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Saturday, June 16th, 2007
8:49 pm - On the spot and now Go!

kiodane

I only get five words.

Oh wait, that's five.

Okay, three more?

Now two?!

Crap...

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Wednesday, June 13th, 2007
6:53 am - "Video"

pinteresque
I bought a video camera on the cheap from Stan, this guy I worked with
who wanted a little less reality in his life; he stopped making things,
slowed down a little, retreated back into his own head for awhile.
Drugs help with that, he heard, so off he went.

He sold me his camera and bought himself a turntable,
scrounged the nickel bins at street sales and flea markets
for the perfect additions to his record collection,
unreleased seven-inches that went straight from warehouses
to milk-crates on rickety collapsable tables in front of some
aging hippy's van,

("It's my time machine, man. Check out the these speakers,
you can almost hear Ray Charles' tears hit the keyboard, the fidelity's so there,")

and used my camera money to pad the walls of his studio in acoustically neutral foam,
said things like,

"That camera, it's too real, you know? There's no craftsmanship in just recording
things that happen, you gotta make your own way, not preserve somebody else's,"

like he had never seen a documentary in his life.
Hell, maybe he hadn't.

He talked fast, back then, before the haze settled in,
his hands moving through the air like he was trying to crush
enough oxygen and nitrogen and argon together to make something visible,
pausing only to flick the ash off his joint and scratch lazily at his forearms
before bumming a buck from me for a milkshake chaser.
Didn't see him much after that summer; he moved to Florida with his old lady and his dog,
kicked back on the beach under an umbrella, waiting for the tides to recede all the way back to the old country.

- - -

I set up on my stoop, camera on the step below the one I was sitting on, recording
the shoulders of the neighborhood. Pastel linens, delivery uniforms, the tops of the heads
of little Dominican children arguing with their siblings about which of them owed what on
their corner store's tab,

"That ain't mine, I got that for you. Fuck, you don't believe in paying what you owe?"

and watched my camera watch the summer drift away,
running in now and again for fresh batteries and beer.

- - -

Sundays were the best. The streets thronged with recently energized church-folk,
dry-cleaned to please The Lord. They walked slow, feeling the sunshine and trying
not to sweat too much, secured behind bobby pins and brill cream.

My friends would come by now and again, particularly Bobby,
a black guy in a flattened Irish newsboy's cap and wifebeater who
bummed a smoke from me in the park once, asked what I was writing in my journal
and who somehow always knew how to find me after that.
I tried not to act surprised whenever he showed up, but he had this knack for appearing
out of nowhere with cans of beer from the sweaty guy with the cooler on the corner.
He'd sit next to me, a few steps lower, try to see what the camera was seeing,
narrowing his eyes to slits, trying to beat his peripheral vision into submission.
We'd worry about the fading light and glare and whatnot but it was bullshit, really;
neither of us knew what the hell we were doing, but we liked talking about it.

- - -

Once it got cold enough to make pushing buttons tricky through the gloves,
I sold the camera to Bobby, emptied my savings account and bought a motorcycle.
I needed to find Stan, to tell him he was wrong, that the camera did do things - it made me a friend,
and got me good and drunk, and taught me how to say motherfucker in Spanish.
He got strangely quiet, like he'd misplaced something important, kept patting his shirt pocket,
and asked to see one of the tapes. He wanted to share in this summer I'd had, to see what I'd made for myself.

I had to explain to him that the beauty of it was in the direction the camera never pointed
and that I'd never bothered with tapes, that they seemed more transient than memory,
and he sparked a joint and closed his eyes,
nodding along to music in his head that I'd never get to hear the way he wanted me to.

current mood: exhausted

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Wednesday, April 18th, 2007
8:24 pm - Ode to a Mexican Marshmallow by Michael L Cramer III

kiodane
Oh, little pink clouds of wonder from the shelves of Wal-Mart!
How is it that you are so fluffy,
And yet look like a tongue on closer inspection?
And, oh forlorn! I will never know the joy of swimming in a pool of bubble gum.
Strawberry flavored Mexican marshmallows, will you marry me?
And let your sugar and corn syrup babies grow within my voluptuous man-womb?
I wish I could suckle at your teat,
But I'll settle for looking like I'm eating a Magic Rub eraser.
The white ones are good too.
I could make a few meals from a dollar-twenty-one bag,
I already have.

