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Post by PiRo: Resident Munkie on Apr 3, 2003 23:52:22 GMT -5
ill drop one here from the book...wrote this on a subway on my way to a Poetry Slam...
Generosity
United States - The United State of Mind What if love ran rampant, more caring from time to time Perhaps less poverty, perhaps less crime? What if money didn't matter, it would change our whole design What if generosity was taught from the moment we could walk? How would the world be? Food for thought, for example, somone corporately bought Take Bill Gates, someone who makes billions to date Suddenly by fate, there comes a change in his trait He donates you a million, to him, the equivalent of about Five Bucks... All of a sudden, he thinks, "A million dollars ain't that much"... Now life for you isn't tough, you think you don't have it rough That million may have saved your life, let alone buy you lots of stuff You feel a change in luck, what would YOU do with that much? You could start up your life again as if God gave you his touch His generosity would ignite your life, clothe you and feed your appetite Maybe invest that money and get richer, Damn, that would be tight
Right?
***Now, let's put this in context***
You're walking down the street and see a man on his knees He's a dead heart in need of a beat, no place to go and sleep No shoes to cover his feet, not even any food to eat His hopes begins to deplete, can't get to his feet, his once dreams go bleek You stop and scrounge your pocket for a quarter...maybe a buck You find a Five Dollar bill Suddenly, it doesn't seem like that much...
Peace
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Post by Blitzkrieg on Apr 3, 2003 23:54:33 GMT -5
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Post by johnny new on Apr 4, 2003 0:01:52 GMT -5
okay mr smarty pants. they are a bit wanky. but if i'm going to be a wanker, i may aswell tell you that you spelt genius wrong in your name.... piro: what did you think of my train thingo? is it too self indulgent?
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Post by PiRo: Resident Munkie on Apr 4, 2003 0:09:39 GMT -5
shizzle, i forgot i was going to put a reply to that before i posted mine...i really liked it, i didn't think it was too self indulgent...i liked many of the juxtaposition of some of the lines, "I'd taste like lemon that has been dipped in hydrochloric acid" unfortunately, i had trouble getting on the deviant art site before, so i can't see any of the other stuff you posted, unless it's all the stuff from your site...but the piece was insanely awesome
peace
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Post by johnny new on Apr 4, 2003 0:25:25 GMT -5
i had trouble getting on the deviant art site before, so i can't see any of the other stuff you posted, unless it's all the stuff from your site... the piece was insanely awesome peace yep. there's only two other things you haven't seen, which i changed before i posted them on the site, but i think i may have emailed them to you.... here's the link again: johnnynew.deviantart.com/deviations.htmli like your poem; however it would sound better to music. something cruisy....
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Post by White Mosrite on Apr 4, 2003 0:29:41 GMT -5
piro - your poem made me cry joking - but i loved the way you wrote about the subject
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Post by johnny new on Apr 5, 2003 3:10:38 GMT -5
a train ride Have you ever been riding on a train, and played scenes through in your head of what you could do right then and there? There is a homeless man I see every day. He comes into my university, into the library, and sits at a computer all day. There is a booking system; people can get very touchy when you are in their seat when they are booked. This homeless man has a particularly bitter distaste towards me, to him I looked as if I'd taste like lemon that has been dipped in hydrochloric acid. I have the same unexplained hatred towards him too. He is always wearing the same stenchy old jacket that is much too big, being held together by a bit of string, not a button, but a strand of string. Underneath this is a rancid filthy grey shirt. He wears grease stained jeans tucked into his knee-length socks. I despise him. His hideous face looks like he has lost his jaw in an horrible war accident. There is a look of constant bewilderment, fury and accusation in his bulgy bloodshot eyes. We have had arguments over my chair. Is it still an argument with only one person screaming? He has had arguments about my chair; they have resorted to him stamping up and down on the spot like an angry chimp, and also to branding me a "...chair thieving scoundrel!" among other things.... So as I was on the train, with at least an hour of time I knew I had to sit through, a delusion of grandeur slowly overtook my reality. I realised that this man, the chair-nazi you are now aquainted with, was sitting on the other end of the carriage. We were the only two passengers. I was sitting in the five seater near the stairs on the bottom floor, he was about three quarters of the way down the carriage, pre-occupied with staring at some stupid thing; probably an ant. When I stood up, my shoulders seemed much broader than I remembered, and I was standing with an unusual confidence. I strode to the virile offender and fixed him a look of hatred that was felt all the way through me, it pulsed warmly as nodes into every vein. Pure rage projected my thoughts onto my eyes, the homeless man saw a premonition of his demise on the surface of my pupils. I saw him writhing with agony in the reflection on his eyes, which animated him thrusting about in all sorts of odd movements, looking as if trying to find his marbles with one hand, while cupping his hand to the sky with the other; a gesture of total embodiment of desperation. What atrocitiy was I about to commit that he was reacting to? This thought was rather perplexing and began to drain the energy that was being consumed by rage. My rage didn't like this, and took back my entire being victim. Quietly I was sucked backwards into