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Death Talk... [03 Mar 2009|10:46pm]

tsothydon
[ mood | deep & dark ]

I have noticed as of late, there has been a resurgence of conversations encompassing death. Perhaps this is a sign of the times we now find ourselves surrounded by? Perhaps it is the seasonal outcome of Winter's closing? Perhaps it is that when one dances frivolously in the presence of the Dark Lord that one simply is more receptive to its unspoken voice, hearing echoes in the words of others and seeing vague reflections within their faces?

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[27 Nov 2007|12:49pm]

dragon_han
The ability...
To give and to accept with the sincerity...
Is already a Favor...
Moreover, it does not require any gratitude...
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[02 Nov 2007|01:36pm]

dragon_han
In the childhood, I was happy without any reason…
Even one sunny sprinkle made me tremble!
Now my happiness has so many conditions …
From weather and health - up to the finance and policy!
Moreover, something always remains not executed...
In addition, this "something" blocks the road...
To such a nice feeling as happiness...
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[25 Oct 2007|01:50pm]

dragon_han
You did not choose the date of your birth...
You did not choose the country in which to be born...
You did not choose the color of your skin...
Parents and heredity...
Now you precisely choose everything!
Congratulations!
However, it is already late!
Moreover, it is too ridiculous...
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you wish to impose your will to God?! [24 Oct 2007|01:42pm]

dragon_han
I have come into the church …
I have heard your prays … «Yes there will be my will! »...
So you pray and you beg … very much wish to impose your will to God …
That is what for are all these temples and sacrifices!
God’s will does not need any approve …
When we ask for something this means that God is not competent...
Moreover, we know better about our needs!
Nevertheless, God does not require our help!
Relax and calm down... Accept That What It Is!
It is Its Will and Its Favor!
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[21 Oct 2007|08:54pm]

dragon_han
We do not appreciate things that come easy to us…
Moreover, we do not feel sorry for the snow in spring…
And it is already to late when we start realizing…
That there is no time left to live…
That the life is gone…
We start to think of the time…
When there is a little of it left…
We are waiting for the happiness…
When it is gone…
I want you to be full of everything!
Today!
Tomorrow!
In a hundred years!
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divide disassembled caanan canon [04 Oct 2007|05:21pm]

wildpersimmons
dirty Windows, clouded view.
Vista delayed delighted dawdled
achieve plateau, snow
drifted dreamed higher,
climbed flat feet(ed).
Ache evening, ire and
foot foetid bill.
Built alighted and soar
(roar lioness estactic,
pneumatic pumped
bled hard wrenching,
plumbed depth defying
dependence densely
reamed. Linked clump
ill tempted plate,
let deals eddy--
I stayed dancing.
‘til tempered fate
for platelets edema
demanded pass word.
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prostate cancer [25 Jul 2007|03:40am]

wildpersimmons
god forbid
oops too late

apostate postrated
god
up for bid, biddy
ebay bitty baby

across lake
go darfur iBid
iBis in bed,
if this pro-state
can serve
opposite rate
_

a post, please rate:

god forbid
a prostrate apostate postdate
prostate diagnosis
die /gnosis
can serve fruit?
flesh cancer re:
place god for ebay,
(ibid.)
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To Sarah, after the covenant [06 Jun 2007|05:52am]

wildpersimmons
From us
will a clan be born.
With you, a tribe of gypsies
fluid as the water
between cracks in concrete.
which feed the destraughting roots.
which tear up sidewalk,
and roar open avenue.

How descendant will become
a people
empire builders
out of ruined earth
and how they will wage—
wage people and wage war and rage,
like our ancestors
who we are to become.

How cities grow to engulf
will they multiply, how our
sons and daughters are factors
to trace We, root of tree and -triarchy.

For us
a story passed for generate
a wave of lifelines crash
against the steely shore
(steely? do I really dare?
For tresses fall cross your shoulder
from your curls let down
for these,

For empires fall
as surely as the crowds alight
from flight. they will spread,
to the corners of the planet
and we
from whence
progenit evry continent.

We will write
our love song in the generations
that, once forgot, will
still move the rhythm.
play high and low to a chorus
of a thousand unhearing ears,
which will still curve
just like yours.
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catalyzed conversion to strange matter [04 Jun 2007|12:54am]

testsubjectspaz
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       It's dead. There's nothing else here, just the one. Below and above is white. You can see through it, though. The floor. The bottom's all exposed. Blackened, the fire might have done it. Water's gone away. But you could still stand on it, on the line of nothing, staring below forever at the blank. Maybe you can't go there, though. You might not be supposed to see it. Maybe it's God's, or someone else's. A white graveyard, just one dead thing, waiting for one more. And then it's gone forever.
       It's so close now that I could touch it. Necrotic brown flesh, falling apart, dying more and more even after death died. It let more out, long ago, when the body was fresh. Juices and pus. It dripped them from the sky; it would tower over everything if there was anything. Dripping on the false floors below it, the invisible holes and stair ducts. And anyone below. Maybe there is something alive here, but it can't be seen. Will they be alive when they come? or crawl on dissipating flesh of former life? will they touch it like I could touch it now and feel it fall on them and bury them die with it be buried in clear and drift drift forever
       you could climb the branches like me climb up and find the noose waiting wanting to be filled and display proudly its kill will I let it? it won't matter it's got me anyway. falling apart anyway. rot. i lend my body and go away now.
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3 comments|post comment

[15 Nov 2006|03:05pm]

afropunk629
If I were a Jelly Donut...