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Monday, April 3rd, 2006
12:50 pm - For the child of His youth

sweetnesp
Come up, new dawn, come up and bring forth your irridescent glow in the heavens.

For sinner though I be, there are fields that I do wonder through under the light of the moon.

And wander, I do, through the meadows, seeming alone in the vastness, but never.

Arise, dear sun, and killing this night, bring her to her end at the golden doors of eternity, there along the harizon.

Rise, and shed light on the daizies and the lillies that are scattered amonst the heathers.

Shine and let it be known that saints do have palms that sinners do touch, they are pedals growing side by side.

There, in the meadow, arise and blossom.



Sweet, fair child, sonshine.

current mood: content

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Sunday, January 29th, 2006
5:01 pm - Poetry >> Truth (for the New Year)

smileypillsbury
Truth,
small marine decapod crustaceans, lettuce, carrots, bean sprouts, sweet basil and vermicelli,
served with a house sauce, packed and wrapped tightly between soft rice wrappers.

Fresh,
rolls dipped in plum ectasy,
burning passion through my blood stream.

Seaweed,
salad lightly tossed in soy and sesame based dressing,
quenching every last taste bud of my appetite.


Winter,
dificient of heat,
struggling to slow down our tempo, making us rigid and inflexible,
yet we remain unbroken as we march on.

Surveyors,
fine tuning our equipment to encompass the elaborate landscapes lying before our eyes,
luscious feasts imploring our appetites to relentlessly prey upon one another voraciously upon rest.

Hands,
clasped together like tentacles,
smooth and fine to the touch, yet unwavering,
a tightly knit chain to keep us strong and healthy.


Pucks,
sliding back and forth,
cascading over a drawn-out temporal stasis of hydrogen and oxygen,
constantly searching, striving to score points, a goal.

Cheers,
flow from the stands,
as my hand massages the small of your back,
every inch of you electrifying my senses, causing my heart to race.

I strive to keep my heart under control these days,
for there are ways I would like to keep it racing around you,
as long as I don't end me up in the emergency room.


In the beginning,
I was energized by your presense,
your were the inspiration that kept the creative juices flowing.

Now,
I've had to take sabbaticals,
immerse myself in your essense, in order to find a new voice.

You've changed me,
made me want to be more than I thought I could be,
so I figured it was about time I praised thee.


Everyday,
you smile surrounds me, it protects me,
and makes me feel so damn lucky.

However,
this isn't meant to be a sappy love poem,
but a piece of poetic flare,
a way to show I care and to show you that you still arouse the hairs all over my skin.

Your skin,
soft as newborn blossoms untouched by human hands,
our breaths, forcing goosebumps to the surface, as floral acrobats waft and glide,
slowing to a halt, on the curves and rolling arches of your upper body.


You,
are my most famous dish,
long rice noodles stir-fried chicken, shrimp with egg, bean sprouts, Thai turnips, scallions,
all topped with ground peanuts.

If I was allergic to you,
I would still devour you,
enjoying after last bite,
as my taste buds achieve maximum escape velocity.

But,
I would never leave,
I would stay stuck in your gravitational pull,
engulfed by your wonderful kisses,
enjoying all that makes you so,
wonderful,
amazing,
beautiful.

current mood: creative

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Monday, September 26th, 2005
12:08 pm - Looking for America

beindigoe
Catching my breath to lose it again, I rolled over and lit a cigarette, unoccupied fingers haphazardly covering a bare saluting nipple. I inhaled, exhaled, watching the silver smoke dance psychedelic under the influence of an unfamiliar ceiling fan.

"Mind if I blow a line?" I nodded at him in indifferent approval and scrutinized in my periphery. He sculpted his drugs with a debit card on the worn surface of the nightstand. Whatever happened to the glamour of mirrors and hundred-dollar bills? I couldn't remember when cocaine became mundane, like commuting or using a toothbrush.