a vacuum through a long, long tunnel, with bleck fire and darkness for walls, and an echo that turned sound into a wail from hell. I could see out of the eyes of the body that was mine only seonds ago. The demon reached forward with his left hand, and viced the adam's apple of the homeless man into a mass of broken shards held inside its neck by a pouch made of skin. This crunch fueled the demon, and, as if a cliche, he let out a most satisfied laugh. My fear of life inprisonment must have reached the mind of the demon then, for he darted his head in both directions; no one. The train was pulling upto a halt. I gasped, a faint whisper inside the tunnel. I saw a family of three that were about to board the carriage we were on. The parents stood bored, waiting for the train to stop completely. Their young girl, however, was looking into every window of the train, and pointed slack-jawed at the three of us inside. Two of us. This was it, I thought, I'm fucked. I waited. But no, they didn't hop on. I dind't even notice the train had stopped, until it pulled away from the station again. The family were like wax cutouts now; like the ad that is on before a video begins; the one where the mum covers her kids eyes, and has a hand to her mouth, while the dad just stares.... I doubt they were breathing. The relief that they were there not here made me so calm I forgot myself. You hear a rope snap taught, you hear the insides of a human burst out of the incision across the abdomen and onto the ground as the body jerks and bounces ever so slightly upwards. The neck has snapped, but the head won't fall off. What you heard was the demon's fingers dig into the man's flesh, causing as much pain to me as the poor homeless man. Then you heard his insides burst out, and slowly unreel onto the carpet, as if the demon were unwinding chain from around a steel rod. In actality, this didn't make much noise, but no one there knew that - all of our senses were overloaded and off the dial. Then you heard his hip snap, that was the neck. The devil puppeteering my hand, pulling at the entrance to the side of the man's left hip and snapping off an edge like a shard of porcelain.
The screams became deafening at that point, but that didn't bother me. I was beyond repair, and I couldn't hear a god damned thing. The end of the tunnel I was looking out of slowly shrank and shrivelled, I felt my body shudder with the shock. Falling into darkness backwards and watching my vision and sound become the speck of a television that's been turned off, that's all I remember. I hated that man.
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Post by histarising on Apr 5, 2003 3:46:31 GMT -5
well - i might as well.
This was a monolouge that i did for Drama my senior year. It consists of Three characters. But it's a monolouge... you ask. Just read:
Version of Suicide by Boe Rosser
One side says go for it, The other says stop. Should i continue my conquest? Quit while you're ahead. I can't stop now. She's not worth it! Keep trying. End it, Continue it. I love her, Hate her. I need her, You don't. I was right, You were wrong. Was I, Or were you? Stay here, cry here, die here. She's here, Good. Walk away, Talk to her! Keep to yourself. Express yourself. I will...
But should I? There are three types of voices in every man's mind. One that says "Go for it." One says "Don't do it." Then there is the one that makes a decision based off what the other two have to say. Depending on whom the voices are talking about, one of them lies to you while the other tells you the truth. One the other hand, both of the voices could be telling the truth. In which one of them hates a certain person, while the other adores them to death.
So which one should the third voice listen to? Should it go with the hate? Or go with the love? To live, to die, to strive... to crumble. So one side says stop. While the other says go. Which one to listen to? I don't know. Why must I, the third voice, make a choice based off what the other two voices throw at me?
It's so confusing, i know. But... what to do?
Just keep talking. Just shut up. Keep up the good work. Cry yourself to sleep. Think of all the positive things... then weigh them against the negative.
Back to me. Don't you wish you could kill the voices? Of course they don't! Just shut up and let me talk! Fine... That a way to tell him. You shut up too! This is what men like me go through with every thought that pumps in and out of our brains. Every idea that goes in one ear and out the other struggles through the trials of voice number one and voice number two.
Are you done rambling yet? Just let him finish. Could the both of you stop talking for more then one minute?! Just let me, voice number three, get through what i have to say! What i've been trying to say from the beginning!
Voice one, i want you so far away from me that i will never hear your negative comments again! Disappear and never come back! That a way to tell him voice three. And voice two, without voice one, you are nothing. Without voice one, you have no one to argue with. So pack your bags, pack your positive influences, and get out of my fucking head!
Now all that is left is voice three... me. Alone with my own thoughts. My own choices. You see, i killed the voices that haunted me. That were me. That... was my version of suicide.
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Entity
Eunuch
There's a monkey with reading glasses!
Posts: 144
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Post by Entity on Apr 5, 2003 8:08:26 GMT -5
I don't know if anyone reads these anymore, or they just post their own, but here's my two bits.
A few portions of a larger tale.
I thank Fear Factory, Ghost In The Shell and Shannon Larkin for this piece.
___________________________________________
From my position on my floor, everything bent sideways. And if I moved, everything would spin and I’d collapse again. Better to stay here. I put the phone back on the hook, and pulled the cord out of the wall. If I move more than one limb at a time I’m going to throw up, I can feel it in my stomach, churning, burning, and aching to get out of me.
