Bantering with Octagons

[GreenEyedGirl]

Solstice strung antelops mate with heaven, who fucks poorly by the by due to the enormous amount of purity in his blood. If he would only feel guilt, he could fuck more easily. If he could only feel pleasure, he could fuck like Zeus. But Zeus is fucking in the Elysian Fields in the form of a swan. So heaven will just have to wait.

 

[sigh]

swan flies in the dusk of evening's approach
white feathers against darkening sky
settling into black, choppy waters just off the shore

white on black
i'm sure there must be a porn site by that name

 

[cymbidia]

Names dignify flesh as emotions rear up and scream Look! Hear! Feel! Smell! Taste!. Hearts bleed. Eyes weep. Skin, though, retains its sensitive elasticity no matter who fucks with it.

 

[freescorfr]

Skin our boundary, between the inner self and the outer image - which tells life's tale in scars and blemishes, freshness and vigour, rashes and cancers; our autobiography, co-authored with our brain.
She reddens, spread out between her breasts and up her neck, in both anger and in ecstacy.

 

[Dillinger]

Fresh heavenly organs are baked every day and delivered to the elastic boundries of the "be all"/"what not" by Zeus himself riding a white feathered antelope.

 

[freescorfr]

Storks can discern the difference between the white feathered antelopes who love, and the grey-scaled variety who desire to be loved. When the white feathered antelope mates, his love is freely given, while the grey-scaled is intensely dependent on the sentiment of the other.
Herds of frustrated grey-scales are spotted every day in sub-saharan wadis by nesting storks.

 

[Jimi]

Seven Sufis, in their whirling ecstasy, disturb the nestling young, who cry out for their stork-parents. The returning parents' graceful s-necked flight moves the imobile grey-scales to tears. Spattering the cracked ground, the tears in turn cause acacias to bloom anew.

 

[cymbidia]

Acacias spew clouds of yellow plant spunk aloft on the freshening winds while we hope, below, for rain to wash our cares away and offer us the chance of rainbows, elusive and illusive though they are.

 

[freescorfr]

To wash our cares, and clothes. Water is all I have left That makes me richer than most. It promises arid days. Mud coats the feathers of the white antelopes as they circle like storks in their sandy oasis.
Rainbows blown in on the wind colour the waning moon.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Water makes peasants rich and life plentiful.
Some water! Some water! My kingdom for some water!
Rain, rain, come astray, visit me this very day.
Raindrops keep falling on my head, but that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red.
Water is the spice of life.
Wet and wild takes on a whole other meaning in this view.

 

[sigh]

water is spice
to a parched man


pulsating shower up within my legs
sends shudders deep within
and a lover names me
as the white-winged antelope watches
and settles
into the dark, choppy waters of my tub

who's in my bathchamber now?

 

[freescorfr]

The bathchamber is scanner-free, safe from all intrusion and only those whom you invite are there with you. Here the waters part to hold your secrets: play with these like yellow floating ducks.
*sigh*, the splashes whisper *sigh*.

 

[sigh]

sigh your sorrow to the darkness
envelope yourself in gloom
grey times in a grey life
locked in an eternally grey room

then a pinprick of color emerges
yellow so clear it hurts
then red
and green
and shining blue
'til soon the grey is only one
of a many-blended swirl
and my heart lifts
and a smile brightens
once again i'm a happy girl

 

[Guest]

 

[freescorfr]

The monkjack orphanage is full of bambis. The matron is a relative of Rudholf. They learn to count with hazelnuts and acorns. Oz is where the wizzard is, the kangaroos and an ounce of jelly babies. They are all little deers.

 

[Impetus]

I used to watch deer from my living room window while sucking on toes, but now I can't hold my eyes steady anymore, they're too heavy. My brain is congrete and my flesh is lead and nothing works the way it is supposed to. The told me before I would be the voice of a new generation, that the world way laid out before me. Why, then, must they make it so hard to hold?

-I

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Don't suck on my toes, I know where they have been.
My heart is fighting my mind is fighting my soul is fighting my limbs is fighting my tears is fighting my cunt is fighting my liver is fighting my fingers is fighting my hair is fighting my womb is fighting my lungs is fighting my ass is fighting my dreams is fighting my nose is fighting my toes.
So don't suck them!

 

[cymbidia]

Celibacy sucks. Or doesn't, really. Flipping like a pancake on Mother's Day, i'll be sweating out the insistent throbbing of deliberately ignored skin-needs. The long dark night isn't a friend these days, my friend.

 

[Guru]

 

[Calamity Jane]

Never have I heard such screaming silence echoing back at me from the inverted canyons of my convoluted isolation.

 

[freescorfr]

Choosing celibacy, accepting isolation, I watch the swallows swim with finches in a rustling wind. The first flies of summer visit me on my grassy perch by the river's source - a trickle here, muddy where the catlle drink. I muse on sources, resources.
Un wittingly she made me a god, and her god a servant.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

Making gods is a tricky business. It is all too easy to make them indentured servants. The especially hard part is inflating them so that they are not overly full of hot air. Then you have to imbue them with strength, wit, charm, and beauty. But the most difficult part is giving them a purpose.
Making gods is a tricky business.

 

[freescorfr]

Which brings to mind the Wife of Bath who broghte it so aboute by hir wit, that they moste yeve it up, as for the beste, or elles hadde we nevere looked as a wood leon. Why do we not talk to each other like this anymore?

 

[Dillinger]

My toes have been celibate since the green moon first showed it self to my bathing wife who immediately declared a pox on all yellow ducks and, of course, toes.

 

[freescorfr]

Iguana toes are sharp like pyromaniacs' minds. Yellow ducted fire escapes are poor refuge for fleeing pilgrims. Elbows, backs and liquid livers are toil's victims. Like railway timetables, these words connect in print, but not in Clapham Junction.