So You Want to be A Writer?

[Wat_Tyler]

I like this:​

​

​

So You Want to be A Writer?​

By: Charles Bukowski​

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

 

[Angeline]

Not so fervent as Buk's poem, but one I've always liked:

The Best Cigarette
~by Billy Collins

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.
The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.
How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.
Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Not so fervent as Buk's poem, but one I've always liked:

The Best Cigarette
~by Billy Collins

There are many that I miss
having sent my last one out a car window
sparking along the road one night, years ago.
The heralded one, of course:
after sex, the two glowing tips
now the lights of a single ship;
at the end of a long dinner
with more wine to come
and a smoke ring coasting into the chandelier;
or on a white beach,
holding one with fingers still wet from a swim.
How bittersweet these punctuations
of flame and gesture;
but the best were on those mornings
when I would have a little something going
in the typewriter,
the sun bright in the windows,
maybe some Berlioz on in the background.
I would go into the kitchen for coffee
and on the way back to the page,
curled in its roller,
I would light one up and feel
its dry rush mix with the dark taste of coffee.
Then I would be my own locomotive,
trailing behind me as I returned to work
little puffs of smoke,
indicators of progress,
signs of industry and thought,
the signal that told the nineteenth century
it was moving forward.
That was the best cigarette,
when I would steam into the study
full of vaporous hope
and stand there,
the big headlamp of my face
pointed down at all the words in parallel lines.

But it does rather "say it," doesn't it? I smoked for eons, and it was funny how a cigarette was a punctuation mark, or a symbol of a new beginning, or a successful completion, or of a fuck-it-let's-get-high kind of thing. Camels. The real deal. I miss them, and I don't. I know I have another start in me, but I don't think that I have another quit.


Billy is kinder, Chuck is a bit pushier, and mine in the other thread has a touch of . . . hostility?

 

[lovecraft68]

I like this:​

​

​

So You Want to be A Writer?​

By: Charles Bukowski​

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Wow....

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Wow....

I know.

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

Well now.

Having been close to the circle of Hank Bukowski -- I'm pondering how to memorialize his associate Nelson Cherry, who I welcomed to San Francisco in about 1974.

Cherry became Cherkovski and wrote this at my urging and with my "political" help:

Hank: The Life of Charles Bukowski https://a.co/d/jdtR4CH

Much of what is written above is extremely obvious.

I am reminded of this:

https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2008/10/15/631688/-

Except that unlike O'Nolan/O'Brien/gCopaleen Buk was utterly incapable of self-reflection or self-parody.

I think also of this:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2006/10/16/red-sheep

See "Lifeitselfmanship."

Tom Mallon is a friend and author of a book every writer MUST read:

Stolen Words - The Classic Book on Plagiarism https://a.co/d/hFA79Uf

And this book every American MUST read: the only accurate account of JFK's death except for that by J.G. Ballard:

Mrs. Paine's Garage: And the Murder of John F. Kennedy https://a.co/d/1K9OEvP

Now as to the Bukowskian rescript:

iif you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.

Bullshit.

Milton: "Fame is the spur."

Dr. Johnson: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."

Neoconservative that I am, I'm sticking with the old Brits over the transplanted kraut in L.A.

if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.

Double bullshit. I do it because I can't not do it. But if I couldn't get great poon, bitchen studly boys, and the occasional wandering siamese cat, ocelot, puma, Maine coon or plain old alleycat to flop for me because I'm famous, what's the point?

if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

More bullshit.

Eliot: "Mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different."

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

Right, Puk. I mean Buk. If you have to beat your woman up in an international TV interview, and are so grossly ugly you only have friends because a poofter named John Martin discovered you as the "white Maya Angelou" (easily checked on Koogle.com, the Jewish literary gossip site -- cf https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Kugel)... You're ready for your chocky milk.

Buk made a fetish of spontaneity, not keeping copies, and not giving a shit about anybody's opinion. Fabaroo. He mastered the meme of indifference to success. But he whored. For fame.

