Bantering with Octagons

[Dillinger]

I find myself contemplating marmalade on ever deeper levels. Somehow this leads to daydreams about Joan Rivers being the main event at the next Wrestlemania. Rivers of Marmalade cascade in pearls of consciousness erotically whispering wicked nouns and naughty adjectives deep into my subconscious.

Why, I wonder in astonishment, does candlelight not drool in delight over octagons? This makes no sense.

But then I thank the gods and goddesses. Then they thank me. We thank each other. Everyone is very thankful.

Stephen Hawking is so thankful that he publishes an entire book explaining in great detail his complete theory of MY DICK. It is immediately a best seller and all of China decides to back their bags and move to the head of MY DICK. It turns out to a lush, verdant paradise and there is more than enough rice for everyone.

 

[freescorfr]

The Yangste, often unfaithful to its course, has now been damned. The big DICK's knot is tied and concrete bound.
There are five pure colours and one impure religion.

 

[tortoise]

Have you seen my religion? It shudders and shakes with the fervor of a glass jackhammer, yet remains as blue as the palest frozen tomatillo. It suffers the seas to fall from the sky and rips mountains asunder, and its oaken thews quiver like Australian telephone wires.

Oh wait. There it is.

Now... have you seen my car keys?

 

[freescorfr]

I was asleep in heaven when the telephone rang.

 

[perks]

It was a duck on the road to hell. She had a flat tire but it was being tended to in a glasshouse by a Knight and an irishwolfhound. She murmured something Biblical, but no one understood it or the Zelda reference.

 

[freescorfr]

The archangel understood. The brass had curdled Baal's majestic underbelly. The serpents denied Isaac four times and the greatest healers in Tel-a-viv berated the rabbi for quackery.

 

[MechaBlade]

I once left my iron halved before it could scream. Leaving that, I don't imagine it'll ever combine.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Halving an iron, I separated the wedges and metered them out according to height. The smallest to the tallest and so forth down the line. Until Darwinism makes an appearance, it is the best I can do.

 

[freescorfr]

The dead-eyed nightingale makes a hebdominal appearance before the magistrate. I awake to a retospective sentence, regressive DNA, red hair and a propensity to under-weigh my tomatoes but not my management interviews.

 

[sigh]

underweight tomatoes on a scale to infinity...........
get your taters
get your radishes
buy your roots from me

'cause i never underweigh my roots
only my tomatoes


the worm slithers through the night
ghastly slime dripping in its wake
there's the vine
get into the fruit
a nasty surprise for the master's lunch

 

[Dillinger]

Darwin was wrong. Humanity did not evolve from less complex organisms, it has de-evolved from a highly intelligent being on its way to becoming pond scum.

Somehow I know this is related to humanity's insistence on having nightingales iron all our tomatos flat.

Which is where the idea for the flat tax came from of course. Since we all know that the basis of our monetary system is all the tomatos that are stored in Fort Big Knockers.

 

[freescorfr]

The Berkley Square casino was zero rated for tax on the night the nightingale diced with turnips, cubed roots, which were easier to square than the tomatoes. The croupier's dress was later raised, like the stakes, after the last of the clients had departed. The nightingale's best friend placed all his remaining tokens on 39 - a number of no ontic significance in roulette - and entered her with a gentleness with belied the conspiracy evolving in the Shepherd's Market brothel.

 

[sigh]

nightingale's song in a meadow of fire
feathers ablaze
eggs popping in her nest

here now comes a pelican
with water in its beak
wash away
wash away
wash away the flame

as the nightingale mourns her lost clutch
the weasel finds roasted birdlings tasty
and the fireweed flourishs
when the rains come again

 

[freescorfr]

Your words dissolve me into sand
More stars than sand, more stars than seeds,
More seeds than rain. It had been raining.

This sand supports a few frail flowers,
golden blue a shadow on her breast.

 

[Dillinger]

Casinos are my oysters and now they're stuck in my eye and all I can see are stars and breasts. Hope it stays that way.

 

[freescorfr]

Rain clouds obscure my star tonight
My pillow is her breast.
My mother said "Take care of her"
"For she deserves her rest".

The blue sky is saddened by an unspoken desire,
So I now speak my desires and realise that those I cannot realise will join the stars, becoming spirit, leaving me free.

 

[sigh]

join the stars along an avenue of flight
streak into infinite space
fling yourself upon a galaxy's tail
to sing the pulsar's song

red shift
blue shift
going and coming
as the universe expands
along doppler's way

 

[cymbidia]

Crooning lullabies by the last spark of stars while the winds whistle an advent of out-of-season rain like the last tears of hard times; growth overtakes naivety. Change. Small deaths of dreams. New dreams to chase. So goes life.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Small deaths of dreams wander in and out and in on me. Waking my self, purging my liver, orating on my life. Once twice thrice they come to stalk me. Only they always find me home.

 

[sigh]

find me home
new dreams to chase
a child looks to me for all
follow the wind
to a star-swept road
and laugh
and cry
and wonder why
stardust doesn't make me fly
it only makes me
sigh

 

[Impetus]

Stardust? I have your stardust *right here*! I take it in measured quantities and combine it with Love! Smoooooooooth love. Love in quarts and gallons and metric assloads. Slather that around for a while, see if it cuts wide the untamed. Without rhyme or...other rhyme. Now lift, and press, and stretch out, like vaginal muscles in a porno flick. Streeeeetch. It's good for your spinal cord, and if you don't, you become like stone. Easily amused and hurt when the water turns to ice. Ice. Right. In. The. Small. Of. Your. Back! NOTWARM!

-I

 

[freescorfr]

All behaviour is a language, so what is water saying? Expansion into ice. I feel your latent heat. No longer am I anomolous, nor we anonymous. We are both satellite and sun, moon and meteorite, a teardrop in our mountain stream, breathed in by rainbow trout. Loganberries fall and one leaf paints my path in speckled hue, lapped up by bearded goats who chant "Ave's" in dischord to their bells.

 

[naudiz]

I do not wear the cheese. The cheese wears me.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Wearing cheese is hardly a mortal sin, and yet our esteemed enlighteners would have us think so. Brie does not the man make, and yet, it is made by men. Go figure.

 

[freescorfr]

Neuchatel is moulded in a cardiod - the figure of a heart. Made by girls, their gift to soldiers. The cheese is the message. Pierce the cheese, it bleeds and speaks of unions in the undulating plains of Picardy.