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once she licked, there abrupted
a carousing most unmerry
for the sour mix could not replace
a certain absinthe party, duly noted, missed
tumblers for fools displayed thick
layers of sunrise, climbing
glass walls to be copiously imbibed. slowly
it dawned upon this retainer
her young choice taken stepping stoned
with only promises to voice, sadly
awkward, she wanted the bitter punch
of friends with motives she dimly
understood, but her adjusting stirred
the table of contents into
unwelcome and unnatural food
for thought in immoderate and calamitous
combinations. her guests
suddenly rough and intent
on rebelling,
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i can feel your metal music
melting away
your arms becoming
peace-tied
weapons, distant vessels
hanging
at distant sides, forsaking
our distant future's defense.
i can feel our secrets
spilling,
your mouth moistened with
foreign tongue
sealing letters of this liason,
so paper bleeds little alphabets
old words
weary of over-translation.
i can feel this friendship
beginning
to take back its boundaries
forcing
your arms into retreat
our spoken secrets into ink.
this ordinary territory
was never so
unforgiving.
i can feel the apples
falling to stri
-
after the bloody rebirth
she asked the doctor
for consumption,
a pretty placenta
he had delivered
malnurished
malicious
malodorous
malingering
malaise.
and she buttoned up
her body, saying
put my breast in a bottle
and leave me be.
-
-
when'd i perch here last,
outside empty
stories
floors below,
willing each window
to find his single human
frame. small rooms squeezed
walltowallpaper,
more married than we were
to a pattern.
now this watch rusts,
a brittle open cage
above home,
stormy seas nothing of meaning
but sky and i perch here,
inside empty
stories
years ago.
wishing he were never found
and i was still
a widow, unframed.
-
-
he pushes me to bear
illegitimate burdens
in yolks, maleable half
forms half buried sod(den)
states planted stiffly
across the shoulders.
when my garden fails, dry
his humour leaves me dusty
and no, there should be
knowing surprise at these
sorry attempts,
(they keep cropping up)
weather he understands.
thus my infertility leaves
a bitter harvest, assorted
sunken fruit without a grain
produced, and i have grown
tired of helping a fallow
field sow his oats, while
i should lay so barren
under the same reign.
-
-
pour Ivy
over walls she
weeps a sad sort of lost,
suffering the inability
to acclimbate and
rooted in the past behind
tendrils that travel without her,
she searches places
consumed of the greenest
ardor granting embraces that stretch
her so thin yet eager
Ivy clings, tenaciously spreading
her blanket for picnics
and the heartless rain of heavy feet until
she is cut short -
banished
to her bower
oddly comforted
that home is a
very gated thing.
-
-
[i'm]perfect
columns
won't support
this acquaintance.
you topple
these daises
and diaphragms with
arrogant mud
[salacious]lides.
what you say
pulls me here,
unhappily draped with
an under
lying [truth]
is about choices,
and while you gargle
salty amounts of them,
most are spit
into sink[holes].
-
-
hints are adults
bound in spices
deep bed packets,
indian burns
under fire escapes.
no matter,
i extinguish
our straw buried sin, raw
wounded alcohol and lemon
drops that
fizzle
out -right
you paralyzed me, sure
with a smirk
and
when i woke, it was
monday
stupid, for the clouds
parting and us parting,
not partly sunny
but callous
intimation.
too many hints,
i suppose we did enough
tasting you,
(you decided)
you were better
(you decided)
than lessons bound
in compacts,
-
i have been formally
charged
with something
keen, kineticut residents
stand stricken
appalled
by this breach of their
forcibly moral fibre.
what stiffs.
animated in sentiment,
the common good for
nothing is more painful
than having an
eclectic fetish
so unfashionable in
this circuit.
abandon your volatile
attraction
they ask, little knowing
the galvanic effect it has.
so morale must survive
a battery of corrosion,
abrasive abstinence
a mustering of
my metal,
and illumination grounds
for apprehension.
-
-
i am simply
petrified, ill at
easel leaning wooden
legs pegged into
a reluctant parcel.
lacking postage my posture
might dictate sudden
divergence
in decision and direction,
so while hardly playful
this solid stoicism
screams. tilting
my mental canvassing
complete, and caught
budding a blossom
like a mounted
bas-relief i'm hooked.
however blank this
palette needs no cleansing
or water-colored comments
to wash your hands with,
for the very dark model
my taciturn of cheek
in tongue staid has a way
around words.
atlas bore upon
sculpted scapula such
rigid repercussion and
how artful the martyr
he made,
twins
today i went into the sea, i went without a boat..