I fucked him once more before he sunk into a congested sleep; this was my cue. I slid into my fishnets and leather jacket and collected soiled undergarments and intact cigarettes. I pocketed the envelope on the dresser and stumbled out into the Loisada sunrise.


~~~~~


I was nine years old when I saw the west coast for the first time. There were no surfers named Tod, no destitute childrens' icons, no sno-cones. There was overpriced coffee and an iceman on display; there were salmon hatcheries and seagulls to feed outside local seafood chains. I remember Washington as fog and breaking waves, watching froth shooting from speedboat bows as I leaned over the railing, wanting to jump, to swim with my fairytale coolwater whales.

I played superheroes with the boy next door. I was Catwoman in a cape and he my Batman; I sipped imaginary martinis with the one motherfucker who stood between me and the bomb. I think his name was Andy, and the more I think about it, I looked more like Zorro in pink spandex and a bad haircut.

I sip on a whiskey. Eleven years later, I'm told he's now a Jehovah's Witness.


~~~~~


"Will you ever forget this place?"

I looked over my shoulder at the man in the grey woolen houndstooth coat. He walked like a stockbroker and wrung his hands like a junkie on uppers; he had the glassy eyes of a disembodied poet on the Astral plane.

And we might as well have been floating there in clouds of concrete clothed in graffiti, swaddled in colors that would turn Oz puce with envy. He was infected, I was enraptured, and we were spinning along the prismatic walls, lost in this oubliette hidden from the Michigan urban sprawl.

I could have sworn I saw him suspended from the leaking sky, a tuxedo of lesions at the keys of a dusty grand piano strung up by invisible fraying rope.

Now I know his skin was clean, I was naive, and we only added our poetry to the painted cinderblocks of an abandoned commune.

"Never."

I'm not weeping anymore.


~~~~~


I left for Chicago with intent and aspirations, all bandanas and Birkenstocks and clove cigarettes. The Windy City was photographs, bistros, my own personal demigods, and Emily.

She came to me like Rosie the Riveter, two and a half sheets to the breeze of her own suburban chemistry, stuck in a teenage american dream. Her mascara, salted, swirled with lipgloss and unacknowledged self-pity, and I picked her up.

We rode the Red Line like truant zealots, the dirty hippie and Cheerleader Barbie. She scoffed at my coffee and nicotine idolatry, but I wrote her poems she could taste, fresh out of the darkroom on the stoop outside, tuned into Miles and the sweat of the city.

Four months later, Ken slammed her against a wall like disobedient spaghetti refusing to soften. She slid limp to the floor, and when he was through, she called me again.

She cried. I was finished. I don't remember what was said.

I needed to think of her like the movies, perched on a blanket in Grant Park... how we waited for the sun to set over Printer's Row, submerged in something a little more Sapphic.



~~~~~


Another day, another pack of cigarettes, 108 degrees at the end of September. I've never understood the magnetism of the Lone Star state, and even now, I never will. 9,267 harrowing hours and counting, and the pickup trucks and conservatives still elude me... overweight, underpaid, and just as lost as I ever was.

The front lawns here are Elysian; they're like miles and miles of photosynthesizing prom queens melting in the vitriolic heat. The skies, they swallow you here, unforgiving and indismissable. I'm stunned and shipwrecked, running dry, and deuces are wild.

My words don't even punch euphonic anymore, adjectives and uppercuts forfeit to the plains of the Great Southwest. There's no one to blame, and nothing scatters my proverbial ashes, so I kick them like obsidian sand into the eyes of the nation. Hell, it was blind anyway, and come to think of it, so was I.

I came to Texas on a Greyhound bus with two shirts, guts, a bottle of whiskey, and twenty bucks... but Dallas did me, so I ante up.

Sometimes I wonder what I'm doing here.

And sometimes, I remember.

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Thursday, September 1st, 2005
11:50 pm

invisabletoyou
I smoke a cigarette every night,
Wishing apon the stars,
Praying there must be more,
When strangers serve you lemonade,
Childhood laughter seems so far away.

Don’t forget me tonight,
Don’t leave me here to rot.

Dreams of you across the seas,
Too far away to be real,
So I peel silver stars from the sky,
You’ll find them in your letterbox.

