead of blood pouring out –
It’s everything.

Thrown out on display
For the world to see.
Four letters.
Four letters.

The religious references started after four years of Catholic school that allowed me to be spoonfed traditional ideals and allowed me to form my own opinions. It touched on the issue of feeling inadequate, of feeling vulnerable, and feeling not completely in control. As a writer I only write about what I know and hope that someone else can read it and understand the emotion that it evoked from me while I was writing it.

-Amanda Rush, Contributing Poet

Nameless Playlist Track

2010-07-12T15:45:00.000-04:00

A steady lurching of soft strings play in collision of one another. The little notes build in tempo, moving quicker – a sense of impatience, or perhaps with a sense of impeding danger. The sounds continue on and on. The reverberating strings start to envelope your ears in new space, one that is thickening and building a palpable volume. The bass – it kicks in with a hard strut. Despite the curious, almost shy, nature of the lightly played guitar strings, the bass is sure and strong and proud. It plays up and then down on the very bottom of your ear. It is a sign of strength, the backbone to the shadow of song chiming from the plucked chords. The thick murmur you now hear is the coming of a storm. The sky is darkening and light is protruding forth from its clouds. Then the drums pierce the veil. The sky bursts into bright light accompanied by rain. The drops continue with the residual notes of bass, as the guitar strings strike through at clear intervals within the hush of sound. More excitement ensues. Tendrils of unfamiliar instruments play behind your ear, yet you cannot prey on those for too long. The bass and the drums demand your attention. Hurried excitement is rushing from brain to toes. Pure sounds synthesize in the background. Everything is filling your ears in a pleasurable lull. The guitar is now dancing out of step with the girlish synthesizer, dancing to the bass and drums with an air of invention and rebel fervor. Crystal clear, like water, the sound appears for a moment. Then it ripples up and pours onto itself again and again. Tangible, it all is. The sounds of the guitar pierce straight through to the deepest crevices of your head. The bass bounces around the shallow recesses of your ear, and the drums are already hidden in the center of it all. The unfamiliar sounds are curling around from the back of your ear. They tickle very lightly and prick at times as hybrid notes and overlapping tone create something entirely magnificent within your ear.

A first concentrated attempt at describing music. I’m hoping to see other attempts from readers as well in order to spark new ideas. The short story I am currently working on requires a large amount of imagery for music the characters are listening to. I think it’s a cool project to work on and I’d really like to see it evolve as an important tool in writing, specifically when trying to accurately convey a certain song or type of music being played. This won’t be my last attempted post, yet it will be my first. If you want to chat about ideas for new tools in writing, facebook me or contact me by email: sonoffatgoose1990@yahoo.com

-Jim LoPiano, Contributing Writer

Introducing Amanda Rush

2010-07-12T15:30:00.004-04:00

Amanda sent me some interesting poems under the title "An Unfortunate and Stumbling Attempt at Waxing Poetic." This is what she sent me as a bio:

"I've been writing creatively for as long as I've been able to write. I don't know what else there is to say about me as a person but I've always defined myself as a writer and had no other title to put to myself. The poems themselves typically start out pretty tongue-in-cheek stream of consciousness sort of works and that's usually the way that everything I end up committing to paper works itself out."

Well, to say the least, I'm happy to add her to the Writer Revolt ranks. Send any comments to writerrevolt@gmail.com. And seriously y'all, remember the point of this blog, its not just about having a place to put up your work, its about it being a place where writers read each others' work and send them suggestions, positive criticisms, and general advice on how to advance their writing. Please, start getting involved. Dont just write, dont just read, revolt against blackhole closet writing. We can learn a lot from each other.

ROMAN

"I'm going to put a silencer..."

2010-07-12T15:06:00.002-04:00

I'm going to put a silencer
On this pistol.
That way when you press the barrel
To my temple,
We won't draw any attention to ourselves
Alone in this corner.
I hope your trigger finger
Is steady,
So I can at least get
A proper goodbye.
I always wanted to go out
With a bang.
Leave it to you
To blow me a kiss
And send me out
With a whisper.

