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There's this Swedish girl I've always wanted to write about

I've never met her, saw her picture once on an internet nerd forum

Her boyfriend posted it, God, I hope she doesn't know

Bout all the seed them virgins spewed all over it.

I'm looking at you,

Kirottu.

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Art is fun - let's try to keep to this side of the barrier of making me do stuff - now back to our wee bit of the Bohemian Rhapsody ...

 

/public service reminder

The universe is change;
your life is what our thoughts make it
- Marcus Aurelius (161)

:dragon:

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Rage

Soft

Pulse

Supple

Violence

Love

 

The wind blows the long brown grass

trees gently sway

The darkness of my heart is gone

driven far away

by the inner peace of gentle thought

 

I cannot see nor can I hear

the soft hand divine

but my relief from pain and gief

this burden of mine

is a gift given and gladly accepted

 

My mind is small my will is weak

my heart of fire is composed

but the divine love is strong

the doors of pain soon are closed

and I find the peace that I seek

Fionavar's Holliday Wishes to all members of our online community:  Happy Holidays

 

Join the revelry at the Obsidian Plays channel:
Obsidian Plays


 
Remembering tarna, Phosphor, Metadigital, and Visceris.  Drink mead heartily in the halls of Valhalla, my friends!

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Use mkreku's bikini line. That's a winner.

 

BTW: I've just read the TADS poetry thead. You swine!

Fionavar's Holliday Wishes to all members of our online community:  Happy Holidays

 

Join the revelry at the Obsidian Plays channel:
Obsidian Plays


 
Remembering tarna, Phosphor, Metadigital, and Visceris.  Drink mead heartily in the halls of Valhalla, my friends!

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There's honour in numbers they say

And I realise this makes no sense

And trust me I'd like it to make sense

I really would

Each morning when I take a piss

And look in the mirror

And see the same old mug

Smiling at the same old schmuck

In the same old clothes

I'd like it to make sense

So I could take my piss

In peace

And walk away.

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It can't kill me, you know I'm already dead

 

But I think it's coming for you, and it won't stop till it gets through, right through you

 

So stop and take a look, because the clock is ticking, and he's picking his method new, if only I could lie with you, but he's a machine, he's just raging to get to you, to run you through, If only you could see. Can't you see?

 

The words land dry and speechless, but soon you will lie with me.

 

I don't care about anyone else, you're just a toy about to go back on the shelf, cause death is set in its ways

 

There's its face, it's coming, it's still a beautiful day, and you just sit and smile, sit and smile, but you're on trial

and you say, to which I quote, "Hello, mum."

 

And she strikes you through! Right through you!

 

I told you your mother was a bitch.

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The Day After

 

I look at my hands,

My body is numb

I try to stand up,

My feet acting dumb.

 

I glance at the bed,

Realize my mistake

A beautiful face,

Turned out to be fake.

 

I lower my eyes,

Lingerie in a heap

How did this happen?

Oh sh!t, I'm in deep

 

A diesel-like taste,

Filling my mouth

Run to the toilet,

My head's going south

 

"Can it get any worse?!",

I scream at the loo

Then Kirottu walks in,

"Was it good for you too?"

Swedes, go to: Spel2, for the latest game reviews in swedish!

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You're drawing circles

And you know it

Yet you keep on doing it

Again and Again

Circle after Circle

Blue, Red, Yellow

Chalk wasted on the pavement

Breath in|Breath out

You're still doing it

After all these wasted years

On wasted pavements

You're still doing it

Knowing it

Loving it

I'm sorry.

 

 

"You know, you're right" I told my teacher yesterday

She's about 40, fat, sluggish

Had a little too much whiskey or little too much beer, God, I dunno

She's aging badly and she knows it

There's nothing worse on this earth than aging badly and knowing it

I felt sorry for her as I talked and talked

And she felt a little sorry for me, I think,

That I was wasting my time talking to this fat old crow

When there are thousands of young nimble birds

Just waiting to be shot.

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I am tired

Let...me...sleep

I'm not wired

Let...me...sleep

I'm gonna expire

Let...me...sleep

It's getting dire

Let...me...sleep

Isn't this deep?

I had thought that some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, for they imitated humanity so abominably. - Book of Counted Sorrows

 

'Cause I won't know the man that kills me

and I don't know these men I kill

but we all wind up on the same side

'cause ain't none of us doin' god's will.

- Everlast

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"A Therapy For Pain"

 

I welcome death with open arms

Her soft breath and simple charm

Wandering through memories

Takes my hand for me to see

 

Tried so hard

Tried so hard

 

Echoes of Innocence

Are my thoughts into dissent

 

Tried so hard

Tried so hard

Tried so hard

Tried so hard

 

When we finally reach the end

She lets go off my hand

Walking into realms of light

There will be no death tonight

 

Tried so hard

Tried so hard

Tried so hard

Tried so hard

2010spaceships.jpg

Hades was the life of the party. RIP You'll be missed.

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Lovewolf's satirising poetry! Haw. Haw. Haw. Do it again! Swiftly! This is not a joke. I repeat. Do it again! Are you Admirably Handsome, by the way? And an Admiral? We gotta know this, man.