-S. A. Kietlinski

If I were a Jelly Donut,
I guess I would have to sit there
On a silver tray behind glass
Just to tempt all those fat people
Or to make them feel bad about it.
Maybe someone will mull over
Should they buy me? Can they eat me?
How many calories are there?
Will my shit go right to their ass?
And they'll buy me or just walk out.
If I were a Jelly Donut,
I think I would be Delicious.
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a spell b spelling, c [14 Nov 2006|05:09pm]

wildpersimmons
tohu bohu bohemie:
dynachaosty icharosaur,
dino manger tofu sawdl
but who behemo hero me?

joshuictho annotate
marry icy isister fate,
wyrd 'n wary strangel wings
of osirious dismemoried

orphickle vineg nukumber
casper fiendly aghastl-ings
mistery guy-a goya goed
mythus missus newt 'n towed

neolithic lithi-yum
cosmogonoficus thumb
kelvin hobby commiecate
pinkhomo-sapi licenshun

dyonicest vinol surrah,
historecto-inspecktion!
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[01 Sep 2006|12:22pm]

wildpersimmons
they miss you, your dreams--
so pill a sleep to mend,
no pillow eek nor rend or
for paper scritch in reams.

later on, scratch and screams
where mare in time sedate;
dark horse can dictate to em-
bark fanta caustic extremes.

extremities decipher memes
intake sign all secret aerie
trans lake aegis to argos, not
light how’s canary themes?

a feline row dental in teams
now ally fears, allay to tuck
a lie neatly feral to bed: one
that misses you, it seems.
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bad form [14 Apr 2005|02:17pm]

wildpersimmons
never try to use the word 'rhyme'
in a pairing with the word 'time'--
it's bad form--like calling yourself
cliche--or trying to sound french.
giving advice, too, a terrible mistake,
like trying to write sonnets, or imitate--
calling the bard familiar, like 'dj shake'
it's something kind parents might put on a shelf.

i give myself kind words, too,
in chicago where the wind blew,
broke in forms, like sestinas
taken apart. i do speak french,
though, and advice from older poets take.
it's still a compliment to imitate,
if you can rationalise being a fake,
sort of, at least to yourself.

you can mispronounce 'thyme',
or 'nuclear' or bebop, shoo-doo-be-doo,
or try to compare to art itself--
it's bad form. but dig that trench,
if revolutionaries instead of money make,
and to other powers let quality rate.
pretend to be at walden, oversized lake,
and create wordy stories of imaginary elf.
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sestina [13 Apr 2005|08:28pm]

wildpersimmons
a room, an exercise in words
was full with. we
were only six
to begin with, but had need
of art like bizarre gentlemen
of revolutions. alright,

a sort of "don't pass to the right,
mary," went on without words
and not all only men
were we.
so share the need,
that barrel serves six.

a round of six
in revolt outright--
from each, the need
for alotted words,
and elevated we,
merry gentlemen

not gentile, men
or women count to six
before verbal, we
draw swords.
one for all, right?
it is duelity we need.

what is it we need?
if in being gentle, men-
kind could be called alright
without signs of apocalypse (six,
was it? or more?) words
would compensate, could we?

so gathered all around, we
from each one need
the selection of words
(if you would, gentlemen)
it is a sestina
we are to all write.

alright gentlemen, we need six words.
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[06 Apr 2005|04:18pm]

wildpersimmons
To Ed

lifelong achievements kind ofcardboard
two sheets and inside corrugated
in writing moments find the hard word
to stamp my name correct, and dated

and read by those elect, elated
sat with you, the house and Melvin too
(the speaker) all for quorum waited
my words split two thousand twelve in two

my hands grave taboo sand delve into
for miraculous epiphany
instead I withdrew handle vein blue
death of form a jealous empathy

recycled, incomplete sonnet, I
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painful medicine [06 Mar 2005|07:10pm]

renniegirl
learning how to cope
finding hope in the darkness
preparing to fall
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running away [06 Mar 2005|03:04pm]

renniegirl
hiding in the past
until I can escape it
the future's a lie
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about spring or construction workers [24 Feb 2005|05:17am]

wildpersimmons
into my ear
lying in winter
and one side of my face is
pressed ot the ground.
I am listening for
the warmth in
the concrete, pleading
to rise again.

I am walking on words
not spoken, tripping
on the cracks in
what I didn't tell them,
and greetings cracks in
concrete, fall
and sink in; plant
flowers.

I am dreaming,
balancing on beams
and in a moment,
flight is achieved--
a swan dive.
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[22 Feb 2005|07:54pm]

wildpersimmons
When a man began
dancing; piece-meal,
he was
incomplete, but
spin ing and flow ing
as
silk in the wind
around his shrine.

With a
shot,
he fell back, but
silk does not
touch the ground; it
floats.

As a crane, he
flew,
soaring
high on the rmal winds, in a circle, round
and round, a papier-
-mâché creature with
awkward movements.

Carrying a banner,
the crane, a million
sequined tails of newspapers
fell behind as
it dived in to
water.

The sparkling
fish of a crane
waved its bannered tail and
flew,
as hair in the water
glides,
gravity-defied.

Sink into the water, black, disappear.
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