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Love StoryThree magic words whispered,
Got her dainty heart conquered,
Their orator being a gallant youth,
Gentleman by sight but heartbreaker in truth,
Who came claiming his weakness,
For the damsel he called a goddess,
His early attempts being shy,
It was his way of being sly,
Lavishing her with sweet words,
Made her think they were lovebirds,
While he sought nothing but attention,
The stroke to his ego and gratification,
He’d come as a handsome surprise,
A deceiver in Romeo’s disguise,
Plotting to take advantage,
Of her beauty and young age,
In ways she’d never even sense,
The hypocrisy in his deference,
His two-facedness she saw not,
For in love her wits she forgot,
Never minding his reputation of flirt,
Nor realizing his intents of dirt,
Thus gave she her entire trust,
To a player so full of lust,
Blinded by his strong passion,
Being nothing but pretension,
His interest dying with time,
Till tedious turned his pastime,
Then came the great betrayal,
Of any love his definite
OverthinkingI am lost in the maze,
Of my mind,
The tracks of thoughts,
Are clouded by haze,
The way I can’t find,
At a high rate,
One figment planted,
It spreads and,
More and more,
More than before,
There’s no coming back,
To the seed,
It’s a one-way track,
Further down it’ll lead,
It’s a pit,
There’s no limit,
In the abyss of my mind,
Of all sorts,
But I leave it all behind,
Daring not acknowledge,
Anything, it purports,
Nothing, to you,
To me too,
So, come save,
Me, from the abyss,
Of my imagination,
Dark as a cave,
I am lost,
Of overthinking it’s the cost.
La moraleL’homme se mit à réfléchir sur ce qu’il n’avait jamais jadis réfléchit: la morale. Certes, c’était là un sujet d’une complexité énorme; le grand point d’interrogation de tous philosophes et philosophies. Néanmoins, c’était pour tous les hommes, une chose (Je dis bien ‘chose’, car nulle définition ne peut faire justice à la véritable signification du mot.) dont le savoir et la conformité fussent d’une nécessité absolue. C’était pourtant absurde qu’on accordait tant d’importance à ce qu’on comprenait à peine. Et comment puis-je juger qu’on le comprenait à peine? Eh bien, il fallait simplement demander la question: « Qu’est-ce la morale ? » Comme réponses, de longues théories ou un silence total suffisaient comme preuve qu
L'Ancien poeteL’ancien poète désespéré trouva refuge dans le fond de son verre. Le vin fut pour lui la tisane qui dissipa de gorgée à gorgée sa douleur, issue de sa grande perte d’inspiration poétique. Il espéra reconquérir dans l’ivresse les rimes qu’il avait autrefois délaissées pour la réalité. En effet, il avait appris que cette dernière était loin de ce que décrivaient les poètes et les poèmes, et, voulant faire face aux choses réelles, décida de renoncer à son fanatisme d’art : il cessa d’écrire. Hélas, ce fut son plus grave erreur. La penne posée, il reçut très mal la vérité de la vie, et il comprit alors qu’il valait mieux s’illusionner dans des rimes que de vivre une si cruelle réalité. Mais l’aisance de l’
The Common ManThe common man was a man stuffed with suppressed emotions; emotions that, if let out, could lead to disastrous ends. But once suppressed, their ardor didn’t just cease, for it was merely a matter of temporary quietening and the deferral of their outburst; like that wailing baby who gets diverted for seconds by a newfound toy, but whose cries take up sooner or later. Except that in the case of the common man, the consequences could go well beyond that, even to the extent of theft, murder, rape, incest and whatnot or yet, why not? After all the common man by nature was human, and humans by nature are beastly. There is but little morality when it comes to visceral drives. And so, the muffled vehemence, buried somewhere in the corners of his soul, still abided; like a chained beast locked in a dungeon, whose howls and growls and thirst to go off the deep end resonated only as an agitated throbbing. In fact, the common man had learned to appease and live with the beast inside hi
La Derniere Goutte de VinJe viens d’avaler la dernière goutte de vin. J’ai mal à la gorge, c’est comme si elle était en feu. C’est la première fois que je picole, et je sens que je deviens déjà accro. Mais il est tard dans la nuit, et le bar va bientôt fermer. Il vaut mieux que je rentre.