i tethered cares to dunes bleached and dry and i,
i dove, i sailed, i caught a wave, clean with salt,
salty combs through my hair and in my eyes, wide..
through these vast waters, running deep, with
fashioned gills i breathe, i sigh, and, touching a
murky sky, weighty starfish falling, coiled horses
upon springs and tugging at my whimsy, rippling..
and between twisting trees, i chase, and find a very
familiar face, wearing strings of stolen pearls,
bubbles rising, lifting like laughter, singing she was,
crying she was, siren and sorrow both, weary and wonderous..
her voice
black
i might wear black tomorrow, i just might..
there is something soothing, something humane,
about black, about the darkest color, not a color..
i might wear black, since it looks good on me,
not grey since grey is light and i want dark,
thick, soothing and silent, black is hot, yet
cold, to bring my fever down, to push my fever up..
i might wear black, since black is my mood, since
my mood embraces that which is dark, not light,
that which is thick and soothing, that which looks
good on me.. my mood is black..
i might wear black tomorrow, since black is final,
black is distinct, yet undefined.. i am that which
embodies blac
janus
i see janus through the french doors, his mirrored image
reflects, masked with feathers and cold tiles, sliding
just past and through, with charming duplicity..
he could be anyone i knew or know, beating his wife or
buying her flowers, he could be blonde or dark, dyed or
fried, chewing on jalapenoes and taking cold showers,
burning, yearning, and turning my heart icy, blue and
white chills, inside and turning my red blood outside..
i hate him so much i want him, for when he touches me
i scream, dark magic filling my senses with hollow ecstacy,
chasing the light away, i seek to pull it back, back
through him, with him, hea
morning anxiety
brutal, howling banshee
yelling at me at decibals
unheard of, blinking
red-eyed digital anger
at my sleepy slowness..
bitter for the hostile
invasion of my mind\'s
sunny meadow meanderings
by the voice of reason,
i lay inert, fumbling
for the energy to move..
oh, to retreat into
the fizzy foamy flights
of dreamy frivolity
once again, oh to run
with the woolen sheep,
to jump the fences in
great leaps and bounds
toward utter tranquility..
oh to escape to sleep again,
sleep, sleep.. blessed sleep..
but as bob, the morning guy,
reminds me in a voice dripping
with nauseating cheerfulne
oral fixation
pasty, blanched
goodness on my oral-b,
expanding and contracting,
soapy suds of minty
whitening magic attacking
the tartarific titans
attached to my pearly
dentals, or am i a gel girl?
smooth and liquid creamy,
oozing like green or blue
filmy froth over the jagged
inverted mountain peaks of
my canines, or to spill
in tangy tidal waves through
the valleys of my mutely
mundane molars..
my tongue will take a
bubble bath, its taste buds
reveling in the balmy
blizzard and massaged by
the loofah of brush bristles..
my aquafresh daily dalliances
are the revitalizing rituals
that ready me f
the alcohol poem
oh glorious hot amber lava,
seering in tennessee mountain
purity, inducing ecstatic
paralysis and wow am i
careening over the edge
of stable-minded sanity..
wrapping my lips around
the rim of your captor,
your jailor, to send you
sailing, flowing, seering
past my dazed taste buds
holding white flags, down
down down.. down you go..
like edible drano you
mercilessly scathe my insides
with fiery radiation..
and now my feet don\'t work..
the carpet rolls in fuzzy
beige waves and i climb
onto my coffee table surfboard
to navigate it, drawing
oos and aahs from my enraptured
audience, for
the departure
he left at dawn, riding on warm air
away from me, riding currents like
bucking broncos, leather chaps hugging
his hips and singing freedom..
it was his time, his place, and the
gate was left unlatched..
he left at dawn, sailing on smooth
waters, away from me, casting back the
lines that tied him to me..
it was a chance he had to take, his
golden fleece to reach for, his shining
moment, and how bittersweet my happiness..
for, knowing that nothing i possessed
could keep him here, i stood at the
window, gathering my numbness about me,
and watched him leave..
mf
paper cut
and i\'m just one of your paper dolls,
uniformly aware of your indecision,
with a ripped smile upon my pale lips
and an ache in my empty chest..
linked, arm in arm, to my sister souls,
we wait for the final cut, the final
sharp blow that will sever the best
from the rest, like a tragic line of
Rockettes, with the joy taken from our
step, if it was ever there to begin with..
and i wonder what you see in us, what
makes us each unique to you, or if you
are only too shallow to see the depth
behind our pulpy eyes and blanched cheeks..
to understand might mean getting too
close, and to pick and choose is suc
epilogue
you plucked me from the shelf and read me,
cover to cover, and yet you fail to understand me..
