wuss y∞ --
w∞t time ease eat?
eye Om all-ways l'eight!
h∞ ties one-self
t∞ a ballister end
runs ass fast
ass one can'T?
weather ore naught
eye Om, Iowan tit br∞d,
soul-id ass the shaft,
black bee-fur end aft --
eye wish eye was[h],
eye wish eye wear?
eye rest m'eye case
in a would-den 'bucks
mmm'aid off a tree --
a coffee tree?
ah, cough-fee plan[e]t?
ease ol' eye wont;
kNOw[,] eye cunt.
either pro ore
con still-lay s[h]uns...
mike ass well weep
bow-err t∞ duh stat-y∞.
aka 'bmikebauer for the Nth time'
for a very interesting thread here
for that very good exchange of stanzas
albeit in such very short a time frame
unknown [in case you weren't JKWeb]
for that very good exchange of stanzas
albeit in such very short a time frame
for the thread here
for ||24-25 of Ganesh [they rock, man]
sorry to interrupt this heated discussion on/in hell,
but i think i got a few things to say about it.
well, if i never had a chance at poetry -- i think that's
what it's supposed to be called, right? -- attempting the
[almost] impossible thing to do, which is to make sense
of myself or this world and its perks as a [w]hole, then
i'd prolly run to the book of poems of poets i respect
here for help/companionship. they are poets who i'd
like to think of as real people with real feelings and
insight/intuition. they are people who themselves have
found some solace in the craft which has become or is
their own blood and flesh that keep them company
thru thick and thin. they have only themselves -- or their
selves ? -- to rely on as is always the case in their daily
lives; poetry/art is their only alternative and choice when
everything else crumbles. this craft/art form is so real
albeit surreal in its [re]presentation. it [may] represent
their ideals/dreams -- that's why the poem is always the
poet, as all of us are the universe introspected and/or to
some relatively small scale. their poetry/art, therefore, is
their own salvation, whether they are in heaven or hell or
some limbo trying to hurt the wind with their horizontal staff.
i notice really bright sparks of greatness in the poems i've
faved... real signs of humanity, freedom, pain, joy, love, etc.
but there are times when i don't understand what they're really
saying maybe because they're talking about stuff other than
themselves or things i'm not yet exposed to, or things that i
might not have yet imagined, or some [writing] experience i
have yet to go through.
this goes [on] to say that i know my poetry with all my being
and i wouldn't drop it in favor of any other poetry so long as
i can still manage to bleed some life out of myself... even when
i'm finally joined hand-in-hand with my dearest bestest friend,
in which case i'd still write but with an altogether flavor or fervor
and maybe with a heightened sense of self over [past and] future
thank you all for inspiring me one way or another with your very
own humanity in art.
if you were in hell -- and, this means forever and ever -- like, the next day is the first day of being there forever -- every day it's that realization -- so, if you were stuck in an uncomfortable place and your lawyer got you permission to have one poetry book, which poet, which of that poet's books? <<<
re: if you were in hell -- and, this means forever and ever -- like, the next day is the first day of being there forever -- every day it's that realization -- so, if you were stuck in an uncomfortabl fractalcore 2 Nov 09 10:15PM [!] Post Reply
is should say.
ore eyed bet-her shot up.
28 Nov 09
Rated 10 (5.5) by 1 users.
Inactive (7): 1, 1, 1, 1, 10, 10, 10, 10
(define the words in this poem)
(204 more poems by this author)
Add A Comment:
that thread was only about this specific thing of hooking a time-current up to a model world and watching it run around as a poem. the feeling of existence is called 'time', but only because that time thing is an off the shelf solution to 'what's next'. the core being of self shows the pulse of consciousness, and that pulse is a time marker too, and that is about as close as we can get to seeing change happen. but, behind that pulse of perception which we can see, there may be ( how would we see it or intuit it, though? ) but, there may be other and longer pulses to the universe, and each part of the universe will be a fractal part of that whole, yet none will be 'time' itself, since the only real time of any real world would be the moment just before the moment was lost, and that would be timeless. because we can imagine such a thing, and write the kind of poetry you're writing about it -- hoping on the sunbeam and buzzing out words as the beam buzzes your cock, then it's probably real and true.
thanks very much, goeszon sir.
i kinda digged that, mike. and some poems here are just good and
thought-provoking for you to create a philosophical treatise out of.
