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InvisibleChRnZN
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: DividedQuantum] * 3
    #24290647 - 05/02/17 07:14 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

Dionysus

by Aleister Crowley

I bring ye wine from above,
From the vats of the storied sun;
For every one of yer love,
And life for every one.
Ye shall dance on hill and level;
Ye shall sing in hollow and height
In the festal mystical revel,
The rapurous Bacchanal rite!
The rocks and trees are yours,
And the waters under the hill,
By the might of that which endures,
The holy heaven of will!
I kindle a flame like a torrent
To rush from star to star;
Your hair as a comet’s horrent,
Ye shall see things as they are!
I lift the mask of matter;
I open the heart of man;
For I am of force to shatter
The cast that hideth -Pan!
Your loves shall lap up slaughter,
And dabbled with roses of blood
Each desperate darling daughter
Shall swim in the fervid flood.
I bring ye laughter and tears,
The kisses that foam and bleed,
The joys of a million years,
The flowers that bear no seed.
My life is bitter and sterile,
Its flame is a wandering star.
Ye shall pass in pleasure and peril
Across the mystic bar
That is set for wrath and weeping
Against the children of earth;
But ye in singing and sleeping
Shall pass in measure and mirth!
I lift my wand and wave you
Through hill to hill of delight :
My rosy rivers lave you
In innermost lustral light..
I lead you, lord of the maze,
In the darkness free of the sun;
In spite of the spite that is day’s
We are wed, we are wild, we are one.

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InvisibleDividedQuantumM
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: ChRnZN] * 1
    #24290656 - 05/02/17 07:17 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

Awesome, nice contribution. :smile:


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InvisibleChRnZN
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: ChRnZN] * 3
    #24290678 - 05/02/17 07:29 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

^Thanks

Shit List

by Boyd Rice

If ever I catch me a deadly disease
I'll declare open season on my enemies
And I'll hunt them down and I'll make them pay
For the wretched things they do and they say

For I never forgive and I never forget
In times healing grace doesn't soothe me one bit

He who wrongs me with words or who wrongs me with deeds
has sown a very bitter seed
And can rest assured - my desire runs deep
That as they sow so shall they reap

So I'm making a list and I'm checking it twice
I'll remember with ease who's been naughty or nice
So if you're on my shit list, it's not over yet
I never forgive and I never forget.

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InvisibleDividedQuantumM
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: ChRnZN] * 1
    #24304644 - 05/08/17 12:55 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

Fishing in the Keep of Silence

by Linda Gregg


There is a hush now while the hills rise up
and God is going to sleep. He trusts the ship
of Heaven to take over and proceed beautifully
as he lies dreaming in the lap of the world.
He knows the owls will guard the sweetness
of the soul in their massive keep of silence,
looking out with eyes open or closed over
the length of Tomales Bay that the egrets
conform to, whitely broad in flight, white
and slim in standing. God, who thinks about
poetry all the time, breathes happily as He
repeats to Himself: there are fish in the net,
lots of fish this time in the net of the heart.


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Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici

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Onlineclock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
I'm a teapot

Registered: 04/10/14
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: DividedQuantum] * 2
    #24308397 - 05/09/17 10:47 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

After Apple-Picking

Robert Frost

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.

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InvisibleDividedQuantumM
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: clock_of_omens] * 1
    #24309257 - 05/10/17 09:42 AM (6 years, 10 months ago)

Yeah. :thumbup:


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InvisibleChRnZN
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: DividedQuantum] * 3
    #24316891 - 05/13/17 03:12 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

Knowing

by Thomas Ligotti

Before you existed,
before anything existed,
nobody knows what existed.

This was a long time ago.

Then something happened
that started other things happening
and later on you happened.

This was not so long ago.

Someday it may all just stop
or it may never ever stop.
Start, stop, start, stop.

Nobody knows how long.

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InvisibleDividedQuantumM
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: ChRnZN] * 1
    #24319831 - 05/14/17 08:57 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

In a Prominent Bar in Secaucus One Day

by X. J. Kennedy


In a prominent bar in Secaucus one day
Rose a lady in skunk with a topheavy sway,
Raised a knobby red finger–all turned from their beer–
While with eyes bright as snowcrust she sang high and clear:

‘Now who of you'd think from an eyeload of me
That I once was a lady as proud as could be?
Oh I'd never sit down by a tumbledown drunk
If it wasn't, my dears, for the high cost of junk.

