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working on this- just started, not finished. @falcon45ca any thoughts?

 

If I would lose my eyes,
I wouldn’t mourn the mountaintops
Nor the oceans nor the sunsets,
Nor would I weep for the fireworks
And other splendours I would miss;
But I would cry that I might never set
My eyes upon yours, or upon your form,
Ever again.

 

And if I would lose my ears,
I would not despair for the songs of the birds
Nor the music of men I would never again hear,
And nor would it be calamity than I couldn’t listen
To the sweet river-sounds as they pass by, gentle,
When we’re together hiking in the greens and thistle;
But what would make me woe and step with sorrow
Would be that I couldn’t then sense
The nurturing bliss of the singsong you say
When you wake me up every morrow,
Future and past and today.

 

If my nerves numbed,
I wouldn’t care for the grasses I couldn’t grasp
And run thumb through, pull at and feel strong.
The seasons gone then without trace,
Indiscernible from others: Winter is Summer
And Fall Spring: crumbling leaves of the Autumn
Touch the same as fresh ones in June
When there's nothing of the digits left working.
Nor would I push my hands to my face
For the thrill of the winds I couldn’t ever feel
Or the ocean spray or drip of rain;
But I would regret the grains of your hair
I’d never again through pass my fingers
And have them flash electric passion:
The wheat-field strands of my dearest,
Who has so nourished,
Would never nurture so much again.

 

And if when I grow old I become demented,
I will lose all memories of my father and dear mother;
And I will forget everything of my childhood.
I will not remember the friends and enemies I had,
Nor the neighbourhoods I lived in;
Jobs and duties will be gone from my head,
And I will not have care or control left for anything.
I will drift away slowly, months and years through,
Until I am gone empty, days before the day of end,
And all I haven’t forgotten is you.
 

Edited by 112
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1 hour ago, 112 said:

working on this- just started, not finished. @falcon45ca any thoughts?

 

If I would lose my eyes,
I wouldn’t mourn the mountaintops
Nor the oceans nor the sunsets,
Nor would I weep for the fireworks
And other splendours I would miss;
But I would cry that I might never set
My eyes upon yours, or upon your form,
Ever again.

 

And if I would lose my ears,
I would not despair for the songs of the birds
Nor the music of men I would never again hear,
And nor would it be calamity than I couldn’t listen
To the sweet river-sounds as they pass by, gentle,
When we’re together hiking in the greens and thistle;
But what would make me woe and step with sorrow
Would be that I couldn’t then sense
The nurturing bliss of the singsong you say
When you wake me up every morrow,
Future and past and today.

 

If my nerves numbed,
I wouldn’t care for the grasses I couldn’t grasp
And run thumb through, pull at and feel strong.
The seasons gone then without trace,
Indiscernible from others: Winter is Summer
And Fall Spring: crumbling leaves of the Autumn
Touch the same as fresh ones in June
When there's nothing of the digits left working.
Nor would I push my hands to my face
For the thrill of the winds I couldn’t ever feel
Or the ocean spray or drip of rain;
But I would regret the grains of your hair
I’d never again through pass my fingers
And have them flash electric passion:
The wheat-field strands of my dearest,
Who has so nourished,
Would never nurture so much again.

 

And if when I grow old I become demented,
I will lose all memories of my father and dear mother;
And I will forget everything of my childhood.
I will not remember the friends and enemies I had,
Nor the neighbourhoods I lived in;
Jobs and duties will be gone from my head,
And I will not have care or control left for anything.
I will drift away slowly, months and years through,
Until I am gone empty, days before the day of end,
And all I haven’t forgotten is you.
 

This is beautiful. Truly.

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  • 2 months later...

--Relinquish, renegades! Give...

The jangling of keys and keychains ran over his voice and fragmented its prehension. Words: 'stop,' 'cutting,' lots of cusses heard too, the grammar uncertain. There were footsteps, many, all chanting in scramble and rushed cadence, some chasing others, apparently, around in unappealing hallways in some building that looked medical from the inside, its outside unknown in location. Kip threw a stone he conjured into existence with his magickal abilities back at one of the &^@#ers and got him in the knee. --&^@#, he screamed loudly. They all kept running, lungs burning, panting in an excess unfortunately demanded by the grim circumstances.