...time marker as the first occurrence of sun and the next like in a poem.
and the pulse there being the rhythm of how these words dance on the
page or in the mind where this whole creation phenomenon is duplicated --
makes me think if 'creation' is even real as there's quite not a solid wall
that wraps around it when it's this circular thing all along forever. human
beings are very special in that respect -- they seem to get very close to
defining the boundaries, the differences, and even the unity of it all, but,
yes, a poem is very real... as real as the cock that crows on the barrel
that always misses the bull's eye, being the bull's eye itself. it always
leaves these traces of 'mind' even beyond the realm of inverted light
cones, 'cause there are phenomena happening beyond that, and poets
are strangely tuned into those frequencies -- they just ride the waves,
or pulse, when that bee drones in his ear like crazy.
this post is quite a work in progress, though -- i wrote it in haste, sort of
racing faster than starlight for the duration there and i then felt not very
coordinated but there it is.
your ruminations are still the best i've read and i find them very apt
reactions to real poems -- and how many times do i have to tell you
that? time as a concept rendered tangible as/in a poem is very possible
and real, though hard as it seems.
i appreciate your appreciation as always.
must insert 'enough' after 'thought-provoking' there
and 'their ear', it should read.
what if the poem wasn't just a 'mental' thing in words, but became part of us, the way a tree is part of us? it would mean that, no matter what we thought we thought, or reacted to, it would still be there. it's not like a poem is this glint off the windshield of your motor, it's like it's the tree in the middle of the road.
it's a natural phenomenon or frequency that we resonate to at
some point[s] as a summation of all influences or concurrent
forces seen and unseen -- an end-result of many factors, and
but a segment or fractal of the whole.
it's bound to happen but only in very special unique ways as a
certain tree can only be called by a certain name, by, say,
consensus, applicable to or within a certain era, though it can
be called anything by anyone with a certain word-affinity.
it's not part of us as it represents us in a minor or major scale.
and labeling amounts to 'scale' and, therefore, sets the boundaries
and seeming difference between the poet and the poem. the 'urge'
is the pulse and the potential act of [re]creation or mimicry. a poem
is a little glimpse we have of an individual consciousness which also
translates to the universal.
it's not part of us, but rather IS us.
if, resonating, what are we radiating... and, you're saying it's poetry? but, a poetry like that is 'Gwaa, gwaa, gwaa' and is the great sound of nursing children, and all the poems here are full of news of the world and talks about filling teeth and wishes thrown in the ocean. if what you say is so, then where is the poetry here? your own work with merging sound and concept comes closer than most, but, even so... what are you really going on about with talking about automatic transmissions, when you're walking in the desert? and, because you're focused, i read your dialog and accept that it must be a metaphor for the feeling of sand and sun, but it's air-conditioned and coordinated with a guy bringing cool ones to the poetry table, and too claustrophobic. go on, yes, that all i have to offer is good tunes on the juke box, but, if you're going to liberate writing by making it a slave to whim and hunger, than you'd better dress it in nice clothes and make it dance to some other orchestra, or the good folks will think it's common and cheap...
the poem is the collection of your glints and sun beams and a shaping of them into moth and rabbit on a silhouette screen. and, you're the poet, man. no one else is your poet.
mike, how many people can rise to the occasion
of a poetic moment? how many have that state of
mind which can react to situations that potentially
are poem-worthy? what i'm talking about is 'innate
ability' or 'talent' -- one can automatically expect
a poetry from that person in such a case -- it's
just bound to happen.
feeling is a result of varied factors, isn't it?
resonating maybe the wrong term there but one
is in touch with his feelings when the poem he
creates demonstrates the same patterns in the
psycho-biological suchness of those feelings --
and only when his consciousness is 'prepared'
to answer the buzz.
and, yes, it's a collection of those moments that
affected a poet's sensibilities the most.
there's a point in life, between 13 and 26, where the child is a natural poet, because the words they've learnt from their parents don't work anymore -- they're not passive to sounds anymore, and they want to know how people in the world talk and what talk means -- that's why they're so many creative young people who write a kind of poetry but aren't poets. they enrich our world, but leave nothing behind as poetry -- nothing that isn't quaint or precocious. the poet, yes, is among them, and is the one not writing poetry yet -- can't really make the words work right, because they're not his or her own way of using words -- it's as though the poet isn't speaking english, say... is speaking in tongues and trying to parse that into sentences: trying to sound normal.