‘All the gents used to swear that the white of my calf
Beat the down of the swan by a length and a half.
In the kerchief of linen I caught to my nose
Ah, there never fell snot, but a little gold rose.

‘I had seven gold teeth and a toothpick of gold,
My Virginia cheroot was a leaf of it rolled
And I'd light it each time with a thousand in cash–
Why the bums used to fight if I flicked them an ash.

‘Once the toast of the Biltmore, the belle of the Taft,
I would drink bottle beer at the Drake, never draught,
And dine at the Astor on Salisbury steak
With a clean tablecloth for each bite I did take.

‘In a car like the Roxy I'd roll to the track,
A steel-guitar trio, a bar in the back,
And the wheels made no noise, they turned ever so fast,
Still it took you ten minutes to see me go past.

‘When the horses bowed down to me that I might choose,
I bet on them all, for I hated to lose.
Now I'm saddled each night for my butter and eggs
And the broken threads race down the backs of my legs.

‘Let you hold in mind, girls, that your beauty must pass
Like a lovely white clover that rusts with its grass.
Keep your bottoms off barstools and marry you young
Or be left–an old barrel with many a bung.

‘For when time takes you out for a spin in his car
You'll be hard-pressed to stop him from going too far
And be left by the roadside, for all your good deeds,
Two toadstools for tits and a face full of weeds.'

All the house raised a cheer, but the man at the bar
Made a phone call and up pulled a red patrol car
And she blew us a kiss as they copped her away
From that prominent bar in Secaucus, N.J.


--------------------
Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici

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InvisibleDividedQuantumM
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: DividedQuantum] * 2
    #24335284 - 05/20/17 09:47 AM (6 years, 10 months ago)

"Nothing I Can Do About It Now"

by Willie Nelson


I've got a long list of real good reasons
For all the things I've done
I've got a picture in the back of my mind
Of what I've lost and what I've won

I've survived every situation
Knowing when to freeze and when to run
And regret is just a memory written on my brow
And there's nothing I can do about it now.

I've got a wild and a restless spirit
I held my price through every deal
I've seen the fire of a woman scorned
Turn her heart of gold to steel

I've got the song of the voice inside me
Set to the rhythm of the wheel
And I've been dreaming like a child
Since the cradle broke the bow
And there's nothing I can do about it now.

Running through the changes
Going through the stages
Coming round the corners in my life
Leaving doubt to fate
Staying out too late
Waiting for the moon to say goodnight

And I could cry for the time I've wasted
But that's a waste of time and tears
And I know just what I'd change
If I went back in time somehow
But there's nothing I can do about it now.

I'm forgiving everything that forgiveness will allow
And there's nothing I can do about it now


--------------------
Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici

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InvisibleMiddlemanM

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Posts: 8,399
Re: Post a poem you like [Re: DividedQuantum] * 2
    #24346601 - 05/24/17 04:18 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years

Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l’entre deux guerres
Trying to learn to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it.  And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion.  And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate – but there is no competition –
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again:  and now, under conditions
That seep unpropitious.  But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us there is only the trying.  The rest is not our business.

Home is where one starts from.  As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living.  Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.

Old men ought to be explorers
Here and there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise.  In my end is my beginning.

T.S. Eliot, from “East Coker”, V

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InvisibleChRnZN
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Middleman] * 2
    #24346912 - 05/24/17 06:15 PM (6 years, 10 months ago)

So when the Sun in bed,
Curtain'd with cloudy red,
  Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave,
The flocking shadows pale,
Troop to th'infernall jail,
  Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave,
And the yellow-skirted Fayes,
Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov'd maze.

from John Milton's "Hymn On The Morning of Christ's Nativity"

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InvisibleDividedQuantumM
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: ChRnZN] * 1
    #24357475 - 05/28/17 08:38 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

Metamorphose. An object is cut off from its name,
habits, associations. Detached, it becomes only
the thing, in and of itself. When this disintegration
into pure existence is at last achieved, the object
is free to become endlessly anything.

The subject says "I see first lots of things
which dance . . . then everything becomes gradually
connected."

                                                    --Jim Morrison, The Lords and the New Creatures


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OfflineDeathby69
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: DividedQuantum] * 2
    #24367689 - 06/01/17 11:57 AM (6 years, 9 months ago)

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

~ William Butler Yeats


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Onlineclock_of_omens
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I'm a teapot

Registered: 04/10/14
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Deathby69] * 2
    #24382763 - 06/06/17 03:13 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

Here's the painting it's based on.