I may not know much about silencers and pistols, but, at the time I wrote it, I certainly understood about loss and goodbyes and feeling slighted. The short poem was my best attempt at tapping into that anger and resentment and accepting the way that it was.

-Amanda Rush, Contributing Poet

I HOPE YOU GUYS LOVE THIS AS MUCH AS I DO

2010-07-11T20:30:00.002-04:00

There's an amazing story behind this poem, but I'm not going to tell it. And I'm not going to explain the poem itself either. This is my own personal experiment in poetry: I have provided a photo, which is, in itself, an explanation to the meaning of the poem. If you like what I did here, send me a comment, or better yet, the best explanation of what my poem means will be published on the blog. I encourage everybody whose involved with the writer revolt to expand their horizons, you never know when an experiment could succeed, and you end up creating the next Les Demoiselles D'Avignon of poetry or prose.

Helen McAllister

2010-07-11T20:26:00.001-04:00

I sat, legs crossed, below the humming FDR
And stared at people as determined as
the navigated cars.
The day was a summer lung
Inhaling London haze,
But cooled with the wandering
Mists
of the seaport sprays.
From Fulton Street the ears stroked in
And swam until
they touched the concert floors.

I was like them,
I had come also
To hear the voice and instruments unfold
The neatly ironed hours of
self-control.
But I also hid a private motivation:
I came to watch them all in tow.

I came for the sparks in their expressions.
I came for a place in Renoir’s renditions.
I came to simply feel:
Sunflower yellow or
Sunset rose.
To smile again like I did when I first
Read Browning’s Portuguese poems.

Because the days were growing paler,
And who to blame, but myself alone?

I hate the sea yet dreamt of the deep, vast unknown.
And I searched for it here, and there
and lost both heart and home.
The past four years were one sudden--
Grenade blast
Within the trenches of my sweet gone youth
And now I lay here senseless,
Unsure of what has passed.

The full-bloomed weed of truth is-
I only love adventure
And can only love
an adventurer.
If someone told me of
The thrilling travels of
The adventurer
Helen McAllister,
I might fall in love.

Until a finger-----------------------------------------
Pointed firmly in—----------------------------
The direction of---------------------------
Where she sat quiet—---------------
In the green water—-------------
And I saw her rocking with tires hanging off her.

-Roman Belopolsky, 2010

Helen McAllister

2010-07-11T20:24:00.002-04:00

Introducing Christian Kollgaard

2010-07-11T19:30:00.003-04:00

Here's another new member of our blossoming writer community. Christian is a twenty-three-year-old radio account executive hailing from Seattle, Washington. He operates a blog called The Hoot www.thehoot.tumblr.com where he writes primarily about the trials of reality and the everyday. The little piece he sent me is an interesting offering of prose. Check out his first contribution to the revolt and let him know what you think. Send any comments to writerrevolt@gmail.com (or you can just leave one on the blog, either way I'll get it up there).

Write. Read. Revolt!

Roman

The Afterbirth

2010-07-11T19:27:00.002-04:00

We are conceived in a love culture. Common side effects include: elation, joy, faith, struggle, despair, and growth. Love, the great pacifier. We are born into it kicking and screaming, resisting its power as it wraps us in a warm blanket, counting our fingers and toes. All present and accounted for. We grow in stages, nursing and suckling, bloated with fantasies and burping up vulnerability. Months go by then it’s time to walk, and we stumble blindly into the unknown — drunks on new year’s have better foresight. They say you never forget your first; we are tormented as our body and senses double check. Our eyes are old pictures, our noses high on still pungent scents, our minds play vintage movies, and our hands hold our faces. But underneath, there is meaning, a recycling and a rebirth. We are babies, baby, and we need you to catch us when we fall.

She is beauty, I am cold turkey.

The Afterbirth came from my own trials with love and the different stages of opening yourself to another. This particular piece makes reference to recent events where my closely guarded personality resulted in the loss of a girl I believe was the answer to the rest of my life.

-Christian Kollgaard, Contributing Writer

Writer Revolt Now Has an Inbox!