Don’t forget me tonight,
Don’t leave me here to rot.

If I saved my money in an envelope,
Do you think it would be enough,
To make it to you?
Buy myself a one-way ticket to heaven,
Cus I think I need a holiday,
Find me someplace to run to


-------------------------------------


Ice cream in the winter

She loves it when I wrap my arms around her,
Kiss her nose; play with her hair,
Says it makes her feel safe somehow.
She never tells me what she’s thinking,
Never tells me why she smiles,
Says she likes to stay a mystery,
She’s got the bluest of eyes,
Bluer than the sky,
She doesn’t brush her hair,
Or wear high-heals,
Her eyeliner is always from last night.
Tells me she loves me more than rainbows.

She eats ice-cream when its snowing,
And puts flowers in her hair,
Says she likes to feel alive.
She doesn’t like the football,
But she likes to lie with me.
She wraps her heart around me,
And swears I am her everything.
Sometimes I wish she’d just be straight with me,
I say I love you, she never says it back.
We’re going to last forever,
Yeah, watch peter pan every night.

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Monday, August 8th, 2005
11:35 am - Everything that has happened before will happen again.

smileypillsbury
"Everything that has happened before will happen again."

Seems like a crazy statement usually spouted by prophets or religious fanatics. In reality, it is a clear representation of the things people believe to be visions of our future, our past, our destiny, for we are all selfish individuals who believe the universe revolves around us.

We are the suns, everyone else happens to be the helpless planets, countless celestial bodies caught in our gravity, and light so beautiful that someone or something wants to get close to it, but if they get too close, they burn, but if they find a way to keep their distance, they harness the necessary treasures we have to offer.

But I digress, I've strayed from my point that psychics, prophets, and religious fanatics have it right.
They have the foresight to be looking anywhere but here. They can't predict our future, only see remnants and glimpses of some other alternate future. For noone can know how everything in their lives, in everyone's lives, in this galaxy, in this universe, will all turn out.


See there are zillions of universes out there, revolving around their own suns.
We all just happen to be in touch with each of them in the randomest ways. Everytime we daydream, contemplate, run scenarious through our heads, or even write down stories or poems, we are just stealing moments from someone, somewhere else.

Every dream is real, Somewhere.
Every movie is still running, never having ended after the scene faded and the credits ran free.
Every book never truly has the ending we are told, it just happens to have been not as interesting as where the author decided to cut its thread.

But i'm losing you, letting myself free, and stealing another's me moment happening somewhere else in another universe right now. See he's saying the exact words that I am, and perhaps he stole them from me, but I stole them from him, and it is an endless looping of stealing separated by the way his Earth spins a bit faster, and ours a bit slower, not exactly in sync, but enough for us to get a sneak peek into each other's lives.

It may seem a bit confusing, and crazy, but really we aren't lazy. We are just explorers, taking every moment when we are not forced to produce, to expand our horizons and be celestial voyeurs into other people's lives.

Its insane to think that geniuses really aren't that special and brilliant, that they just happen to be more perceptive than most at shoplifting great ideas from other places and claiming them to be there own.


Night of the Living Dead? It happened, and still is happening.
Kerry is president, and the World Trade Center was never bombed.
Its crazy to think that we grab on to another place, another time, and use them to help us widdle our lives to match there's. I'm sure John Kerry ran for president, due to the multitude of visions in his head, where he saw it all happening, and figured it was manifest destiny, when really he was just borrowing the moment.

Porn movies, are disgusting to some, invigorating to others, but just come to be common place on a world where a pizza boy, really is waiting for his blowjob and a nice threesome with some young college girls.
But one night, he's gonna have a dream, where he is gonna believe he is at work, is going to deliver a pizza, and some young college co-ed is going to hand him $20 bill, and wish him a nice evening.
No sexual interludes, just cold hard, cash.

He'll wake from his nightmare and thank whatever God, Goddess, or pantheon of spirtual beings he believes in, that today his dream won't come true, he will go to work and get laid, and his world will keep spinning for some porn director to make into the next big blockbuster to appear in the back room of a local video store.