The Girlie Show
by David George

––an oil on canvas by Edward Hopper, 1941

More like an ikon of Byzantine intent,
The stiff, hieratic attitude reflects
Nefrititi in the nude, her hair
Reddened with henna, her cheeks with actor's rouge.

Is that lipstick on her nipples? Her breasts
Forge ahead like the prows of battleships
Not exactly dancing over the waves,
Probing the night air like ballistic missiles.

A prehistoric bird of prey, she strides
Across a naked stage in a pool of light
That follows every jerky movement she makes.

The drummer in the pit beneath her feet
Has turned away, as if he knows by rote
Each step she takes, each bump and grind, each turn.

2.  The latest hits

He doesn't have to look at her, to keep
The driving beat, the tattoo of a stick
Upon obliging skin. He sets the pace,
The rate at which she moves, as if his hands

Were on the quick, invisible strings attached
To head and toe, to each mechanical limb––
Even the message centers in her brain.
The drummer is the man that makes her move

Across the stage, no matter what her mood.
The drummer is the man she learns to love
Above all others, the only man she obeys.

How effortless––the way the drummer plays
The latest hits with slender, stuttering sticks––
And she responds with twitches, grunts and groans.

3.  A star upon a stage

Didn't another, a famous dancer, respond
To flute and drum upon a distant stage?
What was it about her, that set her apart from this
Burlesque dancer, whose strident movements seem

Contra naturum––: the harsh, discordant drum
Inviting her to step into a light
That leaves her nothing to herself, that steals
The last small shred of what she was about

Before a drummer turned her out, before
She became a star upon a stage?
Now she starts and stops upon command––

A puppet on a string that tugs at her
Incessantly, as if she were nothing but
A ticket-taker, a temple prostitute.

4.  Strutting her stuff

Why did this careful painter endow her with
Such a set of boobs? He must have seen
The bulbous shape of rubber bicycle horns
That squawk when squeezed. Did his enormous hands

Yearn to make a barnyard sound? And why
Did Jo––his wife of many years––remark
How closely did the dancer's legs resemble
Her very own (although she was the model)––;

As if a part of Hopper's wife were up there
Strutting her stuff, letting it all hang out.
She must have noticed that her husband centered

The dancer's navel at a point half-way
North and south, and nearly coinciding
East and west in the center of the stage.

5.  Once Rubenesque

She doesn't slink. She whips her body out
In sullen arcs that dart about as she moves.
Her stance, however, does not disguise the wings
Lurking under her skin, that flow behind

Like some repellant, reptilian thing.
But far beyond the dancer and the drummer,
The hoots and jeers, the ripples of applause,
Another sound––the flute and drum––invade

These nightly invocations to the gods
Of here and now, the fleshy gods of burlesque
That turn their backs on her, as the drummer did

When she became––even for him––too profane;
When her flesh, once Rubenesque, became
The flayed carcass of Rembrandt's famous ox.

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OfflineDeathby69
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: clock_of_omens] * 1
    #24385458 - 06/07/17 02:25 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

Wow.

To note:
Quote:

contra naturam
:  against nature :  not in accordance with the natural order or with religiously sanctioned normality




Belly button, and other, more salient facts about the picture.
Jeez, never understood the disgust of porn until now. Hm.

Which David George is this? Cannot find.


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Onlineclock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
I'm a teapot

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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Deathby69] * 2
    #24385489 - 06/07/17 02:40 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

I got that from the poems of his that Dan Scneider has on his website Cosmoetica here.

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OfflineDeathby69
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: clock_of_omens] * 1
    #24385507 - 06/07/17 02:48 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

That last line, haha, wow.


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Onlineclock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
I'm a teapot

Registered: 04/10/14
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Deathby69] * 1
    #24385522 - 06/07/17 02:50 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

Yeah, it's pretty brutal. I quite enjoyed 'Is that lipstick on her nipples?'.

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OfflineDeathby69
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: clock_of_omens] * 1
    #24385538 - 06/07/17 02:53 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

'like ballistic missiles.'

I'm like, wtf is this?


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Onlineclock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
I'm a teapot

Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 9 seconds
Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Deathby69] * 1
    #24385561 - 06/07/17 02:59 PM (6 years, 9 months ago)

Haha, her boobs are pretty insane.

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