--Kip,--said Chelsey,--why couldn't you have talked with me about that time we were playing tic-tac-toe? I thought there was a spark there, the game /seemed/ sexual, but then nothing ever happened again. I know you let me win; you wanted me to win. Why?

--Chelsey, I...

There was an explosion, debris flying through the corridor in large and many chunks, avoiding everyone's heads, organs and majorly vulnerable parts but dusting the air. Bernie appeared, when the dust settled, through the hole made in the wall. He took his sunglasses off and smiled, saying something. The &^@#er was alive. What a legend.

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20 minutes ago, 112 said:

--Relinquish, renegades! Give...

The jangling of keys and keychains ran over his voice and fragmented its prehension. Words: 'stop,' 'cutting,' lots of cusses heard too, the grammar uncertain. There were footsteps, many, all chanting in scramble and rushed cadence, some chasing others, apparently, around in unappealing hallways in some building that looked medical from the inside, its outside unknown in location. Kip threw a stone he conjured into existence with his magickal abilities back at one of the &^@#ers and got him in the knee. --&^@#, he screamed loudly. They all kept running, lungs burning, panting in an excess unfortunately demanded by the grim circumstances.

--Kip,--said Chelsey,--why couldn't you have talked with me about that time we were playing tic-tac-toe? I thought there was a spark there, the game /seemed/ sexual, but then nothing ever happened again. I know you let me win; you wanted me to win. Why?

--Chelsey, I...

There was an explosion, debris flying through the corridor in large and many chunks, avoiding everyone's heads, organs and majorly vulnerable parts but dusting the air. Bernie appeared, when the dust settled, through the hole made in the wall. He took his sunglasses off and smiled, saying something. The &^@#er was alive. What a legend.

@Master Radishes - what do you think of my deus ex machina? is it everything you hate?

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On 10/16/2019 at 12:09 PM, 112 said:

working on this- just started, not finished. @falcon45ca any thoughts?

 

If I would lose my eyes,
I wouldn’t mourn the mountaintops
Nor the oceans nor the sunsets,
Nor would I weep for the fireworks
And other splendours I would miss;
But I would cry that I might never set
My eyes upon yours, or upon your form,
Ever again.

 

And if I would lose my ears,
I would not despair for the songs of the birds
Nor the music of men I would never again hear,
And nor would it be calamity than I couldn’t listen
To the sweet river-sounds as they pass by, gentle,
When we’re together hiking in the greens and thistle;
But what would make me woe and step with sorrow
Would be that I couldn’t then sense
The nurturing bliss of the singsong you say
When you wake me up every morrow,
Future and past and today.

 

If my nerves numbed,
I wouldn’t care for the grasses I couldn’t grasp
And run thumb through, pull at and feel strong.
The seasons gone then without trace,
Indiscernible from others: Winter is Summer
And Fall Spring: crumbling leaves of the Autumn
Touch the same as fresh ones in June
When there's nothing of the digits left working.
Nor would I push my hands to my face
For the thrill of the winds I couldn’t ever feel
Or the ocean spray or drip of rain;
But I would regret the grains of your hair
I’d never again through pass my fingers
And have them flash electric passion:
The wheat-field strands of my dearest,
Who has so nourished,
Would never nurture so much again.

 

And if when I grow old I become demented,
I will lose all memories of my father and dear mother;
And I will forget everything of my childhood.
I will not remember the friends and enemies I had,
Nor the neighbourhoods I lived in;
Jobs and duties will be gone from my head,
And I will not have care or control left for anything.
I will drift away slowly, months and years through,
Until I am gone empty, days before the day of end,
And all I haven’t forgotten is you.
 

This is brilliant!  Brought tears to my eyes.  

Thank you for sharing @112

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On December 27, 2019 at 2:09 AM, Master Radishes said:

Nah, it's an acceptable level. I take more issue with the lack of quotation marks. Punctuation has a purpose. You may as well just not use commas or periods. :frantic:

WOW, can't believe you'd say that.

 

You're probably right, but I like it this way. :/ It looks better to me.

 

Maybe I should adjust.

 

--'Hilary said to go vote,' said Seth.

 

?

 

I like the -- for some reason; maybe it's just me being pretentious, and if it is that's fine because i want to be expressly pretentious.

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Tuesday is for drinkin',

Won't you lend me a hand?