 

 

 

There are tears and there are bums and there's Jesus

Look at Jesus boozing up the heavens

And then there's me, and God am I pissed, bored and shocked

That Jesus is just boozing up the heavens

And I bet you're wondering what it all means

Or maybe you're just pissed at me for being so bloody cryptic

Well, I can't tell you what It means, because frankly I've got not idea

Nor can I tell you anything about anything worthwhile

Because frankly,

I just don't know.

 

There were 24 Virgin Girls in my grandmother's villiage

I know this because I stayed up one night

Counting them as they walked by my window

You can tell, I guess, by the way they walk

There's something in their walk

And I tried proving it

But teen girls are hard to talk to

When you're only 8.

Edited by Baley
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Rose are red violets are blue

I think I can write a poem too.

Although I fear it's likely true

That my actual poety skills are poo.

 

Still to my inner self I rally

Fear not to rise and sally!

I shall walk through this uncertain valley

And thus escape doubt's frightful galley.

“Things are as they are. Looking out into the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.” – Alan Watts
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Actually, I think you could win a competition with a poem like that, read about something similar on a forum once.

 

What do you think about this one?

 

 

 

 

There once was this poet who lived his entire life in one tiny room

Which, like all tiny rooms, was rather small

He didn't mind it though

He said it was cute and just stopped giving a damn

There was this phone in his room that never rang

And a computer in his room he never plugged in

And books, piles of books, he never read

He just sat there, smiling at the ceiling with his eyes closed

On an old bed he inherited from his aunt so many years ago

Keeping a beat with his left foot to a music piece he recorded

Years ago, when he was young and could still talk to me

Using words, signs and winks.

I should have visited him more often

And talked to him even when he said no and started yelling at me

Fighting me with his tiny white hands

I should have forced him out of his tiny room

And into the pub nearby

Where everyone was happy

And jolly.

I should have bought him a cheap hooker or a drawing pad or something, God,

I should have sang for him, like his mother used to when we were both young.

I guess what I'm trying to say is,

I should have been there.

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I think with some slight changes in meter, it'd make great lyrics for a song. Reading it I have this odd vision for a music video; it's very visually evocotive for me.

“Things are as they are. Looking out into the universe at night, we make no comparisons between right and wrong stars, nor between well and badly arranged constellations.” – Alan Watts
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Ah. Thank you.

 

 

A lighter one now.

 

 

On the telly, 3 AM, some big boobed host giving sex advise

To bums so out of her league it's funny

And I find myself here staring at this magnificent specimen

Of plastic surgery and overall fakeness

As she keeps on advising late-night virgins

For fat bucks on National TV.

 

 

And a tribute to our favourite camp entertainer.

 

There's this old pimp I know, I see his mug all the time

Doing videos and Ads on TV, chatting up young girls,

Playing with his toy car like it was something of a trophy

And we're all supposed to be so jealous

And yet proud of this Nation's Son

Who's made it big on TV and can now chill

With all them other big names at the big name party

He's a riot this pimp of hours, a national hero

Wasted like all other national heroes

On making us laugh.

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I love you Baley....so here's some crappy, short poetry. :D

 

The correct path to virtue

Has forever been left un-tread

Purported saints will argue

And hew their favored paths instead

I had thought that some of nature's journeymen had made men and not made them well, for they imitated humanity so abominably. - Book of Counted Sorrows

 

'Cause I won't know the man that kills me

and I don't know these men I kill

but we all wind up on the same side

'cause ain't none of us doin' god's will.

- Everlast

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Aww.

 

 

 

 

The love story between a cowboy and an old woman

Began like most stories do with a smile and a wink

In some forgotten hellhole where old mares are still valued

Despite their obvious drawbacks. Stiffness.

I've written love poems before.

And you need a good deal of alcohol, beer, wine, not important

It's a symbol and you need this symbol to you through

Because quite frankly,

Love is the most obnoxious feeling in the free world.

Ungrateful bitches and ungrateful dogs, blithering morons,

Prancing around in their spandex tights powered

By the holiness of love.

 

 

Standing free like the shadow before the storm

On the great Asian street vessels

Where dingos eat dingos and dogs screw dogs and realise

That not everything has to make sense

Even just for a second

Realise that sense

Is the most overrated quality

You're ever likely to find.

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I want an upbeat poem, you latter day beatniks!

 

How about:

 

Ode to a glass of passion tea mixed with juice:

 

I love my passion tea mixed with juice

It's a damn without a sluice

Intead the water there flows irate

and my thirst does thus abate

Fionavar's Holliday Wishes to all members of our online community:  Happy Holidays

 

Join the revelry at the Obsidian Plays channel:
Obsidian Plays


 
Remembering tarna, Phosphor, Metadigital, and Visceris.  Drink mead heartily in the halls of Valhalla, my friends!

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I've just had a glass of wine

And Sweet Jesus

There's nothing better at 7 am

Than a glass of wine straight from the fridge's mouth

And now, honestly,

I'm gonna be eating my pudding,

Like a good boy.

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