Bantering with Octagons

[Dillinger]

Green eyed sighing cymbidias free the naudiz impetus with their army of flying rainbow stardust.

 

[Impetus]

I've checked, startust dosn't fly, and doesn't congregate in armies. To do so would violate things so heavy that to simply blink at them wrong would get you 25 in a state penn. And there's no spinning that, it's right where it is. You don't lift, or ply, or screw with, anyone, anything, or anyone else that is involved with that, or it's predecessors, in anyway. It simply isn't done. You can argue if you want, but you'll never be able to get it off of your shoulder if you do. And then, of course, there are the non-sequitors, which are as hard to spell as to read, and harder still to reach around behind. That's where the fruity core is, my friends. The wonderfully fruity, meat-inspired, torque-related, voltage-dependant, unequivocal, portable, spotable, short, tall, vestigal, jucy, fruity center.

-I

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Looking at the soul in the picture frame, I am reminded of eyes like yours, reminded of days like mine. Forgotten glasses give a hazy, haloed effect that soften the edges and remove the center. And since stardust doesn't fly, and pixiedust doesn't exist out side of NeverNever Land, me and mine are other, are else.

 

[Dillinger]

I know a place where octagons are born and dreams are always bantered...

 

[cymbidia]

Places wide and deep and just about right for bunting bantered octagons, an action that always leaves me strangely refreshed or is that just plain jane strange? Oh no! Plain Jane? Fuck that! I'm rainbow stardust, man.
Pass the chocolate.
I'm pms'ing.
Whoops.
Wrong thread.

 

[Dillinger]

Wrong is right right is wrong. I am me, you are she.

We were once all together. It was fun. Especially the part with the Jello.

(WB cym!!!)

 

[cymbidia]

...and they call me mellow yellow. Jello. I mean Jello. Wiggly jiggly, slurp it up, swallow it down, lick it till it's gone. You only get one go round, you know. Better do it now, do it right, do it do it do it.

 

[sigh]

yellow fronds of tapestry
trailing from ancient walls
they are majestic
in their mouldering
stand regal
in their stains of soot

who reigns now to lead us on
who marches with the tide
who sings the praises of heros old
who bleeds
and suffers
and dies


i want a hero
to fuck me HARD
the moment my bleeding ends

 

[freescorfr]

Bayeux's griffle like cathedral holds within its womb the tapestry of conquest. William, conceived by droit de seigneur in a cabbage field outside Falaise, fucked hard Harold's army. Horses trot here now, more than galop, I will pick up the reins from the reigning regent when it rains, which is every lunar month in Calvados.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Cabbage fields as far as the eye can see, each lunar month we harvest and feast. Then for the rest of the month we have enough natural gas to light our bonfires for the next harves and feast.

 

[TWB]

Bump

 

[freescorfr]

Bump, the cabbage harvest god, was but an imp at heart, god of hot air, unknown in Balnibarbi, where sprouts the size of men, took on the proportions of a European commissioner's mistress.

 

[Hamletmaschine]

The European commissioner's mistress, holding fast the light of dawn, gave human suffering a new meaning while the trumpet honked a blowsy tattoo over the rain-soaked promenade.

 

[sigh]

human suffering
grievous pain
blood soaked ground
uncleansed by rain
screams of children
raped by dogs
of war
and filth
and putrid pestilence

cry out your plea to heaven
the unfeeling god ignores
as tears fade into dust
and to the whole world
you are
a whore


aaheeeeeeeeee she cries
please let it end
but the rape
goes on
and on

 

[cymbidia]

And the beat goes on: suffering continues: suffering is a part of life: blue skies sprinkle the mildness of late spring over our winter-weary souls and we know, we KNOW, we KNOW dammit, that somewhere in Africa there's a kid who would be glad to have our overcooked broccoli.

You can't choose your relatives but you can choose your suffering.
All is relative.

 

[freescorfr]

The kid has a thousand suffering relatives, and each a thousand too. An empty body is an empty soul and eaters have voids as well, in another place. Indigenous pain. Conflicts inter-personal and intra-personal rage within, without. Being without, is within.

 

[Dillinger]

We've got the beat it beat off, both hands. Job, don't you know. Trials and tribulations.

The cabbage machine rages on.

 

[cymbidia]

Time marches on as we rage against the machine, our souls held hostage for the crimes of our minds. Bondage, pure and simple, and not the fun kind, either.

 

[Hamletmaschine]

The tortured soul cries out, "Lugubrion! Lugubrion!" at dawn's pink-fingered sinking. Like tiny tin pots on the stovetop of morning, their burbling gave comfort to the ones down below.

 

[Dillinger]

Welcome to the rage against the tin man machine. I am the great and powerful Ozman. Give me a bat and I'll give you a tiny pink pot o' gold.

 

[cymbidia]

Blood pumping strongly, moving forward, cutting cords, freeing tangled lines of allegiances, emerging into the pink-tinged dawn of an entirely new day, tin man lugubriousness be damned!

 

[freescorfr]

The lion's human heart, pumping tin, percussion for the progress of our pilgrim's song, is open to your eyes, and yours alone. Hear this and you will not go blind.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Hearing this call, dodecahedrons are obtuse in the Zen path, opening their eyes to the world of bantering and ill winds. No minds are blown.

 

[cymbidia]

Minds blown wide as new shapes new sounds new Zen moments shift out the old and let remain, forever, the obtuse within the realm.

 

[Impetus]

What is zen? This isn't it.

Papercuts always stand straighter than uncles would be able to sketch. Tall, my friend, taller than the highest Rhombitruncated Isododecahedron, the coolest-sounding of all polyhedra. He walks with a swagger because his angles are so broad. His broads are angular too. He pimps, that polyhedra. Pimps his hair to little men. Little tiny short fat men with no flesh and barely enough cardboard CD cases to fill the stomach of a rat. But not just any rat. A rat of justice. Of Thoth. Of green spheres with teeth. Sharp pointy anger bites at my ankles, and I dance hard to tease it away. It's a hard dance to dance, that one.

Nope. Not zen.

-I