Bantering with Octagons

[cymbidia]

Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep lives deeply embedded within our perceptions of The Way Things Should Be, though time and tides and a serious attempt to view one's life as made of lots of little funny moments like those candy necklaces you s-t-r-e-t-c-h to eat will help give you laugh instead of frown lines.

 

[Guest]

 

[freescorfr]

This vixen flaunts her V-winged sweetness: the octagon man sighs eight ways. In this funny gallery there are many atria filled with green. Flitting to a new life, teak hard, ivory sharp, is either an adventure or a chore. They are making fresh fields of old pastures with the winter's excrement.

 

[sigh]

flight of geese in a graceful V
coming to water on a chill november day
brisk wind blowing
fringe of ice along the shoreline
gray clouds scudding across the sun

i sip coffee in the warm kitchen of my cabin
and watch the birds come down
and hope they don't waddle up to shit on my lawn this day

 

[Impetus]

Nonsensical Proverbs:

A bird that shits on a lawn is a bird that will not shit on your face.
The cherry blossom will not change it's path, but for a stiff wind.
The Palm of the tiger cannot hold a fragile egg.
The flowers of day do not close themselves when the cold comes.
The wisest pancake is one that does not stick to the pan.
A wise man will shave the body part he uses the most often.
Who, Me?
The blade of the true warrior strikes only in the name of justice...or of cutting things.
Water is strong, it can whittle away a mountain. Water is weak, it cannot lift up a single pound of iron.
You'll want to put ice on that.
If you open up the envelope, that which it contains will see the rising of the sun.
The truth will be brought to man, like tab A is brought to slot B.
The barrier of language is like the great barrier reef. Because they are both, you know, great barriers.
He who does not see the Octagon, cannot hope to banter with it.

-I

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Hair curling like Medusa's coiffure, infusing with brine, with sand, with air, with salt, with sun. The strength of water flows through my veins, like iron through a forge. But my fingers are weak, trying to tie knots in all of the seaweed before the tide carries them away. When I reach the horizon, I will rest.

 

[freescorfr]

Only the departed attain horizons. A distant shore, however, far beyond beckons those who dare to tread the waves. There the horizon is a landscape of many greens and golds, an inscape on which to lay your sleeping head.
Medusa and St. Patrick reach accord on reptile rock.
Thoughtful children silence take who giggle at the taste of milky dew.

 

[cymbidia]

The pearls of dew left by dawn's departure to Stygian realms beckon fingers of sunlight to caress lightly thier wetness. Quivering during thier slow subsumation into day, they cry out silently, screaming for release, begging to be transported somewhere, somewhere, somewhere else. Pearls of dew are such sensation whores.

 

[freescorfr]

Dew drops of coriander lust are my desire in this aftermath of terror,all atingle. For hour on hour, on holy hour, an absent benediction overlaid my sacrament of truth and all sensation left me dry. Moroseness is too gay a term for my abandonment.

 

[cymbidia]

Abandoned and bereft, tears and chills of life's disappointments spill hotly down granite cheeks while inside, underneath, below, hidden, love and lust and longing still pump hotly. When is the penance to end? When does a celebratory life begin? ENOUGH! i scream defiantly, and the words echo like the hollow boom of breakers on the beach at dawn. I will play this sorrow game no more.

 

[freescorfr]

The end game. Great winners and a good losers both move on to better games. I met a pawn once, en passant,and didn't take her. Beside the board she sits, awaiting the next encounter, resting. My knights are lonely now, my castles cleft. This will be my first next time.

 

[Impetus]

A rook is a strong piece. Mucles flexing, it bashes away at the block in my skull. The guitar resonates unremarcably in the midnight-blue painting. My legs bleed pain up my tawdry flesh to my skull. Turn over the hips, it causes more disagreement. Build a filter with eight poles and a mongoose. The phase response will be morbid. What do you see when you put in your eyes backward? I'm high on musk-ox and wyvren. I only smoke my pipe when I need to appear literary. It happens infrequently. My toenails lead the revolt against the otherwise-wicked burgandy lips. My eyes are the darkest brown you will ever see. I don't know if I have bedroom eyes or not, but I like to think I do when no-one's looking. Shhh.

