use the line "they walk babbling into the sea"

penguins for you, penguins for me
they walk babbling into the sea

You know... when I read the prompt I thought of penguins too, but those big emperor ones, though.

Anywho, carry on.

i'm laughing far too hard to take this at all seriously now. i think you just beautifully butchered dear deanna's perfectly pristine thread, jeff. still, i will try... later.

edit:

crouching sunbeams, they
walk babbling into the sea
as darkness descends

The walker goes silently and firmly along
A stoic chin of determination thrusts before his gait
Unkept and tassled mane gives his silhouette static
Barefeet soles calloused by walking
Softened by babbling into the sea

if my thoughts could walk
they would stop crawling
and run to where you are

if my thoughts could jump
they would jump high
to reach your mind

if my thoughts could fly
they’d spread their wings
right towards your heart

if my thoughts could swim
i’d watch as they walk
babbling into the sea

if my thoughts could take
me to you or bring
you to me… what if?

I think mine makes the most sense out of any of these.

The answer is lemmings. Lemmings.

ok... Jiro?

The next day it was raining. Scratch that, the next morning it was fine, but the stupid alternative dj, in between obvious coke lines and obviously overplayed music tracks, declared that it would rain that afternoon. Once again, another day's outlook shit on because I forogt to bring a cd. I got out of the car and walked through the parking lot, past the stoners lighting up and trying to keep it a secret as if anyone cared about their lives, past the giggling girls, no doubt talking about some stupid homecoming activity, and past the kids playing frisbee. They were playing frisbee not for fun, but in preperation for being worthless, playing a worthless game. That's all anyone ever does around here; they prepare to be disposed.

I somehow found my way past the idiots and burnouts to make it to Philosphy class in time, where my bad mood would no doubt be perpetuated by some idiot's endless questions, accompanied by the professors rolling eyes and much repeated answers which would be enough to put an energy drink into a coma. My prediction wasn't far off; some platnium blonde girl with huge hips and an even more enormous mouth was sitting diagonally in front of me, sipping a Starbucks, the trademark drink of shallow teenagers with dead taste buds everywhere. None of them like coffee, they drink it because it looks cool and makes them hipsters, or makes them enough of hipsters to hide the fact that they have no idea who Steven Malkmus is, or why J. Mascis is the best guitarist ever, or even what a Neutral Milk Hotel is. Of course, even if they did know, it wouldn't matter, because they're the kind of creatins who, if you told them why they're such phonies, would go out with daddy's credit card and buy albums by all of those bands, thinking that they expelled their virus of credibility when it only made it more terminal. Idiots.

No doubt this girl was one of them, but she wasn't alone in this psych ward of terminally worthless patients that they call High School. God how I loathe them, with their smug self-worth. I long to just tell them, tell them that they're worthless and that they can't think for themselves and ask them why they don't ever look any different from anyone else, and ask them why they think I can't stand any of these trend following herds of uncognitive tissue. Sheep people. I hope they walk babbling into the sea.

i liked that mickster. maybe coz i relate to it too much?

I've got writer's block

wow mickey....you write very well.

Thanks. I didn't think it was that good, though. It came out to harsh, I think. I'm not really sure, but just something about it I didn't like. I'm kind of trying to absorb Robert Penn Warren's style into some of my writing, if that makes any sense. This...I don't know. That line at the end was supposed to sound more venemous, not so much continued hate.

Ahhhh! That piece is awful. I'm redoing it.

The rain woke me up early the next morning, but between then and the next restless hour of sleep, the clouds had stopped perpetuating the misery, at least for then. According to the morning disc jockey on the pseudo alternative station, this was only a temporary break in the storm, just as having to talk was a temporary break for him from doing coke and wondering what he's doing with his life, playing music that no one wants to hear, least of all him. He sits there and wonders what happened to his uncontrollable spirit of motivation to not get stuck in this town, whether it broke up like Dinosaur Jr., self destructed like Cobain, or faded out like Pearl Jam.