 

Been left off dead for certain,

Some folk won't understand

 

Stick the needle sideways,

& scream thru the pain

 

Always ever drowning

When I'm stuck in the rain

 

Then it feels, yes it feels

                   It's all I've ever wanted

& you stay, while I pray

                    My ghost is still left haunted

 

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Ivory pressed down by technical fingers

And then released

Sent off ringing sounds, like cockroaches-in-ear,

Through the pipes of the organ,

Rattling, not ceasing

In the strange cry of Church-stuff: its instruments, the acoustics of the walls--

Everything hates him here, man-of-no-gods--

Shrilly weeping at him, almost as if laughter, going for as long as he played and longer

When he got up and they were left to vibrate until time killed it, the damn noise,

The noise that felt like his thoughts and made them more them when he heard it;

And he was done, forgotten, bitter and dying,

Playing bad music without an audience

In the house of nothing he believed in.

 

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It was one of her games: a swindling seductress, giving clues, making him think they might lead somewhere, when after all, the thrill to her was the non-ending path, every anticlimax, the shifting labyrinth of gestures and winks, tugs and pulls, pushes and jabs that only lead to void in every sequence. She cared about the way there,--nothing else,--and so getting to a specified 'there' with her wasn't possible, any 'there's she hinted at not really existing, everything with her only another layer of the imaginary. The pink drink she sipped on seemed chilled and was slushy, some sort of vodka and juice, and she was getting drunk more quickly than she intended to, starting toward conversational playfulness more open than was her usual tell in a lightless room.

Edited by 112
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Often time we find ourselves, not where we left off, but where we've never set foot. Mired upon roads slick with spit & blood & the tears of the fallen, we disjointedly heave ourselves upon the pillar of our own self-sacrifice, left to find self-loathing our only constant companion. The frost quickens, the breath hot & shallow as our bones crack like dried branches beneath our feet. Has it always been this way, or have we simply forgotten what once was & will never return?

 

The end comes shortly after the beginning, seemingly skipping the middle altogether. Caught, like rabbits in a snare, we twist & shake at our shackles, wondering if there is some form of reciprocity tied to our suffering. Linked, as a chain, we find ourselves bound to each other - the first, the last, the lesser & the greater, each entangled in some sickly sweet cosmic ballet.

 

Devoured by wolves, our limbs strewn about as we litter the forest floor with our corpses, one wonders, why? A click, a clack, the snicker-snack of Carroll's woes leaves one to wonder at the misery of it all. If it's gone, baby it's gone...our existential conflict a mockery of our deluded sense of justice. My eye for your house? Your hair for my home.

 

It's time to go now, perhaps it never was. Truth becomes subjective once uttered, & lies become truth once observed. It's time to go now, so long & so goodbye. It's time to go.

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"Here again," she said in a short soliloquy that wasn't her own but some author Anonymous's; the world was resetting to the time of new outlooks, crossroads and dead chapters, nothing learned and nothing new under ye olde celestial bodies, but for a little while she would be outside of it, above more than below, remembering things she'd forgotten, thinking of the other times she was here--the cataclysms of being, the shatterings, the ecstasies, a mental heaven and hell occurring at the same time... as if God built a prison for her inspired by a restaurant whose owner was either very cheeky or highly oblivious. "Heaven and Hell: Mexican Roulette-traunt," or a Hooters spin-off of that name serving hospital cafeteria food would make sense as inspirations for her particular manifest of suffering-cross-pleasure, at least right now, she was telling people lately. When anyone would ask her what she meant, she referred them to Jeeves and ran 50% odds of flipping them off too.

Edited by 112
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On 10/16/2019 at 12:09 PM, 112 said:

working on this- just started, not finished. @falcon45ca any thoughts?

 

If I would lose my eyes,
I wouldn’t mourn the mountaintops
Nor the oceans nor the sunsets,
Nor would I weep for the fireworks
And other splendours I would miss;
But I would cry that I might never set
My eyes upon yours, or upon your form,
Ever again.

 

And if I would lose my ears,
I would not despair for the songs of the birds
Nor the music of men I would never again hear,
And nor would it be calamity than I couldn’t listen
To the sweet river-sounds as they pass by, gentle,
When we’re together hiking in the greens and thistle;
But what would make me woe and step with sorrow
Would be that I couldn’t then sense
The nurturing bliss of the singsong you say
When you wake me up every morrow,
Future and past and today.