early in life, they tend to feel they don't belong in
this world and they just want to validate reality or
truth on their own, maybe as a headstrong resolve
and hardheadedness but still being receptive to what
other people can offer.
poetry -- among others -- is the avenue to be free to
live out those visions and ideals in their own language.
what if it's more than that -- that the poet, the one who's fucked by words -- finds the only way that life can mean anything is to make a picture of it in words? it's how people work anyway, normally, how they picture finding the right friend and lover and becoming with that person. the 'becoming part' is iffy though, and things work out the way they do -- which is to say, other people have their own life. being taken out of that game as a real game of life -- where the artist has to play through a body but has no real satisfaction from that -- can't really be with anyone except himself -- the artist can make the image of a perfect life in a material other than life: art. it's not important that it seems like dreaming or seems like anything at all, because the artist makes something which enters life and has a life for some people as real or more real than anything else they know.
i'm just a bald 12-yr old, mike.
i need a n∞ haircut like that of duh duhk's.
figure this is the video arcade and the pages are levels.
this poem will be suspended by a moderator.
quite the haircut i want
for the time being.
suspended hair hoppin d'air?
too mohawkish, perhaps?
perhaps eye should wear
Alexander beckon'd his Generals to make HIS:story the one: that he was the Sun God the Son o God the Sun to light the way for the world today -- everyone was made to feel they were caught up in a Myth, that fate had given him their hearts 'n hands -- they had to play the game or skirmish into caves -- today we've promulgated the lie that indivi:Duality is the right of all men: the baby-boomers at the height of their artifice-driven narcissistic wet-dreams Newg'd out the "I am I cried" package in petty bo's 'n ribbons -- when you opened the package meant for one and all it was meaningless 'n droll -- we're all in it together they said, individually unique in bed, and while they sang, come all ye' faithful to the average man, they wanted you to have a credit-card in hand -- Express your individual right to buy anything in sight, you know it's true, you're the light you bring to the eye with the gift that keeps on taking, promulgating the lie ...
so we get these arguments here in PC and all over the Net: 'bout me and my right to share my own light, wrong or right, good or bad -- it's a narcissistic thing that devolves the world into the hell of mediocrity: go buy that new toy, made in China in a factory just for you
or, alc, it would be, if it wasn't that this is a writing workshop and all the talk and argument is in writing -- you.get.to.loosen.up.and.write.like.a.writer. -- you do it, you've done -- you're better now than you were before -- and, cutting our balls off to hear yourself think isn't the same as writing a play for ball-boys in hell, bitching at the cola.
they all have a right to write -- every memo one of them -- and, you get the opportunity to write out what obviously you hadn't ever thought of before.
feel free to deecoy-bump this --
i need more ones.
memo is young which brings new energy to the forum, even if he mistakes aggression for assertiveness, which young-ens tend to do, he has the write to say it in the way he penned it to -- and yes, it's a work-shop which is why I'm around writing like its the first time I found the method in the meter going down -- that we can write is always a surprise to me, to follow the words from my pen, that labyrinthine passage that shows me what I didn't know I could say in the way of rolling diatribes, pen-sieve riddles that strive, polemics that contrive, and even more to hear my voice come alive -- so yeah, but remember, Dude, that busting-balls is the man thing to show the lurv, to boastingly say, you're full of shit with your small-tit wit -- busting-balls as the way men can feel each other as brother, the testy-testosterone technique which we sweat and moan, without giving each other a boneR -- anyways, it's why I can read you without getting all hysterical 'cause you're a writer pushing a pen, pushing the envelope of what we write and when, and bottom-line, you write because you can
Fractalcore, your word manipulations are my favorite technique you use. hope you keep that up, because you do what poetry should do: invent.
that's a nice thing to say on this nice morning. i feel any real poem is an invention, but frac invents 'reading' for me too.
where have you been all this time?
oh, thanks for your usual kindness to my
attempts at writing a decent piece of 'poetry'.
this one was actually quite hard to write. the lines
came in erratic surges and i was struggling for
consistency amidst the chaos.
anyway, i'm glad to have you back after your
very long hiatus. hope things are better now
happy new year.
thanks for the kindness
and honesty in all your
happy new year to you
though nothing's really
new except for the next
emotional turmoil and
the masterpiece that
other people can only
hope for sanity for us.
i can only hope for your
brand of 'insane', though.