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The Artist

Sweat tip-toes off the curved corners of Johnathan's brow as he lathers another coat of lime green paint into the crevices of his wrist watch. The ping and pong of the watch's tick tock find themselves reflected in rhythmic twitches of his wrist, tremors structured to imitate the curvature of time. Each anxious rattle and flick sends a scattershot rainfall of...
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pokes:
I loved your second sentence of your third paragraph. This is very eloquent and I have to say that I'm impressed. I'm reminded that I used to be articulate and, though odd to be crediting you with the inspiration, am moved to arrest my habits of old. Cudos kiddo, very poetic, though I guess that's fitting. Anyways, I enjoyed it thoroughly and think you should submit something to SG. Perhaps they'd be inclined to publish poetry if they knew there was some talent on here. I like your fantasy too. biggrin
sfdeep:
lovely prose there, mate smile
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A Room of My Own

All I want is a room of my own, full of type-writers and rivers of corrective fluid to white-out an entire age of typos and misspelled words, full of chilly nights of cuddled up bodies and sweaters insulating themselves against an onset of a cultural wave of emotional frigidity, full of mere minutes of time stretched beyond their limits and...
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notanemoboy:
... i like it a lot man
i love the long-dead constellations section smile
thefuckoffkid:
What ever happened with the girl? The phone-putting-down?
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Here's fiction rather than a poem:

Seer

Time is falling apart.

Something in the fabric of reality has come undone and is steadily unravelling as some galactic-sized two year old of a god plays with the loose thread.

These are not paranoid fantasties, or the musings of a semi-suicidal trendy adolescent.

I've seen it.

Not in a quick, sudden revelation, a life-changing epiphany...
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The Scramble

In Hollywood, lives are changed by strangers picked up over sweet-n-low breakfast and calorie-free conversation. One night disposable love affairs drag innocent protagonists through the crushing of gearworks of half-hearted but still mounting definitions of true love, the kind you read about on Internet match-making sites, but behind door number three of the Love Connection lies a secret so dark that flashlights are...
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artgeek33:
wow.....someone else from arkansas. nice. hello. hello.

rae
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I want to believe in the power of love, but the power of love is the power of dreams. Dreams of scenes of blisses and kisses and arms wrapped tight around each other's necks, not for choking but for hoping that they can stay forever.

But these are not safety dreams that you wake and shake away.

These dreams are diabolically dangerous disrupting your...
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Written for, not by me. Written by Zanne.

He had catapults for
lips that fired devestating
direct hits on my
fortified soul-
He waged war on those
who had burdened his past -
he made martyrs out of
his memories
crucified those souls
who found a fondness
in Jesus -
saw me as Judas
pierced me like Brutus
perceived me as foolish
and fooled me into thinking...
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VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
hippomonki:
it is amazing that any one would write poer for you, or inspired by you even...
hehe
i am glad things went non bad for you, heres hoping things go better
E love
evildesade:
Take care of yourself, man.



-The Marquis
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Candyman

Candyman

I used to believe in morality, but all fables fade to a gray limbo where Santa Clause sips Christmas cheer from the Tooth Fairy's shiny metal skull. Love is toxic to the tastebuds when not heated to the proper 365 degrees and mixed with right amount of bathub moonshine and tightly tucked away cuddles in the corner of public-affection policemen's eyes...
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hippomonki:
cubist poet
cubist poet
cubist poet


MWAHAHAHA
E love
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Dust (aka The End of Intentions)

Fighting fire with fire never will rebuild shattered fragments of a
mirror to a home-built past that never looked like the picture in the
catalog anyway. It's all serial numbers etched into bones that only charr
and never get consumed, and the soul is running short on oxygen tanks. Too
many more backdrafts could kill it or at...
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notanemoboy:
you have a way of taking the ordinary and transforming it into a work of beauty. i dont know how else to say it. i wish i could give more/better but words are not my thing

ps
iron chef rules all
sloane1:
it's a mystery. cosmic forces propelled me towards your journal.

that, or I noticed your thread on critical theory in the lit group, and being a theory fan, clicked on your profile.

take your pick. tongue

[Edited on Nov 25, 2003 6:58PM]
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John Lennon is rather wrong.

All you need is NOT love.
VIEW 4 of 4 COMMENTS
fenris23:
All you need IS love but you have no idea HOW much love is necessary. Money is just easier.
sloane1:
They play Give Peace a Chance at my grocery show. Shame.
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Knights in White Satin

They said I reeked of purity,
said the word pure as if were dirty,
and the irony did not escape me
even as I inspected for vapor trails of
white steam shooting out of my ears
like a poor cartoon imitation of reality
drawing fluffy ink blot clouds of
paladins and noble steeds and Britny Spears's virginity
across the mind...
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hippomonki:
some one call the CDC skull
notanemoboy:
wow. nice.
good luck btw. wink
you know what i am talking about.
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I am so fucking in love.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
notanemoboy:
yeah dude... gimmie a msg or something
i'd love to hang out and get a cup of coffee or something
evildesade:
NO CUBE!!! Don't do it! Nooooooooooooooooo!



-The Marquis
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I have been victimized.

If you're especially sensitive,
I recommend that you cover your ears this evening,
because the tale that I'm about to spin into
is so... disgusting and repulsive that
you may find yourself rushing to the bathroom
to expel this morning's scrambled eggs and toast.

Ready? Thought I'm not sure that I am.

This morning.... I found....
a...
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hippomonki:
happybirthdaytoyou
well my largely verbose boy
happy friggin birthday
i hope all is well
and grand slam went well
if it has even happened yet
E :muse:
evildesade:
Whatever happened to just leaving a regular ol' journal entry?
It's all good though, stud.


-The Marquis