Right now.
I'm cleptomaniacing all of this from a conglomerate of DaveSmiley's on other worlds near and far, but all of you,
all of you that aren't thinking, that aren't analyzing,
that are just listening to the sound of my voice.

You are having original moments. Original moments, that some other version of you, or some random person you will never meet is writing down to be the next best novel to appear on sale online at Amazon.com. Cause things we find to be boring, could be fascinating to someone elsewhere, and things we find exciting, could just be common every tasks that need to get done.

In conclusion, Stewie Griffin is real, the Simpsons are flesh and blood, right now Superman is flying to save some dansel in distress, and all we have to do is just sit here, enjoy the normality (by our own standards), and remember that if superheroes exist, porn is real somewhere, and everything we do is being seen by someone somewhere else, then we should just keep enjoying what we are doing and make the moments as memorable as possible, for wisdom and brilliance are all in the eyes of the beholder, and our actions really can change the world. Even if it may not be our own that we may end up, changing.

current mood: thoughtful

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Sunday, July 31st, 2005
10:51 pm - Poetry :: Vacation - Part One rev. 4

smileypillsbury
Part One

Vacation:
The American Heritage Dictionary defines a vacation as:
"a period of time devoted to pleasure, rest, or relaxation, especially one with pay granted to an employee".
Webster's however defines it as:
"a period in which activity or work is suspended; specifically: an interval between judicial terms".

Both definitions seem to work best, specificaly in relation to life being a vacation.
See God could be seen as the boss, and each of us as his/her employees,
for since the beginning of time, he/she realized we were not ready for the work of angel, or graveling, or even that of a grim reaper.
We were given the gift of a vacation, before our arduous judgement sessions, and final assignment as temporary employees in the service of the universe, God, existence,

See death is the temp job, and when we finally finish our time doing whatever work is needed in the background of the wonderful theme park of "Life", we get another vacation, a one way trip back to play in the place we helped keep functioning.

Yes, a vacation. See God didn't kick Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden, and tell them to go pay rent,
he just opened the doors to show them what else was out there, and someone accidently locked the doors on their way out.

The key, it was lost,
and locksmiths, hadn't even been thought up yet,
so Adam and Eve kept wandering farther and farther away, until all the birds they had named had eaten up their breadcrumbs and they couldn't find there way back home.

Assuming the vacation was over, thinking they had done something wrong, Adam and Eve started their own civilization, set up rules, and started to make a new life for themselves, losing track of the real purpose of life itself --
To be fruitful and multiply. Now that to me is a vacation.

However, we think there is more, so we erect structures to our greatness, theme parks for our own entertainment, and work ourselves harder and harder, in order to get the newest toys, gadgets, automobiles, and even the ability to create our own paradises, our own edens, our own vacation spots away from turmoil,

Lost within the struggle to find ourselves, be healthy, create a family, find acceptance, have a place to call our own, and a job to pay for it, we stop embracing the beauty that surrounds us.

We ignore the subtle intricacies of how the sun, sets,
the sky burns, the day turns to night, and how pinholes are poked into the curtain pulled over our eyes,
only to reveal the light beyond, our future temporary jobs, sealed tight by tiny engineers, plastering the cracks in time for the sun to rise.

Never enjoying the way the wind moves across our skin, as though our loved ones passed, are able to tell us things will always be alright. Perhaps they are just telling us to relax, that we should open our eyes, and enjoy the gift we have been given.

Hinting to us that life really is a vacation, we all just don't have begun to understand how to fully enjoy it enough.

current mood: creative

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4:46 pm - I'd like to take a moment

smileypillsbury
I'd like to take a moment to speak about someone near and dear to my heart,
ME.

That's right Me. And yes I have done it in the past, with some psychadelic hip-skip-hop-be-bop hallabaloo, but now im ready to just come straight out and tell you...

I'm Me, that is all i am gonna be, and if you don't like it, i'm no longer sorry, cause I have realized that I am not a bad person, and there's nothing wrong with,
Me.

i may not listen,
i may be impatient,
i may snore in my sleep,
i may even dissapear for hours on end to play video games on my computer, and wall myself up in a cold dark damp basement with a large screen tv, but you gotta deal with it, cause it is,
Me.