2010-07-10T12:37:00.002-04:00

So, after considering the problem with the comment boxes, I decided it would be easier for some people to have an email address to send their comments. Please send anything you would like to say about any work to writerrevolt@gmail.com. I will then put up your thoughts as posts for the writers to come back and review. Also if you have any thoughts on how to improve the blog, you can send them there as well.

Thanks,

ROMAN

Note to all Contributing Writers

2010-07-10T12:32:00.003-04:00

First off, thanks to everyone who has joined the movement I started here. I've been getting a load of emails from many writers, and it feels good to see the blog succeeding. I have one thing to ask of all the writers who have contributed or will contribute- when you send me your work, please include a short passage explaining your work in detail. It will help us understand what you're trying to accomplish with the piece. It's one thing for it to be good writing, its another for it to make sense to a reader that may be coming from a perspective.

Thanks,

ROMAN

Introducing another new writer, Roy Lotz!

2010-07-10T11:34:00.002-04:00

Roy Lotz has been generous enough to share some of his work with the revolt, please be generous enough to share your feedback on it.

More Coffee Please

2010-07-10T11:32:00.000-04:00

“Would you like some more coffee?” Tom asked.
“Yes please,” said the man.
As Tom poured the coffee, the man resumed his reading of the paper. It was a nice day: a nearly cloudless July evening. Very conducive to sitting outside, but not quite as conducive to paper reading, as the light bouncing off the page was a tad oppressive to the eye. Nonetheless, the man pressed onward admirably in his self-appointed duty, and Tom, having finished the pouring, walked back inside.
This was the man’s favorite place to dine in town, at least on nice days. It was a diner situated at a constantly busy intersection. Plastic chairs were available outside for anyone who cared to brave the weather. The man always sat outside as the inside was decorated in a kitsch manner he found displeasing; what’s more he rather liked the sounds of the busy intersection. It distracted him from his loneliness.
He was a very clean-shaven man, probably in his thirties: conservatively dressed, ascetic haircut, and had an impeccable posture. He would always stay at his table long after he had finished eating, usually reading, sometimes just staring into space. Tom and the other waiters didn’t mind this, as the diner didn’t get enough business so that they needed the table, and he always left a generous tip.

“So whaddaya thinkin’ of ordering?” said Jonathan.
“Oh I dunno, maybe just a burger. What about you?” Lee replied.
“Same.”
“Isn’t it funny how habitual we are?”
“How do ya figure?”
“Well we always come here at roughly the same time, sit in the same booth, and order a burger. You’d think we’d change it up once in a while,”
“That’s a crock a shit Lee,” said Jonathan, “we come here at this time because we get offa work at 5:00 and this is the closest place to eat, sit in this booth ‘cause it’s got the nicest view, and order burgers because…”

“So have you fellas figured out what you want to eat yet?” Tom asked, striking a fine balance between being perfunctory and peremptory.

Jonathan spoke, “yea we’ll just have the usual, Tom.”
“Alright, you got it. Anything to drink?”
“Just coffee”
Tom walked away towards the kitchen.

“What was I talkin’ about?” Jonathan said to Lee.
“I dunno, something about habits and shit,”
“Riiiight. Say, see that guy over there?”
“Which one?”
“The tall guy reading the paper, outside; the one who’s always here,”
“Oh yea that’s Teddy, whataya wanna know about him?”
“What’s his deal? He looks like he’s in the military or somethin’ the way he holds himself.”
“Well that’s ‘cause was in the military Einstein,”
“That so? So why’s he here? Don’t got nothin’ better to do?”
“Probably not. Story is his fiancé left him when he was in the service. He left on ‘honorable discharge’ and has just been livin’ offa his pension ever since I guess. Poor guy, probably don’t got any friends,”
“Well then how do you know that?”
“Oh, he went to my high school. Was in the grade right above mine. Went straight into the service if I remember correctly”
“God damn, poor guy. Feel kind of sorry for him, but what can ya do?”
“Not much,” said Lee. And that was that.

