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Third partiesAlthough corporal cane kisses have come to an end, the helpful mentor has other ways of hurting you..and they don’t even take notice of it. The office of the principality pined for a friendship between the yard bull and the farmer when it saw the forceful nature of the former. Bitter enemies I am afraid to say….do not better or best of friends make. Third parties having a blast thinking they did good…it only goes downhill from there.
Arranged an unfortunate engage, get togethers beget get togethers the second involving a family about the hospital beds, after impact incoming…and of course it’s anyone but the perpetrators fault his mother believes "was just playing". "Doesn't know how, had a sad childhood", why start caring now, when you told him his absent father was dead when simply missing in action? The same man in his routine, rotations of professional retardations implied a coupling b
Review:The seventh sealThe seventh seal
The seventh seal is a 100 minute drama film directed by Ingmar Bergman. It centres on a Swedish knight who plays games of chess against the grim reaper, while also asking himself philosophical questions.
In the end I feel this film was essentially about the negative side of human nature, paranoia during plague times, crisis of faith, a man looking for his wife and also about in inevitability of death following you. Theres a clever bit where a hallucinating man sees or at least claims to see Mary and Jesus but this is put up against another image of a woman a child later on.
The black and white combined with the lighting, avant-guard style, zoom ins on crucifixes and most of all the guy who played the grim reaper give it a creepy feel. The flowery dialogue gives it the feel of something you might see in a theatre instead. The overall feel is poetry-esque , arty , experimental ,veering on pretentious and drawn out yet the content, acting lifts it all up. Still thou
PathwayThroughout all the ehs, the ohs, long silences and indecisions, like some sort of harem lord of Harlem you await choice to appear..but you’ve got no screens..so people have to suffice.
She approaches quizzing, inquisitive , asking, to discuss relations and as she angsts all you can do is imitate the dark, adult erotica you’d watch much later…a sketch of the situation only this is a case of emotional death….
Writing down the woman..grew too weary and so the pink pattered , patterned pathway , the half open garden gate, tricolours involving emerald, black, brown in that order next to the great green..post Roman romanticism..how could anyone be apathetic for such beauty..and then it hit me…it was the painting I was writing of her there..where I found her prettier and as much as the pathway sight…but only on paper….and that is why we could not combine…I loved an ima
Six Second Poem"We're all the same," she said. "Friend, tell me," she asked, "how are we different?"
For six seconds I paused, then I said:
Some of us ..
love more than we hate,
laugh more than we cry,
work harder than we play, but
live before we die.
Some of us don't.
And that, my friend, is how we are all different.
EasterRemember what you love,
you with sand in your teeth
and the feral burn of hunger
in your eyes.
God sends his regrets.
He made you grasping and slow,
in a late hour
when the wine washed low.
Remember what you love.
Fall to your knees in the toss
and the swell, quell
the appetite of the cold black sea.
Beg blessings for your home
and the salt-sick trees.
Reach what lies near:
the fat-faced child, the sweet-soft lamb;
tether the tantrum, trickle the blood.
Offer psalms to what is holy,
whisper the name of what you love
as it bobs in the bleak mad sea.
I've ForgottenWhen she died
I tied a knot in my stomach
so I would remember
but I've been so busy
trying to remember her dying
I forgot how to forget.
how to let go -
and the doctors said
they would cut me open
and snip her out
a blade between the bows
and the pain, would be gone
but I've forgotten
how to let go -
and I still don't want to.
love didn't matter, but home was with youi.
there's still shadows left of you
even with the
little that remains. i wish
sometimes the light
would stop it's singing long enough
for them to grow,
my heart spends enough
time aching when
just the photographs
show their faces.
you took me
to a wedding once - it was a cold
night, and the
of stars in the sky made
it seem like God's
breath was reaching out
to earth. i don't remember
the names of the two who
indefinitely, anymore, not
when the wind's taken
in it's hold; but i remember crying because
love's just so damn
hard to find, and you
found me instead behind
the rosebushes that
were too stained to be called
me that sometimes
love doesn't matter, and
i (did)n't want to
you asked me once if anything
mattered, a lighter
gracing one hand and a
cigarette lining your
lips. i wasn't
sure back then
and i don't know
if i am now
(but i think i want to say yes).
