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April5 TrystYour beautiful back
Billowing like summer clouds
Throws me in a trance.
I'm in love, but we
Have never met, and never
Will. Forget about me, I
April3 HeavyI am but
A heavy oil
That will never dry.
The paint is thick
But my mouth
April1 What Is This Dream? Qué es este sueño?
That I cannot
Awake from nor
A cat laying
Breath15 a minute, 900 an hour, 21,600 a day, 7,884,000 a year
This is how I breath.
In my 15 breaths, 20 children die.
And in a year I waste 7,884,00 breaths
Breaths that could save a life or a love or the world but instead I waste them.
I don't understand.
Because I don't stop there
I waste your breath as well.
And so I don't object when you take the breath from my lungs in a rush of passion
Neither of us comprehends, because it belongs to you anyways.
In my wasted 126,144,000 breaths, I have done nothing worthwhile,
But the future is a big place (supposedly)
StarsI found stars of tea this eve. They were almost beautiful.
I realized these stars held my future, and
Try as I might to arrange them into my desired constillations
They move no more than the dead.
My belly becomes the holder of my
Future, now that I've sipped half the tea away,
and all the stars are gone and because I took so long the tea is cold and I wonder, Like the night I sat with a girl I wasn't sure I loved by the river
I wasn't sure existed; I wonder
If this is what G-d feels like.
Does s/he stare into rivers of tea and stars and wonder about the future?
Does she want to catch a body whilst coming through the rye,
Or would she prefer to just meet and talk instead?
I've reached the pinnacle of my journey; the bottom of the cup.
I found the stars again, in tight-knit nebula emitting a
Kind of pure radiance only I can see.
Which is probably what love is like.
Unable to reach any conclusion I pour the last bit of tea out.
I find no answers to the questions I pose.
Tonight, I though
J'eris en FrancaisJ'ai écrit dans français aujourd' hui,
Parce que quand je fais, je sentis
Je sais ça moi ne suis pas,
Mais tu je laisses j'ai mon amusant.
Sempiternal George Proulx awoke to a banausic morning. This particular Tuesday morning, George dreaded getting out of bed; not to say that he didn’t dread getting out of bed every morning he had to work. Thus is the life of a cubicle worker.
While dragging himself into the shower, George decided he would go out for breakfast that morning, since he was out of artificially fruit flavored cereal. (He never really understood why “fruit” was included in the name of such cereals, since the cereal tastes nothing like fruit, but he didn’t bother to ask.) George was the sort of man that did the majority of his day’s pondering in the shower, since his job required tedious attention to small percentiles.
Once out of the shower (and dressed, mind you) Geor
Five Lotus BlossomsGaze into the sky
Vault of yellow blue and white
Blanketing the earth
What are all your dreams
But an excuse to exist?
Existence is all
Is but grasping at your breath
Life is joy enough
Snowflakes dancing down
Covering the weary earth
Sleep, tired Nature
Sitting on my butt
Contemplating all these things
Lazy haiku man
Foothills, Faith, and FaithlessnessYou have broken my hands,
that I might take a pause
and evaluate life.
You have taken the rock
from underneath my feet
and replaced it with earth.
Let me work in it's richness,
let me delve in its fullness,
and bring forth new life from it.
The scent of the earth is strong
unlike the wind in these trees.
These oaks have been silent
before the breath of the world.
The sky is fenced off, hemmed away
by the Earth's teeth, driven skyward.
The sun is but a passing friend.
The night is so black and full of fear,
until eyes, cast above can see
a high ocean without limit
halved by a galactic fire.
These foothills sleep before the new dawn.
And twilight rules these pools of small light.
As stars fade before the morning dew,
breath returns to the sleepers inside.
Winter sun shines on my face
oak leaves lay as my bedding.
I drive my hands in the Earth.
I breathe the scent new life
as the old Earth dies in frost.
The old dies for the new Earth
the young, with Spring, will revive.
Goodbye Kang BridgeQuiet -- as I leave;
Quiet -- as I came.
Carefully, my hands wave
to the West's skies' flame.
Cambridge, where gold willows stand
as maids in sunset glow;
while the shimmer of river Cam
stirs my heart below.
Tape-grass rooted in the mud,
sway softly on the banks.
This showed me gentle harmony;
thus I give my thanks.
I expected a clear sparkling pool,
in the elm's shade upstream.
Instead, caught in duckweed,
lay a kaleidoscopic dream.
Take the pole and the punt --
chase that dream of emerald fields.
Sail the punt among stars.
Radiance and song break all seals.
Yet, I have no song to be sung,
blank -- the chorus of my farewell.
Even cicadas are muted tonight,
by Cambridge's midsummer spell.
Quiet -- as I leave;
Quiet -- as I came.
Carefully, I shake my sleeves --
not even dust, I shall claim.
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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