Nothing of particular interest was in the news; of course nothing ever was since the war. Once you grow accustomed to constant gunfire and intermittent explosion of the battlefield, suburbia looses any semblance of drama, or even relevance, it ever had (in fact he was growing to suspect that it never possessed any in the first place). The only possibly exception in today’s paper was a story about a convict who escaped Sing Sing through the garbage. Dangerous guy, just narrowly missed getting off on insanity. Story was he thought he was God’s messenger on Earth and responsible for punishing the ‘abominable sinners of the modern world.’ Sinners in suburbia? If he only knew…
“Anything else, sir?” came Tom’s gentle voice.
“No, just the check, thank you” Teddy replied.
“Alrighty”

Teddy sat in silence as Tom went to retrieve the check. Teddy liked Tom, he never charged for the refills of coffee. A few minutes passed and Tom returned.

“Here you go, take as much time as you want,”
“Thank you very much,”

The bill came to $12.46. Teddy left a $20 and departed for home. He never drove anywhere anymore. Not since that HUMVEE incident.
It was a pleasant walk. The oppressive heat of the day was relenting and transforming into a cool summer dawn. The sun was beginning its descent over the horizon, but had no clouds with which to play it’s usual light shows on. Oh well.
This was the time that all of the children loved to go out into the street and play, and so they did. The wide, well-paved road was filled with bicycles, scooters, rollerblades, and every other conceivable method of gamboling. Nowhere but suburbia could kids do this without fear, or even thought, of being trampled by a car.
Teddy passed many people on his route, all of whom he recognized as being of the neighborhood but one, who was certainly a stranger but had an odd air of familiarity about him. As Teddy was contemplating this, a .45 caliber bullet whirled through the back of his head, ending his life instantaneously. The street was filled with the sounds of screaming children.

“Hey, you here that?” Jonathan said.
“Here what?” replied Lee.
“I dunno, sounded like thunder”
“Don’t be stupid man, look at the sky, no clouds for miles!”

“Anything else guys?” Tom asked.
“More coffee please.”

-Roy Lotz

News

2010-07-09T12:22:00.002-04:00

So the blog had been up for a good little while now. I would like to thank all the writers that have contributed. Also, I'd like to thank all those who have been reading and sending me feedback. If you need to contact me, either to publish your work or to comment on someone else's, email me at rBelopolsky@hotmail.com. I would like to announce that a very talented writer has just sent me a fantastic short story to publish on here, so watch out for that to come up in the next couple days. Also, I'm finishing up a short-ish story that's based loosely on the true horror story of a good friend. I'll be posting that next week for two or so days, just for your feedback, you'll be the first ones to read it. Hasta Siempre Amigos! Write. Read. Revolt.

Reintroducing Marissa J. Scacalossi

2010-07-09T12:20:00.001-04:00

After hearing how much people loved the work she published on the blog the first time, Marissa agreed to have some more of her work put up. Please leave her comments on her work. The last time around, everyone was sending me messages about how great her work was. Its not that I don't enjoy playing middle fiddle, but please leave comments on the blog itself for her to review. Otherwise, you guys have been great to her!

Mother and Daughter

2010-07-09T12:15:00.002-04:00

Her voice cracked a little with each note she sang. She waltzed off beat around her room, her bed still unmade, clothes shoved under the dresser and behind her pillow, thinking her mother would accept this as clean. It’s the peek-a-boo complex all over again. A young child will cover their eyes to hide, thinking you can’t see them because they can’t see you. Her mother will spot the clothes out of the corner of her eye as she passes the room on her way to the kitchen to make lunch. She’ll find her daughter blissfully dancing, still in her pajamas, disregarding the simple requests she made. Helpless exasperation will flood her body, as she grabs the girl by the arm and vents. Her daughter will cry from the shock of this scolding surprise. What did she do wrong this time? She’ll feel like she’s drowning, drowning in her own bodily fluids. They are delicate shells, empty, cracking, breaking, wishing.