my body never felt
unarticulatedtonight I ask myself:
where are you going with all these names
in your pockets? syllables that taste
unauthentic in the desperate American
repression is a series of images
earthbound angels breathing
flame, starving hands speaking
in tongues, glazed eyes
asking are you fucking okay
pale skin becoming moonlight,
reflecting and refracting and
the quiet understatement
Diamond TearIn silence
I observe them
Laughing and having fun
While I'm in my corner
I feel out of place
I don't belong here
So I leave
And no one notices
Now I'm out on the street
A dark and silent one
Enjoying the breeze
Lost in my thoughts
Suddenly I hear a sob
And I look around
I see a girl
Sitting on a bench
A single diamond tear
Running down her face
I don't know her
No one else is around
I could just leave
But I can't
So I sit by her side and ask
Without looking her in the eyes
For a moment
And then she takes my hand
And we look
Into each other's eyes
And she whispers
The Elephant ManHe had elephant hands; swollen and tendered
by old age and wiping away childrens' crying
so they were leathered and carefully painted
with a veneer of the dust made by old books,
but when he read to me the pages didn't shake
and his throat didn't contract about the words
like they were enemies to be spat out, bloodied.
Lungs didn't shiver and eyes didn't milk, then.
Now, I see love ephemeral. I see love half-dead
and carving its riverbed path, slowly eroding;
until it can rejoin oceans once known in heaven.
Now, I see him ephemeral. I see him half-living.
I see the fear of burdenship as the only thing
that makes his eyes flicker how Pernod used to.
I see a beautiful, crumpled drawing of my hero
as my grandfather slips, wearily, back to sleep.
SafeI clasped my hand tight shut around my mothers.
I was a possessive oyster wrapped around pearly fingers
bitten white by the freshly whisked air.
We braced ourselves against the frozen metal frames
that, although unmovable by infantile hands,
were not a substantial enough barrier against a tempest.
The sea lashed out its limbs in a fury
and the sky’s face paled grey with worry
at what that grasping anger might achieve.
It rose to greet us, stood on mighty churning haunches
and collapsed heavily around our shoulders
with the dramatic violence of a dancer
crashing down upon a splintered Tibia.
It drenched us, filling mouths and ears with water.
My mother’s hand squeezed mine, comforting,
and as the sea drew back again,
preparing to strike out at us over and over
until its very exhaustion point – and over once more –
As it readied itself to slash our raincoats,
with the force of an evening spiralling into true darkness,
over and over –
for a moment the smell o
Oxtails (Collab w/ TwilightPoetess)Somewhere between oxen and orchid,
where cattails and foxgloves wilt and weep
at the parting of another fleeing day
and stormed cloud-castles mutiny
against the weight of the rocksalt moon;
somewhere between flightless and fading,
where faery circles and dandelion crowns fall--
somewhere, beneath bark mosaiced with age,
you will siphon the remains of my heart--
churned smooth by false hope’s abuse--
into dehydrated dirt that groans for it.
I will clot the crumbling veins of anthills
with the iron debris that was once us,
until I become orchid or foxglove once more.
Antarctica eminenceMy dear Antarctica eminence, drifting on a frozen dewdrop how do you take your sugar? Is it prepared with pepper at its prominence? But for reason unknown nor circumstance that will not permit you it is claimed to be the death of you my liege, that there is no greater fear than the taste of what the unseen God would have you become, how it fills you with disgust that the sole reason for your creation…was an avatar for what could never be…a fool’s fantasy..
You are not you..in essence you are an offspring, of shoot of at least in part, a bizarre metaphor presented in horror of your creators deepest introspections. Given the goal that “he” desired for “himself” that you have buried under a campaign of blind hatred, my dear Antarc
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More