And perhaps I come off a bit crazy,
but you see thats,
Me.

Maybe this is rant of selfish proportions to explain to you, that sometimes, you have to stand up for what you believe in, and today that is,
Me.


Now I would like to take a moment and get sensitive on your punk asses, and show you that I am a nice, sweet, romantic, and utterly caring individual, who loves everyone, small puppies, and of course,
Me.

Ok it didn't last long, but I've realized that too many people try so damn hard to please everyone else, that they never truly please themselves, and that's a problem with people who are nice, cause you have to learn to find a balance, you have to learn to respect yourself, you have learn to just be like,
Me.

current mood: creative

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Saturday, July 23rd, 2005
12:32 pm - an old untitled one i just rediscovered...needs lots of work...

dayglomassacre
Sixteen paper cuts mob his eyelids waxing
and waning under the kidnapper’s command.
“I think you love me, Joe,” the fiend smirks,
rubbing the poor boy’s asshole with a
glop of Vasoline.
“I think you want me, Joe,” he smiles, stroking
the bruised thighs, the limbs tied fast to the
pipes slithering through the basement,
the toes twitching like epileptics in anticipation.
“Never,” Joe hisses, wincing his face into a
crumpled origami shape. “Then why,”
his captor smirks, his back arching over
waves of torn flesh, over crests of ribs,
“Did you tell the woman at the
grocery store that you’re my son?”

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Tuesday, July 19th, 2005
3:29 pm - The Night

samnshawn111
I wrote this poem last summer... I am just wanting to know if you think it is good or not... I think it is a really good poem... please give me feedback...

The Night

We held hands, under the full moon of August.
Watching as the smoke rolled off our lips,
I took another hit and I went spiraling down, into the blackness of eternity.
You could not grasp my hand and began to fall with me.
We fell into the night, All the hate we had before had vanished,
We were left with the peace and serenity of haste.
As we tried to find out way out we got lost,
We separated and you could not keep hold of my hand.
I lost my way and started falling…
Tripping over tree stumps and dead branches, always straightening after a fall.
You found me there lying in the churned up leaves,
Bleeding, a blackness into the earth.
You carried me, and the weight that I carried disappeared into the trees.
Suddenly there came a light, from a source unattainable,
We ran towards it, not reaching it, but we could almost grasp a glimpse as it faded.
You became worried and I could not help but cry out,
No one heard and we spiraled down again.
We stopped and grasped on to a nearby branch,
We pulled our selves out just to see that we had not moved.
You carried me to the car, that night, as we prepared to venture home, on these dark streets of Newburgh.
We barely made it, but no one noticed us missing...
It was almost three when you laid down with me,
We slept till the sun came up...
The next morning, it all seemed unbelievable.
The stories we told reminded me of a vivid dream.
All the thoughts we had about that night slowly faded like the light into the darkness…
Then we spiraled out of control in to a dead forest, with leaves covering the floor.
This time you did not let go,
As we ran through the forest away from a monster we could not see…
We fell into a hole dug for two we could not escape as it seemed we were being buried,
Being covered up with dirt, so that no one could see our bodies…
No one told me this would be the end, No one said I had died, so I tried to fight it.
You jus sat back and stared as I struggled to find a way out of this hell.
You started to cry as you realized the truth, but I could not believe this was the end.
I stopped in order to comfort you, but the dirt kept falling heavier and heavier.
No one seemed to notice we were still alive,
Until a man walked up, and the dirt mysteriously stopped falling,
He wore a cloak of darkness and two eyes that seemed to glow,
I did not want this man here, but you said it would be alright,
So we went with him…
He took us to the place we came from,
He held my hand as I started to cry.
You could not comfort these tears… They were the tears of the unborn…
I suddenly realized we had to be dead, and I fell…
I did not wake up as the earth covered me,
I only fell heavier and heavier into the black abyss of death,
You cried.
...copyrighted 2005...