-I

 

[sigh]

shhh
just listen for a moment

a twist of time finds the unprepared settling in for a godawful cup of coffee left on the burner too long then allowed to chill and if that doesn't set your teeth on edge you'll have to wonder at the dog of heaven who chews bones for breakfast while they're still within living souls

wretched pain, let me be
i bare my teeth at your arrogance
and lick blood from my lips

blood from feasting
blood from menses
blood everlasting from the altar's chalice


wash me with your peace
oh lord
i need your peace

 

[Impetus]

The blood behind my eyes is too thick today. It isn't flowing like it's supposed to. We've all taken biology, we know how it works. Nutrients and oxygen to and fro. It's not working today.

It's too thick, it's moving slowly up to my brain, I'm starved for the things that keep me thinking. It's thick and hot and my flesh is so warm I can almost see the steam rising like it does over a lake in the morning. My blood is too hot and too thick and it's not going where I want it to go.

I wanted to write this weekend. I'm so close to coming to the end of the story. All I need is a final push, a final inspiration, I final tea party with my muse. But my actions, like my blood, are not longer under my control. I want my blood to flow like water, rushing quickly back and forth. Oxygen and nutrients.

Some bastard decided that I can't write this weekend. I dislike him. He's chained me to a wall, he's redirected my efforts. I don't want to write about music this weekend, father. I want to write about sex. Damn you.

Tonight I rest, tomorrow I fight back. I wil rise like a phoenix and destroy all the barriers that hold me back. I will rip the chains from the wall and use them to beat back my captors. Their bonds cannot hold me, I am a genius here, and you are merely a bump in my path. If you think you can keep me from my muse, you are sorely mistaken.

You. Have. Been. Warned.

-I

 

[cymbidia]

Biology, astronomy, meteorology: awakening to the sight of the huge moon setting and another gorgeous day in the offing. Live! Life! Anything is possible on a morning when my dog is out there barking so early.

 

[freescorfr]

Morning offering, Jesus through the most pure heart of Mary, through the setting moon and blaze of rising sun, through barking dog and early breeze, I take this day and pray that at the table-clearing time, I still retain some hungers, in-growing desires and out-cropping longings, the jagged edges of my life on which I make my bed.

 

[Impetus]

My bed lies on the outskirts of the Mongol empire. My toes twinkle like the coming of the virign mary. Tofu is the bane of every prostutute I've ever had the misfortune of throwing off the brooklyn bridge. The dust settles on the coated eyeball, I pour the ambrosia from my coax cable onto the Xylinx 7800 Logic family of DSP boards. The scum you scrape off of Denmark makes a dandy prugative. I only set the vodka free so Marmaduke could congeal more readily. Lubrication makes the world more tolerable, grind away the offending edges so your lace is free to murder again. Overclocked Remix...of ANGST!

-I

 

[sigh]

lubrication is to anal sex
as money is to a bribe
each possible without the other
but more painful
less likely
and more burdensome by far

stroke deeply into my rectum's depths
living latex cock strapped to my lover's thighs
ankles riding upon her shoulders
with back pressed into the floor
she atop me
lips pressed to mine
tongues dancing to an intricate tune


and i shudder in the throes of orgasm
and cry aloud for more
no angst
no pain
no fear
no edge

 

[cymbidia]

Edges lie between us and madness, between jam and bread, between blue and green. Stones are tossed at bad people by other bad people, stones edged with the solidity of despairing hatred or the wavering truth of shamed fear. Why should we be so afraid of edges if thier function is to give us a new perspective by slamming the door on toes of the worn and tired platitudes of thoughts-past?

 

[Guest]

 

[sigh]

stony wall of psyche bound in silence
in a corner of darkness where light can never shine

but then comes a rise of brightness
the faintest blink
of hope
to chase away the chill

a golden summer of a dream
where midges buzz in afternoon's warmth
and the rippling chuckle of a brook bears promise
to the quenching
of eternal thirst

rise light
blind us with your mercy
rise light
freeze us in your heat
rise light
cheer us with your promise
through the endless days of evermore

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Psyche, punished for her beauty by the goddess of beauty and love, fell through the fall for Eros and his golden summer of a dream. And yet the dream rang hollow. Rang untrue. Ran away when the sun's light feel across their face. Light rising, with blinding unmercy. Light rising and freezing the heart of Eros, god of sex, god of love, god of misspent arrows.
And so love is blind.

 

[Dillinger]

Eternal beauty never quenched rises in the language of love lubing up the black hole of eternity.

 

[Guest]

 

[Debbie]

Crossing salty seas in a paper boat, the pickled onion sang.