Bantering with Octagons

[cymbidia]

Day descends with the giant sun outside my window and so, as always, the night follows. Deeply disturbing on a primal level, night carries long-supressed images of madness and carnage, of writhing demons feasting of spitted goats while tender maidens plead for mercy, tied, one hand, silk to pole. A black slash, that silk. Black as the night.

 

[sigh]

wild maidens feast
as their demons plead for mercy
haunted dreams of entrails steaming
in chill night air

spin with a fork
spit turning over a fire
devil's hand tears flesh
from a tender lovely's tush

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

The Bacchanal begins, as the wild maidens dance around the blaze of life, the blaze of love, the blaze of purity. The brave man that tries to tame these enchanted women will have a roasting of his name as his reward. All men are created equal, so which one transgresses is really moot.

 

[freescorfr]

Restitute the name your parents gave you to alleviate their grief. The named one is dead and you cannot live their life in eternal redemption of another's pain. Take the confirmation name, smack the bishop's face and steal his ring. There's an arse somewhere worthy of his crozier. But keep the name you chose.

 

[sigh]

names of choice
names of many valued wonder
fling your name to the world around you
and let them know you are you
and that you
are more than you

names and labels and muttered curses
a bell rings at highest tide
sail before the tide is gone to
journey your name to the farthest reaches
sing your name as a song of rejoicing

let the world know me as
sigh

 

[Impetus]

*Sigh* What a day. Fifteen packs of wolves at my door. My tonails are long again. I'm all out of nail polish. My homework's gone all 'nationalist' on me. I found broken shards of glass in my sister. My computer ate my dog. I have a headache as wide as a nuclear bomb. The undead legions won't eat the dinner I cook for them. The smoke is dancing. My eyes are painted blue. I lost my alternate dimension. My shoulder is sore and I can't stop sleeping.

-I

 

[freescorfr]

Fifteen

 

[cymbidia]

Maybe i'll be sleeping in fifteen minutes.
Maybe the sky will fall.
Numbers are only meaningful if we allow them meaning.


But, yes, i'd like to be asleep.
Sleep is inherently meaningful.

 

[Guest]

 

[freescorfr]

I'll hang on to my dreams, they belong to me.
You can take the bed and the house,
the car that works and the bank account,
Even the books and the dog,
The garden.
But my dreams will not go with you.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

What dreams may come, keep them safe, keep them true, keep them close. Perchance to dream of the life before, the life after. Dreaming is a far more dangerous past time than sky diving, and yet the rush is bigger, stronger, and less tangible in the more real way. So dream on, dream for the years, dream for the laughter, dream for the tears.

 

[sigh]

i like to dream of daffodils
on hills in dappled light
and fat bees of yellow-gold
singing buzzing songs
in straight arrow flight

but then my dreams turn dark
a roiling nightmare tale
wretched horror from underground
thrusting up
crawling out
trailing fetid stench as they come

awake to sweat
and trembling
and swear to never dream again

 

[Dillinger]

Buzzing dreams of accountants singing the praises of nailpolish and wolves.

My garden IS my bank account.

 

[sigh]

dillinger
disconnect
a baby at his breast
eggplant in a sauce of mud
sauteed to bright golden green
find tires afloat in a checkered vest
in an ancient alchemist's sheen
where a man can thrash and wonder
whereforever is my dream?


the philosopher's stone
beckons

 

[freescorfr]

Thrash and thresh for meaning
Searching sense between our cloak and undergarments.
The Marks and Spencer of our inner selves.

As fashions fade and pastels replace heavy tones
The fabric in our veins wears denim drawn.
Drawn taught, worn loose, thrombosis thick
I need to dance with fireflies on midsummer's night.

My dreams are pretty good.

 

[cymbidia]

Dreams beat against our brains demanding equal opportunity time with nose-to-the-grindstone life. To be healthy, to be sane, to be whole, dreams need the rushing of your blood and heated rise of your attention.

The halflife of a human is the sum of your dreams divided by the opportunity to express those dreams in a meaningful manner, which is squared by the despair you feel at any given moment over being stuck in the dreamless dreariness of daily demands.

Dream then! Dream! For your life, for your sanity - dream!

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Dreams hijack conscoiousness and run away with the spoon over landscape tinted aubergine and tangerine. Reality sifted through the uneven fine sieve gives us the sand that spices our eyes when they close.

 

[freescorfr]

Spice dreams: eyelids of coriander and pupils cardamom green. Cinnamon lips and a breath of mint: kisses of clover and touches of saffron. The spice route flows west to the ocean and over the sea to Skye.

 

[sigh]

spice dreams of the blue-eyed wanderer
robed against the desert sands
visions of a world of water
a blue planet with
one moon

alone in a cubicle
talking to my god
with blood trickling off my back
as the bitter pain sears his image onto my soul
until through blasphemy's despair i dare to dream
of a god of peace and love

so strike harder
leather strips biting into flesh
to drive the dreams away
lest the robed ones find me


my god is a mother
and she demands no pain

 

[Guest]

 

[freescorfr]

Wise antelopes who shine are rational creatures, medically speaking. Biltong strips rot in the Namibian sun beside the soldier who fights an obsolete war, the sole combatant stalking the absent and the dead. He needs an antelope's healing hide.

 

[cymbidia]

The birds on the lawn play hide-and-seek with worms.
My rice/chicken/green beans cook.
The day moves past its zenith.
Life.

 

[Jimi]

The lone hyena follows the blood trail, long obliterated by the tide. Was it an old Strandloper, eyes pecked out by the ever-present gulls and skuas, breathing his last in the misty dawn, or some pain-crazed survivor of an ancient caravel, Goa-bound, two months' out from Sagres, wrecked upon the shifting sands of the Skeleton Coast.

 

[Dillinger]

Dreaming antelopes eat cantaloupe while singing home on the range with big burly ice hockey players who have lost their ice but continue to hold their sticks.

We have returned to the old ways. The ancient old ways. The been around a long time ancient old ways from a long time ago in a galaxy far far away.

 

[sigh]

swaying on an antelope's back
in the shadows of stonehenge
while the solstice sacrifice still steams on the altar stone

dance around the stones
you people of the stars
thrust your organs wildly
and mate with the heavens