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05-01-2007, 03:52 PM
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#251
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black & tan
TheRainMan is offline
Join Date: Nov 2005
Location: on a stool at Fitzpatrick's
Posts: 1,497
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.....
Last edited by TheRainMan : 06-24-2007 at 06:58 PM.
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05-05-2007, 01:55 AM
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#252
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by the ankles
clutching_calliope is offline
Join Date: Jan 2006
Posts: 1,058
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Clear Nights, Cloudy Skies
......
Last edited by clutching_calliope : 05-11-2007 at 01:50 AM.
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05-05-2007, 02:15 PM
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#253
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Lazarus Monkey
Tathagata is offline
Join Date: Feb 2004
Location: Massahoozits
Posts: 24,436
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Quote:
Originally Posted by clutching_calliope
If I could only say what I mean!
But here it is,
that sometimes I hate you
and sometimes
I hate myself for hating you
and sometimes,
in between,
we are in love.
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that's so true it hurts to read
nice work

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05-05-2007, 08:09 PM
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#254
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by the ankles
clutching_calliope is offline
Join Date: Jan 2006
Posts: 1,058
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.....
Last edited by clutching_calliope : 05-11-2007 at 02:39 PM.
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05-09-2007, 02:16 AM
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#255
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Visceral
Tzara is offline
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: Left Coast
Posts: 6,788
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A Toast, with Limp
Happy birthday's an easy curse,
one that rolls simply off one's tongue—
like butter, like water, like butterwater.
Oh, yes, about the curse—it is a basic one:
I damn you here another year closer
to a lonely, pathetic death is what
it essentially amounts to. Hardly
fighting words to Hatfields or McCoys.
In fact, it's almost friendly
in its weak animadversion:
You're older, you poor fucker! That,
assured, we all always will be subject to.
But enough casual diversions. I wish
you a pleasant natal day, the anniversary
of your birth, and I remind you
of how we once were all still clean,
still innocent, still helpless, meek; and how
far we've come from there, and how not.
__________________
There is never a question of what to paint but only how to paint.
The how of painting has always been the image's end-product.
—Robert Ryman
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05-22-2017, 10:11 PM
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#256
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Visceral
Tzara is offline
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: Left Coast
Posts: 6,788
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My Forearms
have always been
thin. But now when I pinch them,
unleavened dough.
.
__________________
There is never a question of what to paint but only how to paint.
The how of painting has always been the image's end-product.
—Robert Ryman
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05-22-2017, 11:38 PM
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#257
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Visceral
Tzara is offline
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: Left Coast
Posts: 6,788
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Ed Thigpen (1930-2010)
It's a subtle beat,
snare wires brushing skin
instead of pounding it.
Like jazz, in its own way,
where the beat is off, syncopated,
and the lead, horn or piano,
runs here ahead, here behind
the rhythm section
which can fancy things up a bit
but always keeps a steady time.
.
__________________
There is never a question of what to paint but only how to paint.
The how of painting has always been the image's end-product.
—Robert Ryman
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05-28-2017, 03:43 PM
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#258
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AWTSS
GuiltyPleasure is offline
Join Date: Jul 2003
Location: eyes on the prize
Posts: 14,070
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in need of a title
Help!
We work in partnership ‘tho seldom meet
but neither can we do our jobs alone,
a hand to hold us makes our team complete.
We know we must be edgy and elite,
our handles often ivory or bone.
We work in partnership but seldom meet
Not needed to eat soup or cream of wheat,
we keep our council, lying distant, prone.
No hand to hold us, team is incomplete.
“Knife cuts me” I whine “and finds me effete.”
“little does knife know but we’re all a clone,
we work in partnership and seldom meet”
The cutlery wars rage on, no defeat.
Our canteen is shattered, its cover blown,
a hand to hold us makes our team complete.
Victory’s easy but so bittersweet,
beating my drawer-mate, my sharp chaperone.
We work in partnership but seldom meet
a hand to hold us makes our team complete.
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09-29-2017, 11:37 PM
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#259
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Visceral
Tzara is offline
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: Left Coast
Posts: 6,788
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Myopathy
I used to be able
to play the guitar, although badly,
until my fingers refused
to coil
around the neck
to the fretboard. Nor
can I now strangle a goose,
not that I would have wanted
to strain life
from an animal,
however much it resembled
food.
So if my grip
has softened on your hand,
it is not because of lack of will,
or love. It is the feel
of my muscles as they are dying—
how they spasm, waving you goodbye.
__________________
There is never a question of what to paint but only how to paint.
The how of painting has always been the image's end-product.
—Robert Ryman
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11-02-2017, 09:23 PM
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#260
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Visceral
Tzara is offline
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: Left Coast
Posts: 6,788
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The Apprentice
Now Papadopoulos is singing
and Gates and Manafort are fraught,
with Mueller on their trail of scheming
to launder Ukraine money, thoughts
that possibly involve collusion.
But Trump tweets This is just illusion!
It's Crooked Hillary whose faults
have kept me from swell games of golf
and forced me to address corruption.
That's bullshit, but it works for him.
(His acolytes are kind of dim—
and treat this as mere interruption
in his glorious and admired
ascendancy.) I want him fired.
__________________
There is never a question of what to paint but only how to paint.
The how of painting has always been the image's end-product.
—Robert Ryman
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11-04-2017, 11:44 PM
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#261
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Visceral
Tzara is offline
Join Date: Aug 2005
Location: Left Coast
Posts: 6,788
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Not Wanting to Bother You,
but if I could now change history,
I might lay out plans
where we would talk about
the use of modal scales
in Kind of Blue,
or the subtle shifts
of pace and rhythm
in Steve Reich's early music.
As it is, I want to leave a paperback
of some book I think you'd like
on that table where you often sit
in your local coffee shop.
Think of that as an artifact
flown in fresh from another coast,
as if I had pressed my palm
onto your tabletop
so that I could somehow sense
when you pressed,
matching my fingers, back.
__________________
There is never a question of what to paint but only how to paint.
The how of painting has always been the image's end-product.
—Robert Ryman
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12-03-2017, 09:33 PM
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#262
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Really Experienced
KatieJones is offline
Join Date: Sep 2011
Posts: 239
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I Can Only Hear You Say My Name
Alone I can hear the hum
of rubber skim the asphalt
in a steady base line that plays
below the voice of a singer
who had it all
until he had nothing.
I don’t contemplate the loss
of his lyrics but rather his kids
now living without their dad.
It makes me think of mine
and admit to the solitude
that when our song ends
we are remembered
but only when the music plays
over top of the indistinct noise
made by the march of the living
and even then, voices quiet
as time slowly turns down
the sharpness of memory
until the notes are all but gone
and no matter how hard we try
we can no longer hear
you say goodbye.
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