He had a dumb book called SHAKESPEARE NEVER DID THIS.

BUKOWSKI NEVER DID THIS:

I love my Big Domme, my Princess Domna, my editors, my comrades, my friends, my colleagues. I don't consult every one of them about every text. But Big Domme inspires me and Princess Domna curates my work. A writer without friends is common. A writer with friends has... Friends. Hard to explain.

Yes. It's difficult to be a writer. Success is elusive. Real friends are few. Relationships are difficult. Money is scarce.

It is not a joke when I say that having come into my femininity I want to be a bimbo.

http://www.pinkbimboacademy.com/2021/01/10/bimbo-training-the-bimbo-body-the-perfect-bimbo-tits/

A critical observation: the literature of desperate loneliness does not work in El Lay. The buffoonish John Fante, the incontinent Bukowski, the imbecilic Ellroy... Bleah.

LA lit was supposed to start with West and Chandler and attain greatness. It failed. Fresno contributed more.

Wat is my good buddy but we don't agree on everything, cause

About being a writer. Review how this website dealt with me. Do you want this? Years of achievement dismissed by anonymous character assassins? Suburban housewives who write smut in between coaching soccer telling you you're a bad writer?

No American writer today can or should ignore that we live in a society created by Putin, 4chan, GamerGate, Cville, and 1-6. The treatment I received on this site is the harbinger of a much worse future.

Auden remains relevant:


"Yesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;

Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.
Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.

Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
the fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
the chapel built in the forest;

Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles;
The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;

Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. but to-day the struggle.

As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
On the crag by the leaning tower:
"O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor."

And the investigator peers through his instruments
At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus
Or enormous Jupiter finished:
"But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire."

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets
Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss. O show us
History the operator, the
Organiser. Time the refreshing river."

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life
That shapes the individual belly and orders
The private nocturnal terror:
"Did you not found the city state of the sponge,

"Raise the vast military empires of the shark
And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton?
Intervene. O descend as a dove or
A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend."

And the life, if it answers at all, replied from the heart
And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and squares of the city
"O no, I am not the mover;
Not to-day; not to you. To you, I'm the
"Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped;
I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be
Good, your humorous story.
I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

"What's your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision...

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty's masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,
The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle...
The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help or pardon."

)(( O )...( O ))(

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Well now.

Having been close to the circle of Hank Bukowski -- I'm pondering how to memorialize his associate Nelson Cherry, who I welcomed to San Francisco in about 1974.

Cherry became Cherkovski and wrote this at my urging and with my "political" help:

Hank: The Life of Charles Bukowski https://a.co/d/jdtR4CH

Much of what is written above is extremely obvious.

I am reminded of this:

https://www.dailykos.com/stories/2008/10/15/631688/-

Except that unlike O'Nolan/O'Brien/gCopaleen Buk was utterly incapable of self-reflection or self-parody.

I think also of this:

https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2006/10/16/red-sheep

See "Lifeitselfmanship."

Tom Mallon is a friend and author of a book every writer MUST read:

Stolen Words - The Classic Book on Plagiarism https://a.co/d/hFA79Uf

And this book every American MUST read: the only accurate account of JFK's death except for that by J.G. Ballard:

Mrs. Paine's Garage: And the Murder of John F. Kennedy https://a.co/d/1K9OEvP

Now as to the Bukowskian rescript:

iif you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.

Bullshit.

Milton: "Fame is the spur."

Dr. Johnson: "No man but a blockhead ever wrote except for money."

Neoconservative that I am, I'm sticking with the old Brits over the transplanted kraut in L.A.

if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.

Double bullshit. I do it because I can't not do it. But if I couldn't get great poon, bitchen studly boys, and the occasional wandering siamese cat, ocelot, puma, Maine coon or plain old alleycat to flop for me because I'm famous, what's the point?

if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

More bullshit.

