i am going to write a hole book of them, in jal aeren, after the fall
― nutrional socialist (Lamp), Thursday, 1 October 2009 04:03 (nine years ago) Permalink
the superpowered hero is always wroth at some stage of these. i don't think i've ever been wroth, maybe it's a superpowers thing.
― Brewer's Bitch (darraghmac), Thursday, 1 October 2009 09:14 (nine years ago) Permalink
― plax (ico), Wednesday, 5 January 2011 02:53 (eight years ago) Permalink
theres a thread one here where i write a bunch of these iirc
― s1ocki the tripster (Lamp), Wednesday, 5 January 2011 02:57 (eight years ago) Permalink
oh n/m it was math = magic fantasy parodies: you are opinionated .. some people dont like american appareal and what it has done to people .... the grey dark woods has answers .
― s1ocki the tripster (Lamp), Wednesday, 5 January 2011 03:00 (eight years ago) Permalink
im p sure i wrote a bunch of fake verz of these see if i can dig them up
the grey flat earth gives no clueof battles that did rage herethese truncated precious αδάμαςhold neath this sun na runaithe
― plax (ico), Wednesday, 5 January 2011 03:16 (eight years ago) Permalink
Beyond Elohem: voices, flamesCarry back this wisdom, boundInto the circle, the enchanted limitThere is a mouth that tells this
― plax (ico), Wednesday, 5 January 2011 03:23 (eight years ago) Permalink
Kiln-ur-der beyond the seaLost home of the SilverlightSun's tomb moon's motherEffortless peaks of graniteCrystal spries crumble nowReclaimed by the waves
hammer singing, gulls cryingin the last forge the sword was shapedcarried over the oceanfrom ghostly kiln-un-derto the lands of our forgetting
banners waving, maidens piningin the last forgethe sword was buriedin the heart of a living childblood of the God'sred ran the white iron
heart bleeding, night fallingin the last forgethe sword was foldedrefined the coarse earthsleeps in the Old Earththe shadow is coming
― s1ocki the tripster (Lamp), Wednesday, 5 January 2011 03:44 (eight years ago) Permalink
neath bleeding skiesthe heralded dawn suspendedcandle, lumen, awaitingthe shield that carries the sun
― plax (ico), Wednesday, 5 January 2011 22:45 (eight years ago) Permalink
A thousand men the God-King calleda thousand to live, a thousand to diebeneath the vaults in Precept's Hallshe cried 'all shall pale, but i!'
They poured across the river Jikyuinas black ants across a feastand spread the song of sweat ruinfrom the greatest to the least
And to the walls of Kiln-ur-der carried bloody iron, bloody eyesand in those eyes the God-King's staresaw not a city but a pyre
"So runs my dream: but what am I?a raven crawing at the roost a raven crawing at the roost None shall live if i must die"
― ╰㊂-㊂╯ (Lamp), Thursday, 6 January 2011 00:11 (eight years ago) Permalink
of garlanding and draping, kinship ceremonyfrom this duty she is cast out and scorneda flight from Flush-ingelto new lands where promises doth lie,here flesh and destiny coincidechosen by king, ruler, patriarchchildren's lips do part in gaietywhere her scarlet beauty does adorn the dun fields
― plax (ico), Thursday, 6 January 2011 00:24 (eight years ago) Permalink
Hey, Lamp, you ever read any James Branch Cabell? I think it has one of these. I like him. Jurgen is like misogynistic psychedelic arthurian parody. Or something. A lot of it is about marriage and relationships and it kind of argues with itself, like, Cabell might be a hyperconservative dick, but he mocks his sweet talking protagonist and stand-in for being the same. The Cream of the Jest and The High Place are supposed to be good, too. Leslie Fiedler likes him a lot.
Speaking of Fiedler, that odd future thread got me thinking of him, like, you've got these guys playing around with talking about the social implications of odd future, like, is it okay to say this, is it okay to listen to this, although they're mostly alluding to blogs and other media doing write ups, but then the alternative to talking about the social aspect or any wider context beyond just the music resulted in formalism and the use of this specialized vocabulary that people tend to be pedantic about; and both of these things are elitist things, when these people seems to work at a colloquial criticism and fall back on this stuff despite themselves - although it's admirable when it's done well, and I liked a lot of what I read.
It was one of those threads where I didn't want to disagree with anyone, as if the different arguments and discussions altogether say how things are.
I thought about emailing you last night, even though I don't know you well and we're not friends. It was just something I thought. But hey.
