Bantering with Octagons

[Svedish_Chef]

Why do we love the ones we hurt

 

[cymbidia]

Love is reactionary and hopeful, a fragile thing of sunflowers blooming though the day is overcast. But sunflowers need the sun and cannot stay forever happy in the gloom. However, moss likes the gloom. To each its own spot. Ah! Nature is so easy, easy like Sunday morning.

 

[freescorfr]

The bitterness of love, rapacious, deep
Skewers intestines and pickles hearts.
I crinkle, rubbing vaseline on my ripples, ridges
Smoothing, soothing, calming, reforming,
Until the world renews.

 

[sigh]

the hate of love
is a green-slimed horror of beauty
a smile before the wickedness
a sigh before the storm

wrap thorns tightly in bloody embrace
pierce flesh
thrust madly
steal innocence
using hate to love

pepper juice squeezed into open wounds
oozing bloody ache
wounds that never heal
subject to the cruelest fire
are the wounds of hateful love


no renewal
no rebirth
no recovery
no chance
no hope

 

[freescorfr]

Yet you have words
Words on fire
Words which pierce
Words which touch my spirit's nerves.
Words which tell
Words which shout
Words which paint
Words which pray.

Words which are heard.

I'm sorry about the pepper juice on the open wound.

 

[cymbidia]

Pepper juice fire fades.
Open wounds close and heal.
Time softens all the rough edges.

Time sands the granite to a pleasing smoothness.
Eventually the smooth granite becomes a grain of sand. Eventually the grain of sand falls into the Earth and becomes something else, something gneiss.

Gneiss is as nice does.
Try not to hurt me with that pepper juice again, okay?
All we can do is try to be nicer to each other tomorrow because there have been so many yesterdays on which we're turning the page.

 

[GreenEyedGirl]

If time softens all rough edges, I will be an old woman when my feathers are finally smoothed down. Grains of sand stick to my eyes in the early morning, but I know that they are simply boulders from Mount Vesuvius, nothing more. Perhaps I am a miscreation, perhaps I am the mountain made up of sand.

 

[Dillinger]

A gnosis of gestault rises through the morning mists of my awareness sending showers fiery hope rushing through the canyons of my mind.

 

[cymbidia]

Feathers waft whispers of hope in all directions and work in unison to lift...magnificently!...and transport, deterministic integrity firmly entrenched, the self from one place to the next. Woe be unto them who try to become a butterfly before thier time. Bigger woe to them who think to keep the butterfly from gaining the sky.

 

[Jimi]

Gossimer wings, newly dry from the crysalis, strive strongly towards the warming Spring sun. Twelve thousand kilometres from this Andean bower, he will alight, and the hope of future generations of Monarchs will be fulfilled, in another, Northern Spring.

 

[sigh]

the flight of butterflies
on wings of fragile beauty
cross two continents
in a horde of color
a whisper of delight

settle upon our summer lawns
and bring a giggle to a little girl's lips
raise my spirit with the sight of you
humble me with your effort

a butterfly is a gift
from the earth to me
to all of us
beauty unbound
strength unmatched
delicacy unrivaled

 

[freescorfr]

Ducks, necks outsetched, run open-mouthed
Through the long grass, catching butterflies
And Leaving a dark trail in the morning dew.
Hummingbird moths penetrate stamens
Of Laveteria, third-party pollenation.

Life in summer continents makes life.
Strawberry days.

 

[sigh]

can the wanton duck of everton beget a calf upon the cow?
will it be winged
with webbed hooves
and a bill ill-suited for the grasses of its kind?

and the cow jumped over the moon
with the wings of a duck unfurled
did she bleat
or quack
or simply jump

and did she make it home?


and i have to break custom here and say thank you, free and cym...your words ease me as would a balm over seared flesh

 

[cymbidia]

Flesh shocked, seared, is made mute by events that fall atop themselves like a collapsing house of cards.

Slowly, color bleeds back into the churned mess of that gray charred mass.

Slowly, the redly throbbing veins of life regenerate.

Slowly, life comes full circle and blooms joyously.

Strawberries grow, but slowly.

Ah! But they are all the sweeter because we had to wait for thier slow growth.


Shhh...watch. You can almost see them growing if you're quiet enough, if you're patient enough, if you believe in them. Shhh...

 

[Dillinger]

Strawberry butterflies try on ill-fitting cow custumes and decide that vaudeville isn't their calling. Instead they vow to pursue a career as door men at a house of cards.

 

[freescorfr]

The door is open
And I cannot go through.
I am a door opener.

I can open doors.
Crossing the threshold.....

I would like to step in.

Paralysis.

 

[cymbidia]

Brushing away cobwebs on long-closed doors and opening them to see...dreams, old and rusty. Rusty things can be gorgeous with the light of a new day shining in on them. Rust never dies, you know.

 

[freescorfr]

I deposited life's rusty chains on my father's grave: the one's he gifted me. I kept his gold and words of beauty.
Here is a treasury of the sublime - a vision I can relish because he gave me ears.

 

[sigh]

my father's grave
the growth within
eaten alive
by himself

my sister's grave
the horror within
she ended it
herself

dear david's grave
virus within
wasted away as
i stood helpless
hugging myself


three graves
against one life
such a price for a mother's love

 

[cymbidia]

Gravediggers can root and roil through the soil and rob the treasures within. Nothing of this world can wrest the gold of the soul from the universe, not even the rapacious black maw of time. Eternity exists forever.

 

[Svedish_Chef]

This is not bed!

The universes golden soul siezes the light within. The spirit within embraces the great life, life can be infinite in this moment.

God is not dead.

 

[sigh]

golden soul and a rainy day
god's water from above makes
mud for the gravedigger's digging
life for the rooftop garden
a spattering for my car
a curling of my hair

dance in the rain with a golden soul
touch god within
seek radiance from the gloom
find brillance within
the clouds

the rain of death and life
washes through us all

 

[cymbidia]

Washing, sloshing, galoshing! Somber moods dissolve in the laughing elegance of the easy morning sunshine like that which was...and is now, not. Flowers open. Cats stretch in the warmth. All is well.

 

[freescorfr]

Bathing and sleeping,
Revivers, refreshers before consciousness of day.
Then cables buzz with amperes,
Insinuating voltages.
Water hostile oils,
Emulsions, vapour high.
Flowers open, Blossom falls,
like mould from shaken funghi.

Hopeful of the day, not optimistic for the night.

 

[tortoise]

Green wires curl upward through the air, gradually grasping at the sun. The odds are stacked pretty heavily against them, as their reach is insufficient and their grasp is glacially slow, but still they climb, undaunted, towards the source.

Stupid fuckers.