Eliot: "Mature poets steal; bad poets deface what they take, and good poets make it into something better, or at least something different."

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

Right, Puk. I mean Buk. If you have to beat your woman up in an international TV interview, and are so grossly ugly you only have friends because a poofter named John Martin discovered you as the "white Maya Angelou" (easily checked on Koogle.com, the Jewish literary gossip site -- cf https://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=Kugel)... You're ready for your chocky milk.

Buk made a fetish of spontaneity, not keeping copies, and not giving a shit about anybody's opinion. Fabaroo. He mastered the meme of indifference to success. But he whored. For fame.

He had a dumb book called SHAKESPEARE NEVER DID THIS.

BUKOWSKI NEVER DID THIS:

I love my Big Domme, my Princess Domna, my editors, my comrades, my friends, my colleagues. I don't consult every one of them about every text. But Big Domme inspires me and Princess Domna curates my work. A writer without friends is common. A writer with friends has... Friends. Hard to explain.

Yes. It's difficult to be a writer. Success is elusive. Real friends are few. Relationships are difficult. Money is scarce.

It is not a joke when I say that having come into my femininity I want to be a bimbo.

http://www.pinkbimboacademy.com/2021/01/10/bimbo-training-the-bimbo-body-the-perfect-bimbo-tits/

A critical observation: the literature of desperate loneliness does not work in El Lay. The buffoonish John Fante, the incontinent Bukowski, the imbecilic Ellroy... Bleah.

LA lit was supposed to start with West and Chandler and attain greatness. It failed. Fresno contributed more.

Wat is my good buddy but we don't agree on everything, cause

About being a writer. Review how this website dealt with me. Do you want this? Years of achievement dismissed by anonymous character assassins? Suburban housewives who write smut in between coaching soccer telling you you're a bad writer?

No American writer today can or should ignore that we live in a society created by Putin, 4chan, GamerGate, Cville, and 1-6. The treatment I received on this site is the harbinger of a much worse future.

Auden remains relevant:


"Yesterday all the past. The language of size
Spreading to China along the trade-routes; the diffusion
Of the counting-frame and the cromlech;

Yesterday the shadow-reckoning in the sunny climates.
Yesterday the assessment of insurance by cards,
The divination of water; yesterday the invention
Of cartwheels and clocks, the taming of
Horses. Yesterday the bustling world of the navigators.

Yesterday the abolition of fairies and giants,
the fortress like a motionless eagle eyeing the valley,
the chapel built in the forest;

Yesterday the carving of angels and alarming gargoyles;
The trial of heretics among the columns of stone;

Yesterday the theological feuds in the taverns
And the miraculous cure at the fountain;
Yesterday the Sabbath of witches; but to-day the struggle

Yesterday the installation of dynamos and turbines,
The construction of railways in the colonial desert;
Yesterday the classic lecture
On the origin of Mankind. But to-day the struggle.

Yesterday the belief in the absolute value of Greek,
The fall of the curtain upon the death of a hero;
Yesterday the prayer to the sunset
And the adoration of madmen. but to-day the struggle.

As the poet whispers, startled among the pines,
Or where the loose waterfall sings compact, or upright
On the crag by the leaning tower:
"O my vision. O send me the luck of the sailor."

And the investigator peers through his instruments
At the inhuman provinces, the virile bacillus
Or enormous Jupiter finished:
"But the lives of my friends. I inquire. I inquire."

And the poor in their fireless lodgings, dropping the sheets
Of the evening paper: "Our day is our loss. O show us
History the operator, the
Organiser. Time the refreshing river."

And the nations combine each cry, invoking the life
That shapes the individual belly and orders
The private nocturnal terror:
"Did you not found the city state of the sponge,

"Raise the vast military empires of the shark
And the tiger, establish the robin's plucky canton?
Intervene. O descend as a dove or
A furious papa or a mild engineer, but descend."

