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ChRnZN
Din of Doom
Registered: 12/21/08
Posts: 6,265
Loc: ADK
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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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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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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) |
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Awesome, nice contribution.
-------------------- Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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ChRnZN
Din of Doom
Registered: 12/21/08
Posts: 6,265
Loc: ADK
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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) |
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^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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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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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) |
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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.
-------------------- Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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clock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 9 seconds
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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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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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Yeah.
-------------------- Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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ChRnZN
Din of Doom
Registered: 12/21/08
Posts: 6,265
Loc: ADK
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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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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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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) |
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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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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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"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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Middleman
Registered: 07/11/99
Posts: 8,399
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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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ChRnZN
Din of Doom
Registered: 12/21/08
Posts: 6,265
Loc: ADK
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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) |
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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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DividedQuantum
Outer Head
Registered: 12/06/13
Posts: 9,851
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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) |
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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
-------------------- Vi Veri Universum Vivus Vici
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Deathby69
Хрусталёв, машину!
Registered: 08/21/16
Posts: 1,098
Last seen: 6 years, 6 months
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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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clock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 9 seconds
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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) |
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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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Deathby69
Хрусталёв, машину!
Registered: 08/21/16
Posts: 1,098
Last seen: 6 years, 6 months
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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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clock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 9 seconds
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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) |
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I got that from the poems of his that Dan Scneider has on his website Cosmoetica here.
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Deathby69
Хрусталёв, машину!
Registered: 08/21/16
Posts: 1,098
Last seen: 6 years, 6 months
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That last line, haha, wow.
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clock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 9 seconds
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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) |
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Yeah, it's pretty brutal. I quite enjoyed 'Is that lipstick on her nipples?'.
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Deathby69
Хрусталёв, машину!
Registered: 08/21/16
Posts: 1,098
Last seen: 6 years, 6 months
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'like ballistic missiles.'
I'm like, wtf is this?
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clock_of_omens
razzle them dazzle them
Registered: 04/10/14
Posts: 4,097
Last seen: 9 seconds
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Re: Post a poem you like [Re: Deathby69] 1
#24385561 - 06/07/17 02:59 PM (6 years, 9 months ago) |
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Haha, her boobs are pretty insane.
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