the street is a forum and he types along
a real live
engaged in real
inderminate and ongoing
tell a tale
tell a tail
To Whom It May Concern ====================== T'was smooth sailing, without failing So we knock-off early, as night begins With a sly, sinful, prideful grin at a job well done Oh don't come looking, we're long gone On time and under-budget, anon And now it's time to move along Perhaps to see one of my favourite cooks about a meal Good luck, -- Patrick
Rapunzel and the Peasant ======================== I know you're in there Still as beautiful as ever More kindly than you might believe But I'll never see you again, Will I? You're far too good at locking people out Always hiding this, lying about that Always trying to control how the people see you what we think of you how we feel about you Always trying to control And we'll never see you again, Will we? You're far too good at locking yourself up And yet, like to think it sets you free Did you know it never worked? Just so much wasted effort We never much cared for public image Always loved you despite that shit But you persisted And your marriage to the Emperor And your wedding dress, c'est magnifique! No one dared mention that you danced together naked, in the town square No one wished to embarrass you It was a lovely wedding, really But you'll never come out again, Will you? You've become far too good at locking it all down Years ago I knew you were locked And yet persisted Now I give up, Your Highness My last knuckle is broken I will not knock on your door again
quote:Originally posted by Vec:
horizon died six deaths
on the morning of the first frost
the sweet smell of leaf rot
is no eulogy
quote:Originally posted by Infinity_Circuit:
Let your eyes linger
Your hand brush against mine
My imagination will tell me what you’re thinking
All my secret desires projected
Onto your sly smile
As I give in, over and over.
You must smirk, how easily I
Seduce myself on your behalf,
Laugh inside as I surrender.
Just remember how hard I fought it
With protestations of my virtue
(Such as it is, or ever was);
My apologies for proving that
We women really are the same
Liars, cheaters, harlots all--
All I ask is that you lie,
If you must and tell me
One kiss was true.
Snow White and the Queen's Spy ============================== Dear Snow White, You loved me once, for being thoughtful, perceptive, and clever. Please don't hate me now, for being thoughtful, perceptive, and clever. I cannot help but see what's before me. My eyes may betray you, But my tongue never will. I promise. I will not say where you live, Or what company you keep -- Your devoted dwarvish friends, with their guttural accents. Your new private language derived from the Saxon tongue. I wish you all the happiness in the world wherever you may find it. No poisoned apple will find its way to you, through me. My lips are sealed. But still, your discretion serves you well, For I am not the Queen's only spy. Take care, and be well. Sincerely, The Queen's Spy.
Sleeping Angels Lie =================== I am no one's guardian angel Not now, not again But a mere man Frail ego, fragile identity Fallible, subject to ordinary wear and tear But once, I was so different, so perfect Cool, clean and sharp Much less a person than a purpose My every move an expression of that purpose A means to an end I needed nothing else The need itself sustained me But that's no role for a human being The light that burned twice as bright burned half as long Soon guttered and burnt-out And when it did I fell into an Abyss of dark and quiet A welcome peace and loneliness And there the Angel slept That was where you found me You shook me Roused me out of that long aching dream And set me on fire For you, for you! I would live for you! I would do all of this for you! So grateful, so joyful I praised you, almost worshipped you It was all for you And with a new sense of purpose, The Angel began to open its eyes There was work to be done But that's no role for a human being An angel, in this flesh, is nothing but a monster That flaming intensity of purpose could only burn you That terrible cold edge only cut you And it did Best fold up my wings now, And let the Angel die You never asked that much of me, anyway You never needed to be saved But thank you Thank you my demon, my temptress Thank you for my life Thank you, for making a man of me Sorry I'm not much good at it yet I'll do better next time
the groove broke down
was left hanging in the air
guitar man went dub style
but you could feel it
hanging in the air
kind of certain
of the beat that would return
the hanging pulse
the band would kick in again
Something new. I went to a friend's house for the first time. He lives in the 'back woods' of Benson, surrounded by mesquite trees and not much else. I felt a deep, almost overwhelming sadness and loneliness there, and no wonder; the family just broke up recently and he spends approximately half of the time completely alone there. Not to mention the natural isolation of living so far out of town (even one such as Benson, which doesn't have much to speak for it)...I couldn't help but be affected by it. It reminded me of when I lived alone while my ex was deployed to Kuwait. I had no idea how to manage living alone and went through a very bad time, and going to my friend's place brought that feeling right back.
Two houses for one soul and all three in disrepair;
Doors once decorated with care
Warped and fading, cracked
Thorns threatening from all angles,
Broken windows gazing out, in
Twists the line between solitude
And desolation, tears down
The grace of memory
With Winter, bare bones
Of work unfinished strewn
Amongst the Mesquite trees, all around
Across the yard, through the house--too much
For the sprawling mind to grasp
How to live without speaking of a
Decimated peace of mind
With every abandoned task,
How to wait without waiting and
Fill the time with tranquility
Until the phone rings, the message comes,
Or it is time to go somewhere
A moment alone with bare trees and silence
Puts me back in the cold, bony grasp of solitude
Her hand clutching this broken place tightly
How I wish I could banish her!
But that is not my magic, I know;
So the Mesquites and I reach out
With the scant protection of our creaking limbs;
Not much against the sharp cold of isolation
But all we have to give
An anglophone goes wandering -
The street lights each a thought he gives,
And enters a bar on a row,
Half tossed on friendliness and drinks.
The f-bomb, it's Hull, Quebec, dance!
My feet aren't coordinated,
So music shows so in my eyes.
I find a corner, merci much.
A belly button, desire such,
Is searched for amongst the many.
How close the white wine if spilled, thus,
When searching, searching for the French.
Drunk English idiot, moron,
I hear. Not speaking the language,
I chalk it up to the drinks had,
And that's when the lucky thing came.