 

If my nerves numbed,
I wouldn’t care for the grasses I couldn’t grasp
And run thumb through, pull at and feel strong.
The seasons gone then without trace,
Indiscernible from others: Winter is Summer
And Fall Spring: crumbling leaves of the Autumn
Touch the same as fresh ones in June
When there's nothing of the digits left working.
Nor would I push my hands to my face
For the thrill of the winds I couldn’t ever feel
Or the ocean spray or drip of rain;
But I would regret the grains of your hair
I’d never again through pass my fingers
And have them flash electric passion:
The wheat-field strands of my dearest,
Who has so nourished,
Would never nurture so much again.

 

And if when I grow old I become demented,
I will lose all memories of my father and dear mother;
And I will forget everything of my childhood.
I will not remember the friends and enemies I had,
Nor the neighbourhoods I lived in;
Jobs and duties will be gone from my head,
And I will not have care or control left for anything.
I will drift away slowly, months and years through,
Until I am gone empty, days before the day of end,
And all I haven’t forgotten is you.
 

This is brilliantly moving and beautiful.  Wow, wish I could write like this.  Fantastic.

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16 hours ago, debluvscanucks said:

This is brilliantly moving and beautiful.  Wow, wish I could write like this.  Fantastic.

Thank you, Deb. :) I appreciate the compliments.

 

I know you know that most things are practice. I'm not particularly good at writing in all honesty, although it's very fun to try to be better. I think it's just easy for me to impress people because I didn't shy away from working to be better over a long period of time. I always encourage people to take up creative outlets if they don't have any--I'm much more fulfilled as a person having taken up writing and music, and I'm sure you'll find if you enjoy what you're doing and dedicate a modest amount of time to it, you'll be in a position where people say the same things to you on the reg. What holds an individual back in a lot of what they do (we've all done this and more than once) is that they approach something but don't know exactly where to start and it shies them away from continuing with it. But there's resources for everything, and it's never going to be a damaging thing to you to just try something on your own and let the synapses fire, to speak like a YA author.

 

To quote someone from the extra-site Mafia community (parodying Michael Jordan): "I've mislynched more than 9,000 fellow townies in my career. I've lost almost 300 games. 26 times I've been trusted to vote last in F3 and missed. I've failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed." ~ NAC Jordan

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  • 2 weeks later...

"Set mast and sail and set shore behind;

The merits of this land are what we bring to new,

And the lees be left with same-heritage kind."

And the cloth in the wind did flap as it blew,

So the captain told us the air and the sea were together,

Same as above as below, waves through our hair and lungs,

To the fish as ours, and to the ship we trust our life to

What save us might from hell's nether, lest we're wrung

In a whirlpool or sung into slumber near rocks bidding us our due,

The isolation of the sea driving us to lock and tether

Or the narcissism, the arrogance of us "Argonauts"

Offending Jove to strike us new, our skin to leather.

 

bleh. an exercise at least.

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On 1/20/2020 at 3:02 PM, 112 said:

"Set mast and sail and set shore behind;

The merits of this land are what we bring to new,

And the lees be left with same-heritage kind."

And the cloth in the wind did flap as it blew,

So the captain told us the air and the sea were together,

Same as above as below, waves through our hair and lungs,

To the fish as ours, and to the ship we trust our life to

What save us might from hell's nether, lest we're wrung

In a whirlpool or sung into slumber near rocks bidding us our due,

The isolation of the sea driving us to lock and tether

Or the narcissism, the arrogance of us "Argonauts"

Offending Jove to strike us new, our skin to leather.

 

bleh. an exercise at least.

The imagery, direct & powerful language...it's active & primal. It's very exciting to read, & I want more of this speaker's perspective. 

 

It doesn't feel finished.

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14 hours ago, falcon45ca said:

The imagery, direct & powerful language...it's active & primal. It's very exciting to read, & I want more of this speaker's perspective. 

 

It doesn't feel finished.

Thanks G. It's a sort of mimicry of the Homer-Virgil-Dante-Milton-Pound epic poem thing, or at least an attempt to start one, so definitely not close to being finished in the sense of its intention, and you're right that what i have needs touching up.

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