http://slow.writerscafe.org/ltrain The original writings of author Lionel Braud en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776048106 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 Gerald, an alcoholic, has a blackout and ends up in an abandoned underground tunnel forgetting most of his present life. The worst has yet to come when he begins seeing things in the darkness. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/574645/ i use to joke around with this lyric i wrote, because i think corn is a funny word. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/430421/  There is always some critic behind the curtainWhispering the end of all good thingsHe prides himself behind thick paned windowsAnd exclaims, “I’ve seen that motif before”Opinions written in black and white fontAnd punctuated with sarcastic smiley faces .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/429022/ "Theres a little black spot on the sun today (that is my soul up there) Its the same old thing as yesterday Theres a black hat caught in a high tree top Theres a flag-pole rag and the wind wont stop" Written by Sting http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/404092/ Untitled Prose poem on the Thoughts of Today  There is an unperturbed, persistent sleep filmed over our minds, Hard to recognize the truth from the false with all the smudge obstructing the view. some faceless, invisible enemy remains innocous on the television, in the newspapers a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/382609/    Lilly Lilly loved landscaped horizons,She talked about the moon and the starsFrom slingshot distances outside her upstairs doorway Wild horses galloped in her front yard,Their frenzied gaze adorned unknown constellations She had this dream abo.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/372917/ The Nobody: Nobody Know Who, Nobody Know What? Stanley abruptly awoke by the sound of his tin can alarm, his head pounding. Waking up with a hangover, his head felt like a hollow tunnel that carried the sound vibrations of an eardrum.   “Where is my heada.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/371755/ The Spirit of the Age Narration attuned at face forward concentrationSauntering slowly down the hallwayChasing ghostsEmpty eyesResidual haunting and the tapping of wineglasses Conversation at a low murmurRepetitive percussion of chimes draws them outDrawback movie pro.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/357359/ Minus bedded down for the night after trying to press Will for the missing pieces of memory that only Will could supplant, but he refused to talk about Caleb. The doors of sleep gradually reined Minus into the dreamy hallway, the tunneled expanse vacuuming him into the magical repose of s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355477/ Will mumbled to himself. “This place is sucking the life out of me! Northshore is dead. What do these independent contractors expect to get out of this place?” Minus peered behind him. “Invest somewhere else.” “I can’t. I am already tied to thi.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355476/ Somewhere in the back alley of Minus’s story, the Ullkrest began to unweave the threads that held the course of memory together, sowing new threads because he knew memory could be tricky, and he could manipulate the Sleeper who dared deep in slumber. Deep in that repose, he could forge new m.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355475/ Agitated breaths faltered from Uncle Willard’s black hole of a mouth. Palpitations knocked at his chest like an unannounced guest waiting at the summit of his anxieties. At least that was the projection of tomorrow for now. But that was the guilt you harbored when a Will was not even your ow.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355474/ The eyelids of Minus grew heavy, weighing the tiny circus in his brain. Past reminiscences being the greater of two evils other than present monstrosities, Sumonosthestra summoned the twisted roads of memory, roads that Minus could relate to with some faint inclination of going there. The.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355473/ The Myth prolonged in the back alleys while people were asleep, seeping through their air conditioning vents, remaining innocuous in a piping cloud of dreams. In fact, the myth had been placed to bed, so to speak, when the messengers felt that its reality too terrifying. Shamans, mediums and proph.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355472/  Minus felt like a puppeteer stalling, persuaded by dancing shadows, that his movements were not exerted by self-will. Furthermore, there was an other side that performed those exertions gracefully without inhibition. A world created without deliberation and sexual vanity, a world whose stree.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355471/ During his first sober Christmas, Minus had an existential nightmare in a waking state. Mostly Uncle Willard’s fellow blue-collar workers populated the scene who ascertained themselves far up the pedestal of their own ego, caroused loosely, drinking eggnog and metropolitans. Besides Minus&rs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355470/ Flirting with the idea of becoming a marine biologist, Minus bided his time at a local aquarium owned by an ex- burly fisherman by the name of Gerald. Despite his brooding stature and his gruff appearance with his unshaven face portraying a cloudy day, his gentle nature would soften or even the ca.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355469/ Minus could not help but dream hard. Although his alcohol-sanctioned days were behind him, alcohol still saturated his memories catapulting him everyday into a dream mythos. When he would bed down for the night, his dreams would engulf him, and he would wake up oftentimes from a lengthy pilgrimage.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355467/ this is a poem that wanders http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355465/ Minus is a recovering alcoholic, but it is not all that he is recovering from. As his life begins to unfold, his dreams take on a vitality, a potency so vile yet uplifting enough to stir the imagination to worlds unfathomable. Pieces of his childhood are http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/355423/   Before the walls tumbled downand the wolves ate what was leftand every hippie on Haight-Ashburysmoked it from the ground up, Before the piece pipe ran outAnd the junky who forgot the spiritualForget the bohemians and rocket queensWhose spirituals burned smoke cir.