Waking up again feels so refreshing. You don’t know who you are, where you are, or what you want. It’s staying awake that is so repulsive. All those memories that were so close to being forgotten, all that life that seconds ago could have been someone else. I remember it, all of it, and those who dared to stray. And they make me sick. Or maybe that’s just the whiskey. I spot the broken bottle on the shelf infront of me, and I recognise her, crying and holding her body. I just hope to God that the bottle wasn’t my weapon.
She’s still there. Unwillingly the bearer of my memories and anger. I need water. All I can think about is water. The word comes out of my mouth, and she is startled. The word drips out again. The water appears in my hand, and I can’t get it into my mouth fast enough. Another one drips from my mouth, and there she is with the water again. I pour it on my face and body, and then I stand up. My crib, my things, my life, my whore. I reach into my pocket and pull out a handful of money.
I’m in water. There’s blood. Running down my arm from my shoulder to my wrist is a cut, a slice. There’s blood around me, floating like liquid in space. I reach out to touch it, and it dissects into four identical drops.
I sit up. For the first time in many days, I can see what’s going on around me. The broken whiskey bottle beside the bath, the blood red water, and tiny cuts on my arm. They all make up what is left of my experiences this past week. I pull out of the bath, my knees fall to the floor. The broken glass digs into my leg, and I’m gone.
Cold white surroundings. Words on the wall. MAN. OBSOLETE. ERASED. EXTINCT. The cuts on my arms are wide again. ORDER. A CEASE AND DESIST. YOU ARE MAN. YOU ARE THE CIRCUIT BREAKER.
My life is filled with uselessness. My life WAS filled with uselessness. I am now the Edge Crusher. Inflicting pain upon the structure. Collapsing below my pressure. They will be the break of the Edge Crusher.
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Post by jimbob on Apr 5, 2003 8:12:45 GMT -5
oh...are we all posting our own stuff now.
i emailed this to jonny so as not to hijack his thread, but seeing as that's already happened;
A Child's Second Poem.
Strange how the fear of lack of inspiration causes the shell of my thoughts to seize up. They lie, grotesquely curled upon themselves, cocooned in that shapeless intellectualisation. Do they grow or, unwatched, devour themselves? Express themselves unknown even to me? I can't see from here.
How the fear of cliche leaves me cold as I overanalyse, overassess how others have put this into words prior to my too-studied, uneducated tirade. the bastardisation of my words is palpable, if only within myself, the moment they leave my lips - how is it that from others they always seemed so pure?
How looking to artists for inspiration freshens fear that what I desire to make - some foetal expression of my own self - will only serve to make a mockery of their pure, true beauty. To add to their ideas may only serve to discredit.
"Why did he think adding meant increase? To me it was dilution."
Could it be that I am a simple vessel for ideas I would probably rather forget than have them force their stagnant way through my words, leaving me derivative by nature or, in search of something new saying nothing at all, or how I wished I never had sat next to that Budweiser sticker on the bus ride home; a persistent claim that glorified carbonated water is the "King of Beers". Evidence, perhaps, that all I read affects, even if just to rouse objection. Arrogant as it seems, I'd rather hold my tongue and be a closed still for those emotions I borrow.
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Post by johnny new on Apr 5, 2003 21:54:39 GMT -5
I need water. All I can think about is water. The word comes out of my mouth, and she is startled. The word drips out again that's fucking intense!!! my eyes were stuck to the screen!! can you email me the whole piece? penewman@pnc.com.au that's exactly the type of writing i like, and how i'd like ot be able to write.
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Entity
Eunuch
There's a monkey with reading glasses!
Posts: 144
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Post by Entity on Apr 6, 2003 7:41:07 GMT -5
that's fucking intense!!! my eyes were stuck to the screen!! can you email me the whole piece? penewman@pnc.com.au that's exactly the type of writing i like, and how i'd like ot be able to write. You serious? Thanks man! That line just seems a bit repetitive to me. I haven't actually finished the story yet, that's all I've got, but here's a link to my other shit if you wanna read. preston-esquire.deviantart.com/Noone seems to wanna comment, so say something about my shite!
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Post by johnny new on Apr 6, 2003 7:50:34 GMT -5
Noone seems to wanna comment, so say something about my shite! i will. post more here. i'll check it out good and post about it tomorrow, fucked now. i want the complete version when it's done.
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Entity
Eunuch
There's a monkey with reading glasses!
Posts: 144
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Post by Entity on Apr 6, 2003 7:59:46 GMT -5
I'd post more here if I didn't just give a link to my gaff. I'll be posting poetry in that account tonight, which is much worse than my prose, so watch out.
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Post by johnny new on Apr 6, 2003 18:11:21 GMT -5
I'd post more here if I didn't just give a link to my gaff. I'll be posting poetry in that account tonight, which is much worse than my prose, so watch out. i've been warned, haha! i'm goign to write something today - i cant ell i feel inspired. if it's decent i'll put it up on deviantart...
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