― bamcquern, Thursday, 6 January 2011 08:51 (eight years ago) Permalink
bam i have not read james btanch cabell but he is not ~on the list~
for whiney & deej in memory of their sacrifice:
from nightbound depthswhat once lay hid let it ariseto blind the day!
from tomb, a voicefrom time, an hour from pattern, formfrom weakness, power
to darkness, lightin embers, flamefrom dust, a treesilence, a name
the stillness stirs,its loss regainswhat was, returnswhat is, remains
― cloudy predecessor (Lamp), Friday, 4 February 2011 05:43 (seven years ago) Permalink
kindof disappointed that nobody noticed that one of my poems was a re-version of the theme song to the nanny
― plax (ico), Saturday, 5 February 2011 16:30 (seven years ago) Permalink
― ENBB, Saturday, 5 February 2011 16:31 (seven years ago) Permalink
Iax of the ruined edge! ColdIax of the buried hilt. DreadIax of the marred brow. Born
when the sun spilled pallid andashen rays upon barrows palewith lilys and a mothers tears last witness to a soft exhale
first witness to a formless crya voice to shake the very baseof the pillars of the earth andmemories time cannot erase
― millions now eating will never diet (Lamp), Thursday, 10 March 2011 06:35 (seven years ago) Permalink
a little too close to actual meter. turns into black metal voice in my head
― thomp, Thursday, 10 March 2011 11:55 (seven years ago) Permalink
the old hedge-witch's voice was iron-scraping-iron and her hand was hot and strong upon his own. "you must go to the mountains of the sun if you wish to find your answers, and there descend into the earth to find the Cyäegha, and turn his eye upon you." as her voice died he heard mara's sharp breath and leiland move sword hand to pommel and tense but it was simòn, pious simòn who spoke. "you cannot do this, my lord, it would be your death! there are things that even the Dark fear, and who love us not".
he gripped the witch's hand in his own, "i beseech you, what can i find there but my own damnation?" to which the crone replied:
HE was young when the earth was youngand was born in its fiery heart there we drank deep its blood and was burnedand born anew
HE was young when he heard the voices that echo faintly through the stars and sing of the death of time and spaceand so learned to speak
HE was young when Sylanā forsook the Treaty of the Moonand was lost to wander amongst the stars foreverhe heard the moìtdi war amongst themselves and so gave refuge to their servants in his hidden halls and broke their chains
HE was older when he taught the gwalchmmi his secretsthe truth of fire and the truth of stonethey built their cities in his shadows and gave him the green for him they sang the Hymn of Twilight in the lost cavernsand it rang under the earth
HE was older still when the moìtdi tore open the green earthseeking those who had defied them and fled, finding blood and in revenge for those who had loved him he spoke with the red earthand he drowned the lands in fire and ash and the moìtdi perished
HE was older still when the Dark and the Light bound himwith chains of silver to the deepest rocks in fear and hatred of the old earth's power, that had burned their children they hung him from the stone tree, never living, never dyinghe hangs there still
HE was old then when your people came to these shoresand he spoke to them through stone and soil of the ancient secretsand when they raised the Tower of Song on the bones of the moìtdione eye he has still open ever seeing always watching he waits there now
― Magic (Lamp), Tuesday, 2 August 2011 21:28 (seven years ago) Permalink
us, long earsick.Blind, we followrain slant, spray flickto fields we do not know.
Night, float us.Offshore wind, shout, ask the seawhat’s lost, what’s left, what horn sunk,what crown adrift.
Where we are who knows of kings who sup while day fails? Who, swinging his axe to fell kings, guesses where we go?
― mr peabody (moonship journey to baja), Wednesday, 14 September 2011 02:07 (seven years ago) Permalink
im always a little ashamed of my posts itt
― SOMEGHOSTDURRP (Lamp), Wednesday, 14 September 2011 03:15 (seven years ago) Permalink
that's actually a "real poem" by basil bunting
― mr peabody (moonship journey to baja), Thursday, 15 September 2011 16:45 (seven years ago) Permalink
but it always gave me a heavy CONAN vibe
if you like that you might like: http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=7500
― mr peabody (moonship journey to baja), Thursday, 15 September 2011 16:47 (seven years ago) Permalink
this is an awesome thread btw
brilliant thread title
― a fake wannabe trying to be a pimp (history mayne), Thursday, 15 September 2011 16:49 (seven years ago) Permalink
love Bunting too :)
― Chapman Pincher Overdrive (Noodle Vague), Thursday, 15 September 2011 16:50 (seven years ago) Permalink
It too dislikes I: there it lays in the shadows boundWrithing, confined, with perfect contempt for us, under the fiery soul of the worldin the nonplace, the wall against the realIt will never die, its face will neversee light, grimace undarkenedby desire for the ending
― 808 Police State (Lamp), Tuesday, 15 November 2011 04:23 (seven years ago) Permalink