Night leaks in, leaving a blue glow from the dim light of the television. Her body sinks with defeat, the T.V. remote in one hand, a tissue in the other. Unseeing eyes stare, not watching, nor looking. Her daughter stands at the doorway, unnoticed, waiting, anxious, watching. Feebly, she attempts to climb onto the bed with her mother. She sees the timid child hesitantly crawling over to her. She waits till she’s close enough to touch, then pulls her into her lap. A feeling of ease is present. Sleep is near. Peace is coming. Things are okay.

-Marissa J. Scacalossi, Contributing Poet

Contemptible

2010-07-09T12:08:00.003-04:00

I’m the dirt under your fingernails,
The grime from a hard day’s work with no worth.
I’m old paint peeling off the walls,
Showing what was once bare and plain,
Leaking the stench of aging plaster.
But I’ll slice my palms and claim divinity,
Slither through through veins
spreading my fatal poison.
I hope you choke on my inadequacy.

-Marissa J. Scacalossi, Contributing Poet

In Visions

2010-07-07T13:04:00.003-04:00

It seems like everyday

a tear will fall

for You.

It may not come from 

these solemn eyes,

but skies will do.

I still feel Your hair

sifting through my fingers

as I sip on Your neck.

Imperceptible

olfactory hallucinations

haunting the days and nights 

and mornings when I still wake up next to You.

You'll slowly turn over

to somber me with golden eyes

and I won't look away

I won't even blink 

because...

I know that will be all it takes

for You to leave me again.

Oh so, how these slow, so patient hours

have become so blurred.

It seems so short a time ago,

I could touch You here,

and not only

In Visions.

-Kyle Manley

Armadillo

2010-07-07T13:02:00.001-04:00

I am a ball.

Curled up in my own perceptions of reality and thought. 
You make me unfurl,
releasing the hellbent feelings that have been contained within this shell for so long. 
And how I long to stay like this. 

Alive. 
Awake. 
Feral. 
Vulnerable. 
But this cannot be so. 

Alas, to protect myself, I must curl up again.

-Kyle Manley, Contributing Writer

Schitzo

2010-07-07T12:59:00.001-04:00

Breathing heavy, I breathe slow, I breathe deep. 

Sweat pours down this hollow head. In my wild scrape for sanity, I have left my brain behind. It now melts, oozing out the ears, nose, my lips stained with the taste of grey. Because there is nothing left to do, I freeze, and the panic takes over. 

How could I let this happen?

I have to hurry, scoop it up before it touches the paneled floors. Eyes wide, frantically searching the walls for even the tiniest answer, tears find their way across my cheek. 

And I scream.

-Kyle Manley, Contributing Writer

New Contributing Writer

2010-07-07T12:54:00.002-04:00

I would like to introduce a series of poems and prose by my friend Kyle Manley (I don't think he'll ever have to worry about inventing a clever pen name). If any of his work strikes you, please feel inclined to leave him a comment.

understanding v accepting

2010-07-06T20:18:00.003-04:00

A swift heavy blow
Now you understand.
Loss of balance
Loss of vision
Loss of ego.
Staring into the mirror
Fingering swollen flesh.
A long pause for self-pity.
A longer one for anger.
Then you hide it
Wait until it’s numb
Remove the gauze
See its still there
Say fuck it
Go fuck one hundred more
Then go look for another
One with a great left hook.
Now you’ve spit it out
Now you’ve accepted.

So this poem was written during one of my many heartbroken moods and strums on an issue I've always had with women: accepting and understanding that she doesn't want me. For many people, and especially for me, it's much easier to say "yeah, whatever, she doesn't want me, she can go fuck herself all the way up Kathmandu." But when it comes to accepting that we aren't perfect, or at least that we weren't perfect for that person- well, that's harder because it requires self examination, it requires maturity, and it requires putting our own selves aside and considering the other person's perspective. I think any reader can relate to the issue I'm presenting here, and what I hope to get through to everyone that reads this isn't, necessarily, that they should go fuck a hundred people- it's that you just keep going, because you never know who you'll meet tomorrow.

-Roman Belopolsky, 2009