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/299763/  Hey, philosophical BirdmanBoth eyes gleaming in opposing directionsYour rock hard Zen has got me crosseyed Hey, Mr. Philosophical Birdman?Why do you stare so intentlyWhen you know the dust will accumulate there? Hey, Mr. Philosophical Birdman?I know I beleagu.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/296250/  Echo and Narcissist  Somewhere inside of me is a poemEtched out between two mountain crevices,I shout an exclamatory affirmation…Hence returning the echoLies an arbitrary distance of you and me I beseech a rhythmical lyricApprehended from a voice that carri.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/296249/  At age three, my voice had been stifledBy a future manifested ego I never even met, yetHe plunged down my throat, molesting me within,Feeding me goose eggs hard to swallow But I managed as time grew on, andSoon those hard-boils softened into lozenges,His weaves draping my .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/254935/  The welling puffs of smoke from his cigarette underestimated the angst soiled inside his head, only disseminating those gray clouds for the moment; anxiety in silhouette under his barely shaven face.  Exhalation demurred for awhile soft glances of meditation like the smoky villages in J.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/246227/ flash fiction http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/242637/  Sam was a part time anthropology major, part time hypochondriac, a diagnosis his doctor apparently overlooked. Sam was an astute reader of Native American folklore and mythology. He especially felt partial to the stories of the Wendigo. The Wendigo was a man-beast like forest creature that h.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/229085/  The Commodore condominiums on St. Charles, where I was staying,Seemed an ideal place for prose, while streetcars roamedAnd the marble fountain hissed a Lotus discontent,And I,To be Buddha the poet,commencing a satyr like vision of the citydid not match how I knewor always knew .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228116/    Is there so much longing down here?The sick longing man has made the road down hereNow I find the roadIs left down hereI see that everything is left down hereHow the laughter has grown down here As I came running aroundRunning aroundThe man at the highe.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228113/  see the man across the street,Picking up garbage,Rearranging the flower gardenIn a motif of which he could only dream Spanish dreams, As the grass short- stilled by a half-life that only lasted a few days,The camera turned to the cigarette butt on a dirty pavement called a s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228110/  The Bite Of Eden (Mowing the Lawn)  I lived in a tiny world of Australia, through the riverbeds and tight tropical climate of dusty terrains and wet for loins of life specification as the kangaroo, or a dweller with no legs and no ambition but to survive. I had to be careful .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228109/  I have a small ball in my right handFor I type with my leftAnd there is no middleBut the round contours that solidify Stalling, I scratch my templeAnd I throw the ball to the floorNow I am left with my contoursAnd the precision of odd type Meaning, I throw the p.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228108/  Some of this and some of that Dirt with purpose. Flowers without grainDo presuppose a lonely ticketWith such an open trainIf words say what they areThan growth shall not weary passing Looking out the window with curious grinFull content is not at such - linger to .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228106/  Refrain not the habit, the mere alarm clockAddressing the deliriums of the day …Age down with the beat of a drumIts taste grows lonelyThe impotence of the heartMere vessels of flesh, sung Rhythms of angels sang Muddy WatersRefraining from tap water, not hol.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228105/  Drunken verse                    Assemblies and lines thus the words fall for sell and for victory. The memory bank is looking down the barrel to justify and just to justify not any occasional .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228104/  Drunk I think it is better this way,Feeding on sleepAnd the nuances of the dead,Besides I dream with them. On the slippery floor,I meant to do thatBecause I am a poet. When they are asleep,I do dream of them. It’s different when somebody .. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228103/  Animal mind Dreams of the Gazelle, I think you are doing fine, away from homeBut don’t stall, just run and jump,After all, you are an animal clinging to a mind,That will not let go,To the trap of catching alive.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228102/  DreamsTill time I shall part The cold wind breathes, withers and whispers my nameTill eternity I shall dwellEre upon natures repose, for the body, I am mind to which I confideUpon green pastures I taste the girth of the deep, dark earthWither and wonder do the winds’ depart.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228100/  Desire’s full communionOn a paged windowPatterned styles of thirsty men Forget the clergy and the age of reasonThe liaisons of perfect menCannot wail perfect frustration Curtailed lips performing séancesAnd dark knights of eternity alliance T.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228098/  The feeling of the highwayThe passing of where they goI do not knowFor the feel of the timeI do recline in the secretRabbit chasing is not what it seemsI breathe                    &n.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/228097/  To forget about life, he could not. For all it was worth in the needle’s eye, for what could be neatly packaged in boxes. A perspective of the lonesome, somewhat a bland ghost roaming the halls of reverberation.He would often cajole in verses as if his entire room were a lampshade, a.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/227878/ dedicated to hunter s thompson http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/227872/ A collaboration with Rachel Blackbirdsong http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/ltrain/165802/