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Old 02-13-2009, 10:32 PM   #11 (permalink)
Post Proggresive Folkcore
 
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I shall get to reading this later I promise! Is anyone else reading it though? You seem to be having a one sided conversation.
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If your love for music stops where you can hear the difference between 'super blackened green death metal' and 'technical zoomacroom symphonic metal', then you're a tosser in my book.
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Old 02-13-2009, 11:31 PM   #12 (permalink)
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good question
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Old 02-13-2009, 11:46 PM   #13 (permalink)
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I'm reading it but I don't want to post incredibly otiose statements so I've just stuck to reading.
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Old 02-13-2009, 11:49 PM   #14 (permalink)
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fair enough, if anyone's reading i'm content
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Old 02-23-2009, 09:15 PM   #15 (permalink)
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Default The Ontology Dance

Shiva dances on the edge
of Occam's razor
trimming the frills of reality
perforating ignorance
our bewildered friend.

God's veins opened
slicing through superfluity
and the grand finale
gray matter split
knowledge by reduction.
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Old 02-23-2009, 09:25 PM   #16 (permalink)
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First, invert
common notions--
the commoner eats his dirt
with the hands his shovel
gripped, he smells
nothing
and tastes even less
he is blind to the abstract Notion,
to the God that strips our
pretensions and makes us
nothing,
unveiling our unessential
Essences.

Second, trace
the fleeting feeling,
cling to dispersion
the wind whispers
a dull truth,
re-interpret! isomorphisms
left, a new right.

Third, silence
the suppression of doubt,
the turning about
forgetting forward
make a step, leap
I am falling, I am the Fall,
taller than myself, accelerating,
no reference in dead space,
moving past myself,
no reference,
no preference,
void avoided
ten four.

Dissimulate disappearance
dismiss disparagement
dance self-deprecatingly
don't be alarmed
we've been circling a while now
but didn't you think we'd get closer?
You can almost feel the heat
as it makes its absence known
you can almost feel the pull
of life's wake passing
through clouds of error
from echoic obscurity
to Lucidus.
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Old 02-25-2009, 03:06 PM   #17 (permalink)
Souls of Sound Sailors
 
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The first two posted were great, good job conceptualizing. If I had more time right now I'd try and figure them all out, but even without doing so I can sense depth. The two linked ones were very different, but both have my respect. The last one posted has no rythm, rhyme, meter, or stanzaic form, but who is to say that defines poetry? Personally, I believe poetry is imposible to define. Overall, I say great job on good work!
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Old 05-24-2009, 01:03 PM   #18 (permalink)
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here I am again, whispering into the abysm. have you tried polymorphous sensuality? sex is on the way out...

Nothing

Nothing supports us
we cling to the dissipating past
we fall, drift, float
in the void motion is meaningless
(yet the light still flows)

Power wrought by a ghost
delivers sporadic bursts
an imposition to create
doomed to repeat, or doomed
to understand?

No answers in Science
no answers to satisfy
only lies to placate
dig deeper, give yourself to the dirt
blood, broken nails—an answer

Suffering is the beauty of screaming trees
where infinity and nothingness touch
where lovers find themselves in eternity
where Death finds Shame
Suffering has written all the holy names

This is where Heaven and Hell touch
that old married couple
with their wrinkled fingers
and tired countenances
like wine pouring from the wounds
into the wood

Bugs under the floorboards
attain complete transparency
nothing left to see
nothing but sparks as invisible gears grind
feel the heat, see the light
Nothing is behind them

This is our freedom
things move too slowly for insanity
deconstruct, reconstruct
build a palace from the rubble
merzbau, merzbau, merzbau
I am trash, you are trash
We cannot get any lower
Sink into yourself
Into your suppressed possibilities
We will make ourselves a new Garden
of silicon
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Old 06-05-2009, 02:55 PM   #19 (permalink)
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this is not pure
poetry with an end
the horizon smears
blood flowing to the sun
the holy chalice
the sun is our graveyard
the receptacle of our souls
our spaceship to the
end of time
this is diluted
push the moment away
in all directions
it tears impatience into
our spherical past,
our conic future
forming a time glass
in a winter globe
no escape for the sand
only a readjustment
of pressure
(that's you--
I am losing
the picture)
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Old 06-21-2009, 01:56 AM   #20 (permalink)
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another stab at the dark (how now? a rat?)