She sang on a stage, cover stuff,
And boy her voice was angelic.
She read the words from a prompter,
While a small band played around her.
So many people laughed at me,
Because she pointed at me, smiled.
I do not care, haven't ever.
I walked front center stage to her.
I can play the bass for you, girl.
Inside a realm of alcohol
Where I cannot walk, even stand,
I still play perfect lines of notes.
I do not lie. She understood
Somehow, and up I jumped, then waved.
A person handed me a bass,
And silence waited on the queue.
Shock this, the music came to us
Irregularly perfect, played.
The bass and drums in oneness knelt,
As she went back to the mike, screamed.
I shot John A. MacDonald, felt
It on you tube over again,
No judges separate from us,
Something about I do not know.
One hour and a half later I
Was still in amazement, drinks gone,
Quebec Qua this, Quebec Qua that.
They loved us. They really loved us.
That girl, for all my life, her voice -
An equal I could never have,
To all I ever cared for; Once,
At least, if ever in passing.
Come gather round me children and I will tell a tale,
of a rampant conflagration and the long forbidden sale,
of disharmony, impatience, and a long forgotten song,
of misbegotten rightness that is very very wrong.
Our hero stands before us, theres a devil in his eyes,
the things he never reaches, and all the things he tries,
are what we speak of nightly, as we sit before the fire,
his quests and then his conquest of Alvin Macintire.
Their feud is known quite widely, I'm surprised you haven't heard,
how he searched across the land, and how things got absurd.
He trekked across the distant moors, and swam across the lochs,
to capture Alvin Macintire and stop the way he talks.
Our hero, Jones we'll call him,though his name was something else
conducted searches thoroughly, up chimney vents, down wells
It took 2 years til came the day, in little Applecross
When enemies stood toe to toe to find out who was boss
Not much was solved in Applecross, when they first came eye to eye,
but they'd meet in different circumstance, to give their war a try...
It came in 50 battles, set all across the land
our Jones behaved like Robin Hood, out with his merry band.
you may wonder why it was
this battle came to be
it wasn't land or family feud
but a lass called Kate Mcgee
The One We Deserve
This intricate illusion might obscure,
but will never hide the simple fact
that life is "kill or be killed".
No matter how many facets
are cut into the gem,
it is still a cold, hard stone.
We pretend and act,
We close our eyes,
We hide the facts as
We birth our lies.
And though we all know the truth,
it remains perpetually unspoken,
as if, as long as we all agree
never to speak of or acknowledge
the reality of our animal nature
we might become something other,
than the animals we are.
When, in fact,
we all know
that life is "kill or be killed",
and only the most vicious,
will ever attain any station,
office or position
that allows them the power
to do anything
The simplest game seen underneath's the same
As a great challenge, complexity wild.
Adapting more and less through time, one frame,
We are between the quite extreme to mild.
It is no different. Each day we rise,
Approach the contest, take distinctive notes,
Experience our wins, those losses, ties,
Relax, then sleep, but still the number floats.
Forever. Other people learning, we
Find, come to know them in the games we play,
All having access to the secret key
That like of doing works, lets living stay.
In time all is known. Surprise! Arise, what?
A face I wished I'd never see here, but...
A friend introduced me to Lindt's dark chocolate with caramel and sea salt. It's my new crack.
Laying on my bed
In the dark, holding one
Chocolate square between
My right thumb and forefinger
Balancing another on my chest
I take a small bite.
Pressing my middle three
Fingers against my lips
I savor the complexity
Of sweet caramel and
Grainy sea salt
Bound within the smooth
Confines of its surface.
I let my body’s heat
And tongue’s friction
Melt each morsel,
Each one relished as a silent
Though I find no peace
In their tempered darkness.
I finish the second square
At last and remember
(But hard, so hard I had to put
My hand over my mouth)
To keep to myself the
Bittersweet feeling that you alone
Speak my language
When you texted
“Don’t eat the whole bag at once”
Awesomely perverted, IC! I'm not a woman but I'm sure that captures the chocolate experience from what I've second-hand experienced.
It was fun to write this one.
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+ - + - + - + - +
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Techno's loud so no one talks, just drinks
And dancing, speechless stares and hints.
You can hear me still. It's magic, girl!
But yes, it's me, no glasses, tints.
Seek thou the unemployed writer, find,
My lady, me, say, at a bar
Off of Hollywood Boulevard some,
Where all these actors have a star.
What is this? Producer! My, my, sigh.
A movie, money, means to make -
Simply all the parts you have, but what?
In process, nothing, a bad fake.
I, my dear, my lovely lack of words,
Have always been a pusher man
Sort, so what's your spin, your need to lie
And I will be that biggest fan.
Love of freaking rhino horn, you kid!
An acid trip flick. Buy my drink.
In short your screwed, and this is why, then
I'll tell you how to save it, pink.
Few at first the genre greatness caught -
A thousand copies come, all bad.
My head hurts. So who believes the line:
The trip is good. It's crap. I'm sad.
Studio lover, please know what's down.
They took the content away, sneak!
What's left is boring machine drug ups,
Not hummer go where ending peak.
Producer, please look at me close face.
I wish to put the content back,
Then let sensationalism win.
Someone will care who you are, snack!
Winner. Breakout. Consumed. Eaten not.
More money than an island makes.
My blessing. Cut my arm. Blood touch yours.
A secret, cookie nonsense, bakes.
Write. Write now, write long. As if one's young,
Believes as youth do, good day comes.
I am as old as better sin, thus,
Long from belief, and silent, mums.
The reason is that verbiage holds both plot and character.
Look in the words. They will tell all.
Of outlines and designs drawn in detail
Of characters befriended and studied
then left to speak for themselves.
Verbiage has it. Thats the reason.