when the lights go off and you set me aside, i
still whisper things, secret things that you will
only have to imagine, for the reality is beyond
your scope of vision.. when you put me back up
on the shelf, i slept, in patience, drowsy, and
made a nest of memories, like dust and cobwebs,
in ghostly tribute, and dreamed you\'d read me again..
that you\'d see my face in the words and not just
thoughts, that you\'d hear my voice in the lyrics
and not just music, that it would make sense if
you allowed the ink to run to
blistex
fruitlessly, the snowy beauty tickled
her feet, hoping to bring a smile to
the chapped lips and the wintry stars
twinkled their brightest, hoping
for an admiring glace upwards..
but she was preoccupied this clear
cold night, and so the snow was trampled
beneath her boot and the stars shone
no brighter than any other night..
the warped symphony of daily pressures
reverberated through her mind and caused
her brow to furrow in consternation..
in vain, she sought to place things
in order, forcing every thought into
a cubbyhole with a tag and date..
and she swore she\'d give them all the
attention they deserved, as was the
Why is it that everyday we are bombarded by a series of statements that tend to be the most insincere things anyone has ever been subjected to? Throughout the day, people spout off nonsense about their best wishes and their condolences without thinking about what they're really saying. The fact of the matter is, we've become so impersonal as a society that asking someone a question is as good as assuming that they weren't really going to answer you anyway… and they usually don't.
Take for instance the question "How's it goin'?" How often in your day do you say "How's it goin'?" without really meaning it? What about when you thank someone. Yo
Guide to Successful Photografy by triptychr, literature
Literature
Guide to Successful Photografy
Photography is the perfect art for people who want something without having to spend a great deal of time bogged down with the tedious task of creating it. Where you have to form worlds from the ground up in drawing or writing, you can simply point a camera at things people can see with their plain eyes then sell it to them for cash. It's like having your own regulated air-selling business! How can you go wrong?
Of course, photography is more than just pointing and clicking. The camera is a very complex tool, and you should at least be able to explain how it works to whoever you're pointing and clicking at. Photography relies upon light, wh
The Desperado and His Band... by shackell, literature
Literature
The Desperado and His Band...
Abort the motion, though, we like
the view. We like to look,
the wiser
Lily
de-livered
her meal as prescribed
by the prancing paediatrician (who also dabbled in explosives).
And in the right corner!
On the chrono-
graphic latency of
the date for the spacing
out of the king of beastly depths,
The desperado and his band of tiddlywinks
lead the lower tenants that complained about the smell
of the bacon, brought home under the skin
of sliver companies.
Needless,
to say that. Something
went wrong.
Raptor parachuting off the stars, shooting off the shiftless tree
line.
Tight spider web threads the needle, stitch caught in the dream
weaver.
Fox in the hole, slough running off to push next week to the side
dish,
that was an accident, it was the road, but he began living on the sea
bed.
Ever since he took a bullet, we've been very interested in bang
bang,
microscopic on the periodic table as the element of the crow
bar,
alpha-atoms splinter fog the windows, mathematic crew attend
ants.
Plastic morning breeds out the light perfume, freed in tiny petal fall
out.
Flicker spout to off the eight-baller, reach high and put it u
When I propositioned my parents for a new computer, I told them that it was purely for educational purposes. But naturally, as any guy and many girls my age can attest to, what I was really thinking was, "I need a $1,000 machine to kill zombies on."
This is why my parents would not be happy to discover that I have become absorbed by a game called Ragnarok Online. Ragnarok Online (RO) is a Massive Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Game (MMORPG) where players from all over the world enter a computerized medieval realm and fulfill their fantasies of questing, exploring, and battling (clicking).
When I began the game, I was a nobody. But eventual
Brusque eyebrows gesticulate disaffection
shrugged from a deadpan demeanour,
bristling with iron-filing stubble.
Belated cheap aftershave smells defeat
loitering smoke-like, bitter inhalations
for poorly timed passers by.
Shabbily suited, shoes scuffed,
giving the impression he'd been dragged
unconscious into place. At his post
to cast a disparaging eye over the public.
And yet, amid this flotsam and jetsam
of a man, one thing demands respect.
Pinned to a creased lapel, it gleams
under the fluorescents, reflecting
self-importance like a lighthouse beam.
Worn as a medal of honour,
with all the pomp and ceremony
of a wa
-
she was almost animate.
with dirty braids and
hansel's dogtags burning
her breast into ginger
roots, tangy twists for
some wicked woman's stew.
faithfully forgotten
hounds let her harried
housemother down, so
steep her father splits
heirs from lockets with
hatchet deep in Heather
so violetly remembered.
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