And the life, if it answers at all, replied from the heart
And the eyes and the lungs, from the shops and squares of the city
"O no, I am not the mover;
Not to-day; not to you. To you, I'm the
"Yes-man, the bar-companion, the easily-duped;
I am whatever you do. I am your vow to be
Good, your humorous story.
I am your business voice. I am your marriage.

"What's your proposal? To build the just city? I will.
I agree. Or is it the suicide pact, the romantic
Death? Very well, I accept, for
I am your choice, your decision...

To-morrow, perhaps the future. The research on fatigue
And the movements of packers; the gradual exploring of all the
Octaves of radiation;
To-morrow the enlarging of consciousness by diet and breathing.

To-morrow the rediscovery of romantic love,
the photographing of ravens; all the fun under
Liberty's masterful shadow;
To-morrow the hour of the pageant-master and the musician,
The beautiful roar of the chorus under the dome;
To-morrow the exchanging of tips on the breeding of terriers,
The eager election of chairmen
By the sudden forest of hands. But to-day the struggle.

To-morrow for the young the poets exploding like bombs,
The walks by the lake, the weeks of perfect communion;
To-morrow the bicycle races
Through the suburbs on summer evenings. But to-day the struggle...
The stars are dead. The animals will not look.
We are left alone with our day, and the time is short, and
History to the defeated
May say Alas but cannot help or pardon."

)(( O )...( O ))(

Wat is your friend in the simplest and most uncomplicated sense of the word. I know you're not a Chuck fan, and I'm not sure how much I am. I like his irreverence, but he can get samey-samey.


A writer without friends is common. A writer with friends has... Friends. Hard to explain. <<<<< this I get. I don't know why I have friends, but I have many, several good ones, and a couple who would pull a trigger for me.


No, we don't have to agree. One of your most endearing qualities is, you pay attention. So, I listen. Need I say more???

 

[Wat_Tyler]

https://www.orwellfoundation.com/the-orwell-foundation/orwell/essays-and-other-works/why-i-write/


A couple of paragraphs:


For this and other reasons I was somewhat lonely, and I soon developed disagreeable mannerisms which made me unpopular throughout my schooldays. I had the lonely child’s habit of making up stories and holding conversations with imaginary persons, and I think from the very start my literary ambitions were mixed up with the feeling of being isolated and undervalued. I knew that I had a facility with words and a power of facing unpleasant facts, and I felt that this created a sort of private world in which I could get my own back for my failure in everyday life. Nevertheless the volume of serious – i.e. seriously intended – writing which I produced all through my childhood and boyhood would not amount to half a dozen pages.


I give all this background information because I do not think one can assess a writer’s motives without knowing something of his early development. His subject-matter will be determined by the age he lives in – at least this is true in tumultuous, revolutionary ages like our own – but before he ever begins to write he will have acquired an emotional attitude from which he will never completely escape. It is his job, no doubt, to discipline his temperament and avoid getting stuck at some immature stage, or in some perverse mood: but if he escapes from his early influences altogether, he will have killed his impulse to write. Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Vincent van Gogh: What Am I?​

What am I in the eyes of most people —
a nonentity, an eccentric, or an
unpleasant person —
somebody who has no position
in society and will never have;
in short, the lowest of the low.

All right, then —
even if that were absolutely true,
then I should one day like to show
by my work what such an eccentric,
such a nobody, has in his heart.

That is my ambition,
based less on resentment
than on love in spite of everything,
based more on a feeling of
serenity than on passion.

Though I am often in the
depths of misery,
there is still calmness,
pure harmony
and music inside me.

I see paintings or drawings
in the poorest cottages,
in the dirtiest corners.

And my mind is driven towards
these things with an irresistible
momentum.

---

This passage is from a letter written by Vincent van Gogh to his brother Theo on July 21, 1882.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

I am so guilty of late, so very fucking guilty . . . .


Alan Watts: Stop Aspiring and Start Writing


Advice?

I don’t have advice.

Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon.

Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves.

Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king.

Or don’t.

Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.


― Alan Watts


I cannot agree more.

 

[Wat_Tyler]

The poets (by which I mean all artists) are finally the only people who know the truth about us. Soldiers don’t. Statesmen don’t. Priests don’t. Union leaders don’t. Only poets.

~ James Baldwin

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

The poets (by which I mean all artists) are finally the only people who know the truth about us. Soldiers don’t. Statesmen don’t. Priests don’t. Union leaders don’t. Only poets.

~ James Baldwin

Thank you!

Wat n BTB: Patton n Turing. Accept no subs.

( O )( O )

 

[Wat_Tyler]

Thank you!

Wat n BTB: Patton n Turing. Accept no subs.

( O )( O )

I liked that when I saw it and I thought of you-n-yours.


We will keep them entertained.


And we will keep the cats fed.

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

I am so guilty of late, so very fucking guilty . . . .


Alan Watts: Stop Aspiring and Start Writing


Advice?

I don’t have advice.

Stop aspiring and start writing. If you’re writing, you’re a writer. Write like you’re a goddamn death row inmate and the governor is out of the country and there’s no chance for a pardon.

Write like you’re clinging to the edge of a cliff, white knuckles, on your last breath, and you’ve got just one last thing to say, like you’re a bird flying over us and you can see everything, and please, for God’s sake, tell us something that will save us from ourselves.

Take a deep breath and tell us your deepest, darkest secret, so we can wipe our brow and know that we’re not alone. Write like you have a message from the king.

Or don’t.

Who knows, maybe you’re one of the lucky ones who doesn’t have to.


― Alan Watts


I cannot agree more.

Excellent.

I once attended an event with AW where i got up and demanded to know what this guff meant to the striking miners of Kentucky.

I was young n dumb n fulla cum. Things got better after losing my heterosexual virg.

https://www.tclf.org/landscapes/druid-heights

Elsa Gidlow was close to AW. Wrote poems about vajes as faces.

I prefer this:

https://crookedfingers.livejournal.com/5556208.html

And i don't forget this:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gnadenhutten_massacre

Still:

Finally, we're the only adults here. Isn't sex an adult pursuit?

Don't blame her:

Blame him:

( O )( O )

 

[Bigtitsbitch1000x]

The contrast in this video between the hip words and the unrelaxed postures is this site.

( O )( O )

 

[Wat_Tyler]

We do have some good folks on this forum. The Poets.


The air is fresh under diamond skies.
makes one glad to be alive . . . .

 

[lovecraft68]

Some off the cuff spontaneous bullshit because this is where my mind lives these days.

Darkness falls, or has it risen?
Hate and fear, the permission has been given.
the powers that be watch on with glee, satisfied with the job they have done.
Family and friend, neighbor and co-worker, all ties have been undone.
United we stood, but oh how quickly unity crumbled, how quickly the veneer of civility fell away.
Now the evil rides, it rides the far too easily obtained divide which grows further every day.
We hate and we spew in self-righteous indignation for our hate is just, and theirs not so.
In a span of a few years, we lost all that generations fought and died to give us the freedom to sink so low.
Ignorance and malice is what has been allowed to prevail, and the few who stand strong are far too few to prevail.
We have wrought our own doom, and there is no coming back.
But all that matters is that we say it wasn't my side, it was theirs who launched this attack.
But Irony will have the last laugh as even though divide and differences will be our fall
We will die as one, victims unwillingly united by the one thing left that at the core, unites us all.
That one thing we still all share, the one thing that mends the rift and, in the end, seals the tear
For what all the haters still have in common, is the worst trait of all, fear.

 

[AlexBailey]

Dad?

Last time I saw you was behind a mask
All cleaned and prepped and nervous.
Three hours, maybe four
Then take you home
Never thought I’d make the drive alone.

Annoy me just once more
I still hear you in my mind
We always had time before
Fainter every day
But now impossible to ignore.