Le volant glisse entre mes mains. Mon champ visuel se rétrécit, et devant moi le monde s’embrume tellement que je ne peux distinguer clairement les feux de circulation. Est-ce le rouge? Je cherche le frein, mais je sens soudain mes jambes paralysées. J’essaie de les bouger, trop tard, je l’ai déjà dépassé, ce maudit feux rouge. J’entend un klaxon. Deux, trois, milles klaxons, mais qu’ont-ils, ces chauffeurs? Ils me pètent la tête. Peut-être que je conduis trop lentement, je ferai mieux d’accélérer un peu plus.
J’aurai dû être déjà à la maison. Ai-je pris la mauvaise route? Les klaxons s’augmentent; le sommeil et la fatigue m’étourdisent. J’ape
Decay IIIt is I fear,
The dying of my quill,
Inking its last words into a smear,
To mark the end of my skill,
It is at last,
The time to leave behind,
Verse and rhyme that define my past,
To let live the mind,
It is, it is…
The fall of my crown,
Won by my prosodies,
The craft I now disown,
It is today,
The final stroke of my pen,
In chain rhymes written.
DecayIt is with great difficulty,
That I drop these lines,
Have I lost my faculty?
My tact declines,
Never a hitch,
But they're an itch,
In these times,
Too long a pause,
This was my cause,
Life, a burden,
Now I'm back,
To pen and ink,
No matter if I lack,
Capacity to think,
But I lose my way,
It's the decay,
Of my imagination.
ValhallaIgnorant of that celestial voyage,
That would succeed the carnage,
The path of valkyries we pursued,
In the name of 'einherjar' valued,
Risen again amongst the chosen,
From death, in Asgard to be driven,
No, not in Freyja's meadowy field,
But where swords we'd again wield,
Why, fighters were we, so shall we remain,
For Odin awaits, uniting the slain,
In Valhalla, the hall of armament,
Where prevails the want for vanquishment,
There rules for all a sole principle,
To survive Ragnarök and its battle,
Blessing of golden Glasir we seek,
For strength when we're weak,
Of the lone fighters such is the fate,
Behind the doors of the ancient gate,
Valhalla, under the eye of wolf and eagle,
Has a god and an army for the struggle.
Il est temps de partir, infants de l’aube grise
Il est temps de savoir, ou d’aller à la brise
Nous fûmes sœurs de sang, d’âme et parfois de corps
Mais la nuit nous priva du repos dû aux morts.
Comme la feuille au vent, nos racines sont sèches
Fiancées aux tombeaux froids, mariées aux ravins rêches ;
Sous le soleil Corinthe, et Athènes et la Pnyx
Sous la lune le Nord, et l’horizon d’onyx.
Marchez, blêmes infants, découvrez sous la terre
La triple damnation accablant votre mère,
Prenez garde en entrant dans l’antre du passé
Son goût pour le sang froid jamais ne s’est lassé ;
TranscendenceI'd like to be the sun as well as the moon:
for me to be star-crossed and tragic.
I'd like to be remembered, and legends be true
And be regarded, above all, as magic.
Let mythology be damned, they'll worship me so
For they hardly even know.
Let mythology be damned,
Let mythology be damned,
Their song and dance will be quite a show.
I dream of the day I'm fire within the ice
Encapsulated in all my splendor.
But maybe just a marble statue will suffice
As long as they gaze and worship in wonder.
The shrines will come and the offerings will flow
And the cults will branch in droves.
The shrines will come
The shrines will come
And wide-eyed followers will come in tow.
It'll be easier to be a martyr
Because there is no hard work for me.
I'll just need to pose with my dog and armor
I'll receive a holiday, you'll see!
Like water in amber, I will be memorialized
And become the spark in your eyes.
Like water in amber
Like Water in amber
Becoming an idol is a clever disguise!
The InquisitorBy right of God
The Holy Spirits
And the Church
I shall shape the world
A world bound by unity
Where none is an enemy
A world expelled from evil
Where no demon roams the earth
My sword fighting the fire
That defies my belief
A scorched stake
The end of all my foes
By right of God
The Holy Spirits
And the Church
I have shaped the world
Silver Slips and DancersIt’s there in the beaten mirror she holds
In broken hands she cries of a defeat
The night will take her before she grows old
And they will cry, “narcissist” in the street
There, she dances softly on the surface
And shows the swan what it means to pirouette
But she cannot break exteriors face
found so ashen from the year’s cigarette
They will write books about that wayward girl
Speak of once easy laugh and softest eyes
That such light could be consumed by this world
should show that both bones and beauty will die
Pressed fingers to lips form a last cachet
In silver, shard veils, sashaying away
Who? RegeneratedHartnell, Troughton,
And last, McCoy
And then it’s gone,
But wait – oh joy!