I got out of the car and walked slowly through the parking lot, past the stoners lighting up behind the raised trunk of a small sedan, thinking that this metal structure would hide them from the hand of the law, not realizing that everyone else knew that their lives were just as meaningless as their own and so it didn't matter if they got high or not, because no one ever noticed. Theres no reason to pay attention to anything, just keep your head down and march to the beat of the swan song. I continued by a group of gigglings girls, in hysterics over some pedestrian homecoming activity where everyone would get to dress differently, as if this wasn't allowed on a normal basis, and as if anyone ever dressed differently anyway. Outside the gate there was a scattered pack of introverted looking boys playing frisbee, and they seemed to be having an extraordinarily boring time at it. They played that game every day, not out of fun, out of habit, and because its something meaningless to do. They're preparing. All anyone ever does around here, they prepare to be disposable.

I somehow found my way past my haze of cynicism and waves of drones to make it to Philosphy class in time. One would think that it would be my favorite class, but today it just extended my dimented state. Some platnium blonde girl with huge hips and an even more enormous mouth was sitting diagonally in front of me, sipping a Starbucks, the trademark drink of disallusioned teenagers everywhere. If you were to offer any one of them a mug of coffee, they would refuse it, but to put it into a cup with the Starbucks label on it magically transforms the liquid to some sort of vital elixir that they all need despertly to cure them of their disease.

I just wanted to yell at her, to tell her that the virus has infiltrated most of her body, increasingly with every sip of that hipster approved beverage. I wanted to ask her if she even realized that she was just following the trends, and ask her if she was just drinking Starbucks to make her "indie" enough to hide the fact that she has no idea who Steven Malkmus is, or why J. Mascis is the best guitarist ever, or even what a Neutral Milk Hotel is.

I wanted to ask her that, but then I realized that it wouldn't do any good. Even if it got through to her that she was just following these trends that she didn't even like, I have every confidence that she would go out with daddy's credit card and buy albums by all of those bands, thinking that she expelled her virus of credibility when it only made it more terminal. And she wasn't the only one; they surrounded me, with their mass produced t-shirts with what used to be catchy and original slogans on them. I wanted to make them realize that this was just a technicolor hollogram of what their lives were going to end up being, but it would never do any good. It never does any good to do good around here. These people will always just keep on talking and sipping that coffee and talking and sipping and talking and they'll never leave this town. They'll just head west and walk babbling into the sea.

It looks like we'll all keep babbling into the sea, judging by this forum's revised title.

Normally I just fire off a couple of quick poetic lines, but I fancied indulging myself since I'm off work sick.

''And then what happened, Granda'?"
That face stared up longingly, hook, line and sinkered on the story, much as it had caught his grandfather as he cast it, caught in the spinning. He looked around surreptitiously, saw the boy's father finishing in the kitchen. Not long now.

"I think that's a story for another night," he said in a too-loud voice, with a half-smile and conspirational wink. "I think it's time I put you to bed." Another wink. James was seven now, and old enough to see the benefits of subterfuge.

"Granda... It's only half eight!" Slightly too loud, too much of a laugh in the voice. But that was fine, the boy had plenty of time to learn.

"Max!" He called his son in from the kitchen, a tea towel draped casually over one shoulder. Max looked ridiculous, but he knew better than to tell him that. "I'm just putting James to bed, son. Stick 'kettle on."

Max rolled his eyes and headed back into the kitchen, tucking his towel into his belt like a barista while his father slung James over his shoulder and carried him up the staircase. Tucked into bed, James smiled.

"So what did happen, Granda?"

"They opened the chest, and it was empty. They were stranded alone on an island with nothing, and they were driven crazy with hunger, until they walked babbling into the sea."

James shuddered.

"Did they die?"

"At the very bottom of the ocean, scattered for miles, they found the treasure. Silver and gold, diamonds, jewels, pearls."

James was silent for a moment as his grandfather allowed this to digest.

"Is there much treasure at the bottom of the sea, Granda?"

He smiled.

"All the treasure you could want."



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Mickey: i liked the angst (and some blood ) spilling from the first version...

Stu: sweet