Bantering with Octagons

[rubymystic]

endless

darkness engulfs the bees of inquiry
no more questions

sex

is it a wonder i can't sleep?

Counting syllable
hibernating kiwi
The moon hiccups
sleep tonight
sleep well
sleep tight

 

[sigh]

a kiwi moon
a restless night
fallow fellows following

 

[rubymystic]

The summer grass
caresses my toes
Clouds hide full intentions,
The wind blows my mind

the urban fox creeps slowly
Am I the prey:

life or oblivion?

 

[sigh]

in fields of oblivion
daylight answers

octagons sirens chisels
piglet pink

 

[Wobnoid]

I have reason to believe that you can't bathe Barbie dolls therefore I think it's time to forbid entry to Fred Flintstone. Besides, my father always told me I should never banter with octagons

in fields of oblivion
daylight answers

octagons sirens chisels
piglet pink

Id suggest some light reading of the octogons

 

[rubymystic]

hears the collective sigh of the octagons..

whooshhhh

 

[sigh]

I took a walk through the bygones of a difficult goodbye, and found that if you're swimming in concrete with an eye to the rooftops, you just might glimpse a tune in its moment of escape from the barrister's bright red wig

collective nonsense, more like

 

[Wobnoid]

Yeah? That's what Terry said. But then again, he's Terry... That was the hole I'd stepped into. It could'a been plumbing or velvet or blood, but it was a hole, alright. So? What? I had no idea.

 

[Wobnoid]

Sam Bloud had chosen a safe word, but had yet to find someone to share it with.

 

[Wobnoid]

And then, the shit turned blue. Barbara could deal with blue.

 

[Wobnoid]

I'll play. He hitched at his belt and he looked at the board. Gimme twenty eight on the red one.

 

[Wobnoid]

So. Fred made the call. Margaret sat smoking and watched him wait.

 

[Wobnoid]

It had started with the one, but there were others. Carmine wrote a thing or two in the book and tucked it away. A few pages left, he'd noticed again - to remember.

One had just appeared one morning with the milk and eggs: a Thursday. The boy'd already left the paper tossed at the door. Quiet. Cozy. Cool. Clean. So quiet.

Others had had one when one was an other, but one wasn't an other any more. One was, well.... one. Two things could totally frig it, one knew.

Carmine licked the pencil tip and tucked it behind his ear.

 

[Wobnoid]

Three white feathers and a longer purple one were being trampled beneath syncopated steps on the street. They'd alit beside a crushed Corona can - squashed wet - splatter-pooling from it's mouth. And the noise! Beat and feet and moving voices and still ones. Angus was watching - not taking pictures - though he was there to take pictures - so as to watch those pictures to remember later. He'd seen the the feathers brushed from a headdress - and in a whoosh faster than gravity - to the ground. A widely swinging trombone's hurricane. It was about the decay, after all - and the reseeding with soul into ground. He lifted the camera and shot twice: to shoot - for that is what he was there to do - and he knew before even depressing his trigger the second time that the first was shit and the second was reflex. A white feather now gone. No. There, but smudged and wet-ground into the street. The others, pristine. Ah! The concussion. Bass drums - bouncing from the street to the overpass - through the moving and nearly still - homogenizing all immediate disparities. Nothing so close to the jingoism of war - contained and on leash. What a show!

 

[sigh]

i am a little
just a little
it's true

three white feathers indeed

 

[TheOlderGuy]

I have to get it, get it, get it

no

ouch

 

[December]

Yellow handguns are stalking the prey of a thousand poo flinging monkeys. I think the intent is clear. Lastly, the muffins were baked right in to Selma's meatloaf. What a riot!

 

[Wobnoid]

Yeah. It flew alright - but not where it was supposed to. Where it went though, was cool. It would curl into that hollow next time - if it flew the same.

 

[Wobnoid]

You have been always more than a little and a little bit more than that too. In the cabin we share - through a sideways glance-stare - there's always been feathers past two.

 

[sigh]

fling poo, monkey brother, and it will reign from the clouds as a feathered cloudburst, or at least as a tin nickle, assuming that all plays out as it should

 

[Wobnoid]

It is crap. Yes indeed. For as far as you see. The small patch I tilled made my uncle's work plum shy. Jenny, over in Maryweather's got a fine patch. Her sister, too. But shit! You knew that 'fore you asked.

 

[sigh]

jenny's patch is a sweet place indeed, dripping wet with honey, but watch out 'cause crap's just around the bend

sailing the sky in a tub full of molasses, blue heat reigning, bright clouds dripping morning pee in a yellow haze

makes me glad I'm up here

 

[piccicatopolka]

http://www.mythicalmatters.com/Images/Celtic%20Art/Divine%20Couple%20Octagon.jpg

 

[theault_b]

It disintegrated in the atmosphere in front of a whole lot of people and protested to the end that it wasn't on fire.

Maury could provide the links. Bob's got audio. There's a package on the way to the P 'n M in Indiana that even a bullshit Law Firm couldn't secrete from the disinfection of pure sunlight. Drawn and quartered and cut off at the electronic knees, the protestations played as a fascinating moth-dance through ever-hungry flames. A mostly disinterested multitude of apathetics cheered greedily on; as did Beco. Ask him.

All it's alts should publicly pop now as kernels of corn... 3-2-1...

 

[theault_b]

No head-scratching involved. No Ah-Ha moment. Then again, the pool was only inches deep and the consequence was without... ummm.... consequence. He hoped that she would die publicly - with great fanfare - so that all of the would-be ostriches would need - if only for an uncomfortable moment - to confront their own cowardice. For she was only the pitiful product of collective self-importance. That she'd been laughingly enabled gave her a false sense of lifeblood. She offered none. She'd have been stillborn had only she'd been allowed to have been. She'd no inherent internal spark, just a parasitic tendency to cling. A virus. Not even a bacterium. She would die by her own hand. They'd watch. They'd quickly jostle to claim false ownerships until, quite soon, that falsehood would be bone dry. Then, they'd move on to the next Happy Meal. Not a soul, especially not his savaged soul, would shed a single why.

Die now then. Own then Save yourself.