It’s Paul McGann
(He doesn’t last).
It looks as though
His time has passed.
So many years,
An endless wait.
He’ll not again
But now, at last,
And Tennant too –
A brand new run
And Smith, whose time
Will soon be through,
Will pass it on to
Who knows Who?
Oh look, that guy
That used to swear –
Will be on air.
But wait, there’s Hurt.
My brain’s confused.
Getting well abused!
And now, McGann
Is briefly back.
I swear space-time
Is going to crack.
It’s just a TV show
And no-one can
The future know.
You step inside
A box of blue
And take a ride.
Bhraitheann An Ghaoththere is no longer such a thing as the exhonerated title of
when tainted with corporate conceit
the stench of which is embedded by a fetid education
and encouraged by the false prophecy of a system
suggesting reward for 'good' competition as the pride of all being
when in fact it contaminates and putrefies all things associated with
this succubus chant of capitalistic patriotism has become a lucid stain on humanity
the word – patriotism – used in false triumphancy by resigned and cowering souls
or against that small mass of inquisitive human flesh that understands and demands
the symbolic fake will never be accepted
please, oh please, oh supreme being, help us
march to a drumbeat only when the drummer is truly known
and pounds and thrums and exemplifies the demand of a
that will never skip to an inconsequential beat
by the unethical goosestepping marching band leaders that now control
the sunday morning reigns
of proselytizing whores
No HeroWe pledge ourselves to saintliness.
We turn our eyes away.
Forget that people suffer.
Not here, and not today.
Turn our faces upwards
And sing into the sky:
Hell must find a hero
When all the angels cry.
Love Sonnet #3Love Sonnet #3
My tranquility, my peace of mind
Cannot be found outdoors
Nor can it be found in a throng of men
They have a voice like a lion's roar
They never frighten or intimidate [me]
Nay! They only disgust and bore me
My peace of mind, my joy at heart
Is found at home, with one
Who I love and who loves me
From dawn till dusk, till dawn
For I know that we both crave much love
And we cannot bear to live alone
Aye! there is but one source of peace for me:
That is my love, my sweetheart, Puabi.
You Be The Family...Father, thank you for all your efforts.
Mother, thank you for all your sacrifices.
But please don't cry for me.
For in heaven there is no room.
No room for the tears to fall.
Brother, you were my idol.
Sisters, you've gone through more.
I'm not as strong as any of you.
I'm more than half of you all.
I've seen it all.
I've felt it all.
I've heard it all.
Yet not as much as you.
'Cause I'm not as old but
We all know that some
Are old even when young.
Since we've all said
it's whats inside
not what is outside.
But I can tell you.
I'd rather be outside,
Then stuck inside.
All by myself.
So I'm letting go.
That this is goodbye.
(c) Damien Blaze 6/12/2013
RevengeVengeance is to linger,
Still is the vehement hunger,
Upon thy I loathe and dread,
We then be both fairly dead,
Yes, we, you'll die with me,
The damnation forever be,
Murder love, murder you,
I've loved you, that is true,
But you released my wrist,
And faded in the mist,
I suffered in silence,
Agonized in your absence,
Then revenge grew in my heart,
And rage began to start,
Now am no more slave of time,
I've come to avenge your crime.
on old sanzu - absolutely true fictionlast fall i stole my friend down by the tama river. we sang. we danced. we skipped dead fish like rocks and watched them get swallowed by the undertow. we got sick off of bad chinese food and went skinny-dipping and then a week later she drowned herself.
her uncle was a yakuza, i think, but he really just wanted to be al pacino or something. anyway, she loved him a lot. maybe that’s why she went down the way she went down; cement shoes. not real cement, but it was the same idea. she had two cloth bags with yellow-painted cinderblocks inside, and they were tied to her ankles like the prisoners’ chains from o brother where art thou.
in my mind’s eye i can see her, limping dreadfully close to the edge of the current, her left hand gripping at her breasts through a loose t-shirt. kneeling by the wastelands, elbows in the gravel, crawling forward out into the water. angry like a dermis under wool, all teeth and salt and sand. sleepy, submissive, sublimated.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More