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Sunday, July 17th, 2005
10:24 am - welcome to the order of geniushood

mindethics


a, one, single, solitary

mesh

of self perception on soul

revealing a blood-crusted rock

the receiver weaving out

its witchcraft

the spirit under its atomic

earthly make-up to unseal

self-addressed time bombs

(metaphysical seeking,

the (invisible) philosopher's stone).




singing at an estimated warp speed of T-4.5a ...

a serening song of a sluggish winter rain

unforgetting one's vulnerability (one's life).




Hello all; thanks for adding me indigoe. welcome to the order of geniushood was written in post haste spontaneity.

current mood: refreshed

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Friday, July 15th, 2005
11:31 am

loathsomelove

you know you want some, so come and join got_poetry

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Sunday, July 3rd, 2005
2:50 am - anybody home?

tri_dick
as if you would care
with the lost things looking for the owner
as if you knew it
to begin with
as your hair comes loose
from my tightened grip
while you're somewhere else
and i'm trying to find you
beneath your dress
above your parted lips
you are not here
i am alone in this
masturbating with a partner
a phantom limb miles away from its rightful owner



----------------------------------------------------

this was a speed poem. the idea was to see what i could get in less than a minute without really thinking.

current mood: rapid-fire misery

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Friday, July 1st, 2005
2:23 am - Terpsichore

beindigoe
She waltzes with the concrete
banana peels, empty bottles, gravel.
It's Friday night and the hordes descend
again, she flamencos across rooftops
the zigs zags iron rungs of the
fire escapes, Merengue billowing before the morning's
industrial smoke.
She might be dawn in August
or the tar on the bottom of wingtip taps,
or the street
and she knows how to push it out
like heavy traffic in the burdening heat
a dose of alchemical taffeta methadone,
what you wanted to be.
sage and angry,
serene and purged,
spinning.
But it's too late now
and she won't be your mirror
for the last dance



~~~


i don't think it's done yet, but it's more productivity than i've had in... christ, ages. good enough to satiate me, anyway.

current mood: worn

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Thursday, June 30th, 2005
5:36 pm - That damned girl can't type.

dayglomassacre
In the lofty levels of the Snodgrass Building,
Connie Seahorn is eating trees.
One wrong letter, one crooked line:
one more precious sheeth of oak, murdered.

Skirts must be tailored and not show your
knobby knees. Colors of the gray family
are preferred. Hair pulled back, chignons
are the best, and lips should be worn
a classic shade of red.

The shredder is coughing
clouds of dust into the vents, shooting shards of
we expe/ if po/ no res/ and apprecia
showering onto the men in suits
pissing, their hands splayed against the tile wall.
Connie stares at their hair as they leave,
searching for fragments of
invitations coiled into the crew cuts like
flowers in the forest, the forest she is chopping down,
sheet of spoiled paper by sheet of spoiled paper.
She hopes the displaced tree spirits will interupt her dreams tonight,
hopes the nonexistent shredded shards will sprout
vines down her bosses' backs, vines that will
hold her and spank her firmly.
Action is action and she'll take all she can get.

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Wednesday, June 29th, 2005
10:58 pm

loathsomelove
http://www.livejournal.com/userinfo.bml?user=x____poetic its nice

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Friday, June 24th, 2005
2:32 am - point-blank dead-center fuck-you-all's on the rocks with a twist of self-loathing

tri_dick
it's funny. everybody kept telling me,
"don't worry. karma will catch up with them."
but i don't believe in karma. never did.
i think we just get the one life. and when you die, that's it.
awful people get away with awful things, all of the time.
and they never have to answer for any of it.
so fuck it...more power to you.
if you want to be selfish, then go for it.
don't worry, you can be any kind of prick you want.
you won't get caught.


current mood: dirty... and a little weak

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Monday, June 20th, 2005
2:04 pm - Announcements

beindigoe
pinteresque is now also a moderator. Think he's an elitist jerk and he shouldn't be given more authority? Ha... you clearly don't know me in meatspace. Besides, poetry isn't all hugs and puppies and free expression of rehashed emotions and everyone else kissing your ass for it... "OMFG u r SOOOOO deep!!! i want 2 hav ur BAYBEEES!!1!oneoen!!"

So deal with it.

Also, there will be some changes coming up in the way this community is handled and updated. While we haven't yet come up with anything definite, we'll keep you posted.

current mood: snarky

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