Dead Cat, Dead Rat

“Dead cat dead rat didn’t see what they are at dead fat cat in the top hat...

Thanksee if you kill and slaughter Thanksee you killed my daughter...”

- The Doors

Dead Cat, Dead Rat

Going through halls afraid of every thing

The shadows that follow me

The steps that I always hear

The songs that were written for me

That I heard on the radio this morning

In my head they whisper to me

Words insane

That reflects in my face

Incoherent the acts that are committed by me

Body that is mine but doesn’t listen to me

Electricity that flows through me

In the dark rooms of long ceilings

In the iron beds that are always the same

In the common rooms of work and creativity

In the sunny gardens

With visits from my family

With the now traditional sodas

With the drink that always disappears

The one that like the most

The one that tastes like lemon

Sour but sweet

The running of the child to me

The white of my sleeping dress

Reflects the sun

Reflects the logic out of me

The sadness, the fear,

The maze of my mind

This vain word ahead

The divinity

He doesn’t care

Passing by a mirror

I die of fear,

Of my own reflect

The scream pops out of my mouth

I can’t control

I’m a puppet to my diseased

A prisoner to my mind

The hands that grab me

The hands bind me

My sane me,

My insane me

The gray hair me

The now ugly me

Tired me

I can see all this

I’m a spectator to all this

But I’m a mare puppet

To my reflect

Writing is a relief?

I saw my self death tonight

Cover with white sheets

So the image doesn’t scare the other puppets

The unliving, living death

I cut myself today

I felt nothing

But I heard the voice again whispering

The words of self relief

Of the end

Screams everywhere

The wood on the floor

Squishing from one side to the other

The white slippers of the hands that trap me

The white house far away

For the others, alive passing by

My old red shoes

“Love will tear me apart”

Inspiration flows now

The clear water seems to overflow

The red crawls like a snake in the ground

The white common bathtub

I die today

Now I know I’m death

My body is a corpse

Depressed they say

The drugs didn’t work they say

The to many voices in my head

The crying far away

They were erased.

Silence...

The end

by Sara Antunes

Step by Step...

Since people are slowly getting braver and braver when it comes to publish their texts, here is one of the texts that was written on the sessions of the group; hopefully this first text will make someone else willing to publish their own texts.

Step by step, my dears, step by step...

(Thanks to Ana for the pic, and to "the three of you" for pushing me up and down on the "see saw".)

...

Down the steps, young lady,

Down the steps!

He pushes me down the stairs

Drawing purple circles on my arm.

Down the steps, young lady,

Down the steps!

As he throws me at the narrow wooden boards

Of the long, almost endless staircase.

Slow down, slow down, old man,

P-l-e-a-s-e-s-l-o-w-d-o-w-n,

As my feet stumble on the screaming wood

That starts to crack under our feet.

From childhood, friends and foes,

From home, sand on toes,

From college, books I read,

From everywhere, people I mislead.

From a day ago, small lies I told,

From a time far away, lovers I’ll never hold,

From everywhere, faces and faces and faces of people I never met,

Each one of them for the steps I step…

On.

The man, old of course, loses his breath,

As we go half way through.

So I jump to the banister

And sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiideeeeeeeeeeeeee!

Passing through all the cracked steps

That have all my insides

Spattered all over them.

Going fast like this

The faces turn into a mix of eyes, nose and lips,

The books look like pages filled with scribbling,

The sand gets between my toes and tickles,

The last step that meets me halfway

Is nothing more than just a small line

Inviting me to get…

Off.

The man, pattering, holding tight to his chest

Appears as a tiny point on my sight:

Up the stairs, young lady!

Up the stairs!

As you know very well,

You’re cheating by speeding this up!

Besides, as the rules say,

One must do it all over and over again,

Until your legs are replaced by canes,

Your hair goes grey,

And there are no more steps for you to play.

On.

I kick the dirty doormat that sleeps by the last step

And as a worm, a bold, bright END comes from under the mat.

And as it tries to grab my feet

I’m already pacing, jumping steps in pairs,

With my calves hurting,

And my hair, still dark brown and thick, flowing,

While the old man falls behind,

Placing a mat over our end.

More Tips

The image says it all!

GO!!!

Posted by: Ana Domingues

Tips on Writing

Joyce Carol Oates gives you some tips on writing and life, sprinkled with her typical sense of humour.

Listen carefully...

"So you want to be a writer?"

So you want to be a writer?

If you think about writing for others and not for yourself, then you should think twice before calling yourself a writer. I'm not a writer, and I will never call myself one. I can't write for others, and I find it even more difficult to write for myself. I am most definitely NOT a writer. I can type words on a computer screen, or scribble some words into a piece of paper, but at the end of the day, that's just what they are: words. They can be powerful, they can be pointless, but they are just words.

I have dreamt so many times that I was a famous writer, and that my stories touched people's hearts and souls. That the choice of my words were so beautiful and strong that they had the power to change thoughts and ideas; that they were worshipped by millions, and re-read with excitement. I dreamt that my stories were part of someone's list of favourite stories; that they were the subject of talk between friends; that they made people cry and laugh, and feel angry at times; that they would change the world, or someone's world; that they would make me famous and rich, and adored by all; that they were so magical that no one dared to destroy the covers and the pages that they were written in.

But why dream of such stupid and utopian things? I guess, in dreams you can become whatever you want to be. You see yourself at the center of the universe, and everyone around you thinking that you are the most amazing human being that ever lived. When you wake up, you feel frustrated because you know that there is one person out there who doesn't like you very much, and that doesn't think you deserve to be at the center of all things. And, worse, you know there are people out there who never even heard of you or simply don't care. That's when you know you're awake. You go through the day hating everyone and yourself, and you repeat to yourself, over and over..."Let me just get through this awful day and tolerate all these people, so I can go to bed later and dream. Dream of my uniqueness, of my awesomeness. Dream that I'm the most important, most interesting and most loved person in the world."

That's what stories do! They have the power to change realities.

The whole point of this blog, as well as the Writer's Club, is to help you tell yourself and others that maybe your stories are worth being told, and that, sometimes, dreams do come true. I am here to learn, and to teach, and so are you. Just keep your pens and your fingers sharp and do it. Forget about everything or everyone else, and write just because you feel like it.

All the best,

Ana Domingues



"So You Want to Be a Writer?" by Charles Bukowski (poetry reading)

Welcome!

Since it was suggested by so many (not that "many" but...) "some" people, the UM Writers' Club has now a blog.

Everyone who's involved in the group will have access to post their texts, comments or simple messages on this blog; the idea is not only to exchange thoughts and the outcome of the group's sessions (whether you want to publish your texts here or write an insightful reflection of the sessions, it's up to you) but also to promote the work that has been done by all of us to keep to group alive.

Feel free to share whatever you want on this blog; this is your domain, make it useful.

Thank you,

Ana Carvalho