Bantering with Octagons

[cymbidia]

Dancing with demons, with dragons, the mating dance of moments whispers words too quiet for the loudly roaring winds of chance to channel into meaningful minutia. Alas. Alas. Alack.

 

[sigh]

demons two-step
across a polished marble floor
claws clicking softly as they swing their legs
and the country music plays

demons waltzing
to danube's tune
floor of shining oak bearing claw marks
as dust bunnies of demon fur gather
beneath the piano

one two three
one two three
they dance the box
and slobber

 

[freescorfr]

Piano tales of the Vienna woods
Grettel screwed by Hansel
Watched by riding hoods.
Piggies snout for truffles
Bean-poles sprout to paradise.
Let us topple wicked giants - Uncle Milosovic -
And Uncle Tom.

Don't make our children carry awful secrets they cannot tell their own mothers. Slow infanticide through fear of saying.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

children carrying awful secrets meander into the woods, only to find Bernadette Peters as the witch pointing to piggies searching for pianos. If the Russians love their children too, we might be able to catch up to the dreams of the blue turtles swiming in the ocean deep.

 

[freescorfr]

Dolphins' dreams are metaphors too. They say, "I'm all on land."
It works less well for them. Humans are better off at sea.

 

[Guest]

 

[Dillinger]

Mindfuck brainblow soulsuck = ZenZaZoom!

Theosophical Ta Tas.

Philosophic Pussys.

Cohesive Cocks.

 

[Hamletmaschine]

The cocks crow cohesively
While Minerva's owl flies naked
Through the dirty colors of your mind
Albion's flame sucks at the pink
Fingers dipping in the fluid-centered
Whole of your bestial nature

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Dirty colors flame and spurt as Minerva's grey gaze pins her opponant to the plaster wall. The aegis shrieks and flashes, posturing and defending. What man could stand against such as these?

 

[cymbidia]

Focused, hornyhungryneeding, pink tinged pussies weep and cocks crow (somewhere) with hardened neck-stretched need. Blindly, without care, the fog settles wet (wet! oh gods yes!) on the sidewalks while wild profusions of still-sleepy heliotropes begin another day's search, blindly, instinctually, sometimes vainly, for the elusive touch of radiant energy. Stamens and sepals. Pistils and petals. Everything is about sex.

 

[Hamletmaschine]

Pistols and pedals, pedal-pushers pulled down in readiness. Stay, man! Seep all your seedy wanting through the gruff exterior of your poinard, fill me with the dirty spurts of a thousand cloudy memories.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Posies and poinards fill the woods, nymphs and satyrs, narcissus and the pooled water, pushing petals into shapes that remind us of love, of life, of moon, of earth. Speckled air of summer lays upon us as the grass cradles out heads and limbs, waiting for nightfall.

 

[sigh]

the speckled air of summer
wanton lust on a grassy knoll
a cry of pleasure ringing out
turns heads
yields knowing smiles

a child comes wandering by
pull the blanket 'til she's gone
then fuck again
and again
and yet again

in the speckled air of summer

 

[cymbidia]

Dust motes lazy-falling, speckling the air with a thousand thousand thousand dreams and desires urgent yet untouched while mundanities, those drugging drags, dig deep into the collective Universal mind and make...us...wait...fuck...i...hate...waiting.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Lazy falling eye lashes flutter down my cheek, resting on the curve of my jaw, before whispering a hail mary as they jump to their freedom, wafting into the air, only to land on my fingertip as I make a wish and blow...............................

 

[freescorfr]

A rosary of briars, pater nosters and all sorts of knotted hail marys tie wishes in a garland like a noose in Aphrodite's temple. May the second is agenda full: offertry prayers before the tabernacle are insufficient protection for the glorias to come.

 

[sigh]

seminary suffering
flagellation with whips

crying out to god on high
where is the light
where is your essense if not within motes of dust
the dreams of children
or the water flowing off the mountain

where are you

come to me
(please)

 

[freescorfr]

skeletons in cupboards of self-discipline
Tuesdays and Fridays, spiked thigh chains
and arm bands made of jagged metal
Worn as penance by the innocent.
He who winds the cords as whips
suffers auto-culpability for some one else's sin.

Here.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Self discipline, as jagged as metal arm bands, makes a cursory appearance before sliding into the arms of fashion. He who knows where here is, knows naught else. And she who knows naught else, is priestess here.

 

[Impetus]

Too this priestess, I offer my nuchaku, I place them left of the apples and above the hatred. Whipply little vines tickle my ego on the way to the shoppe. And when I leave, it is with a sense of distaste for tobacco in general. Large glass bottles shatter when they hit the 5" by 11" card stock. It's nearly a league thick in some places. You can lick your way past the level-headed ones, and you can dance to the DDR flix if you want, but Steve Tarada can kick like no australian I have ever had the unpleasure of censoring. Make a hardcopy of that and send it to the lemurs.

When I see things of great evil, my eyes bleed.
When I see things of great holiness, I cry tears of blood.

If you can tell the difference, let me know.

-I

 

[cymbidia]

No one sees the signs that slide like slinkies skinking down the stairs, one at a time, whirring softly as then go down go down go down mechanically, maniacally, almost magically. Blood cleanses and we begin anew. Circles and cycles.

 

[freescorfr]

Unknowingly embracing missions,
Inherited through generations,
to tend the ailing or to save the lost,
to wreak vengeance or to beat the wife,
to be a slave or master,
albeit in new guises of our time.

Cycles, fertile cycles, beyond our own control.
Our lives live us, we don't live them.

 

[MechaBlade]

My whimsical psychic notions of notoriety allow for less than noble ramblings on our current state of Idaho. Ask for less, you shall receive.

 

[MechaBlade]

Blood rises, blood thickens. Teeth peel forth with unwarranted anger. Hair grows towards those whose know. Flashing red beams of light irritate and provoke the mind state. 'Tis killing time.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

When the killing time comes, I'll be in the backroom. Ragnarok is not my cup of tea. Never was. Hopefully never will be. I leave the thickening of the blood to the fighters and to Hera and to clots. Leave me be, this is not my war.