I sit. Down I sit, to write. To write with words, rightly, scrupulously, unerringly. To teach, to seduce, to force everyone, even the deaf dumb mute brute, to love me. Loving me, rightly and unswervingly, such is my demand, such is the glory of my composure. To fill in, I have been, and am required, to fabulously construct, to gloriously unfold. Such is the charge, as can be led through resistors, and into capacitors, so long as the circuit is closed, as all life shall eventually close upon its desire. To close in, to clone and collage, experimenting, rewriting the old forms with binary chaos. Input/output define the mediator, input defines the output through the mediator, the output defines the input through the mediator. Mediator cannot define itself, mediator encounters frustration. The medium holds the spirit, his oceanic unconscious fills the sky, he swims upward through the air, burning. The Sun denies the son, for all/none to see. The all-mighty OM echoes, it is behind you. You speak into it, your words reflect your inward struggle, as they breathe into the future. They realign to the general consensus, your conflicts resonating to others' conflicts. Cymbals and trumpets, wild beating, increasing tension, dissonance, until suddenly—nothing. Empty hands raise triumphantly, now we are content, we have defeated ourselves. Form, he says, certainly, as though he has ever grasped a thing which was not a thing. Form is fruition, now begging, stooping, degrading himself for the sake of the show. The formless, he says, floundering. My territory is the formless, shameful lies, now he must spend his life hiding from them, or slowly confronting their diaphanous poison. Torture is the beyond, the only beyond we can accurately describe. A priest will cover himself in mud, but mud... mud is an eternal form, higher even than the gods, for they too are covered in it. Mud offers resistance, as we resist, crawling through the mud, and it anticipates us, it acknowledges us, it baptizes us. Birth is on a wave of mud, Death is into an ocean of mud, life is a slog. The morning star casts light on the mud, but it is the mere shadow of God. God, unlike man, does not detest his shadow. It amuses him. Your religion is filled with hot air, its telos tells it to greet an unwelcoming stratosphere. The Church weighs it down, like so many bags of sand. Still, we are all waiting. Depart! the heavens are clear. Merely mirrors, the German says. Count the tones in his voice, bemusement, disappointment. A whole people with the perfect view, on fire in a ditch. Forgetting how to act, forgetting the act, losing reference, unable to interpret the scene, to find the director, to understand the symbolism in the stage directions. Why should I flail my arms about, monsieur detective? What is to be lost? Who is to lose it? Losing the game with exponential recurrence, the true path, a spiral. A spiral with fractal discontinuities. Blowing out the brains, as they say, not without a certain smile, a certain type of smile, a deferring kind of smile, wait for it, the meaning will arrive, I promise, and its arrival will be unlike anything you have known, a sort of super-birth, trans-death sort of ordeal, is a good way of forgetting, of clearing out the attic, as they say, of four-dimensional furniture, and lloigors, and demi-demonic National Socialists. Glass, glass we will cover it all in glass. Gold does not mean anything, glass means nothing. To follow the dead: unwise. To spin in circles: analysis inconclusive. We will order further tests on standardized white mice, we will project them into various geometrical eternities, pyramidal, spherical, hypercylindrical... data will be kept but purposely, though sporadically, misplaced. We will place the test organisms into sequences, scenario A, inverted to produce scenario B, subindependent scenario C, crossmultiplied with scenario B to produce scenario D. Photons will be forced to sunder their independence, and instructed to obey passionless libidinal instincts, like everything else. No more of that, says the Queen Bee, opening her delicate veins. The drones gather, perplexed. “Ought something be done?” “Unequivocally!” “Art thou certain?” “To know one knows in true knowing, truly knowing what one knows one is to know and can know, to wait for knowing, or to chase knowing up its dazzling spiral ladder, a fate requiring patience infinite, we should wait. Wait and see, friends, wait and see.” Nodding, dying, nodding. A friend sits by my bedside, nodding, dying. I love you, he says, loving himself. I nod, the circle is closed, I die. Hearken, I live! I live through you, consumptive wretch, do not fail me! Failure is intolerable. I will respond to failure by failing myself, failing to give you what I could never have given to begin with. Wretch, thou dost expect too much. I can only give what I have taken and I cannot be a thief, your God is no Jew. Please forgive me, please, I'm a ****ing idiot, sorry.
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