Drinking the Fine Wine of Poetry I love the fine poetic wine of dancing words and rhyme; I drink the words and though it hurts I love this drunken high. I cannot think but only drink and feel the flowing wine on my tongue the tongue of one whose words melt into mine. The intercourse of soul and words, the movements in the deep are why I read and why I need to drink this wine, and weep.

You're a real poet.You are someone that should be famous.I think you're that good.

Just a promising novice, Doug; still taking my first baby steps. Not all promise leads anywhere, and I am not at all sure I want mine to.

Originally Posted by OrchestraInside

Just a promising novice, Doug; still taking my first baby steps. Not all promise leads anywhere, and I am not at all sure I want mine to.

Don't I know it!Still, for baby steps,you'll be "leaping over tall buildings in a single bound"very soon!

Bleeding Children's Eyes eyes-of-a-child.jpg Bleeding children's eyes gazing up at us the whither's and the why's as mankind slowly dies a death of little mercy not swift, but slow decay; a winter for the young to face without a spring in May. They ask me many things, all I see is eyes... Eyes full of nothing but hopelessness and cries... Yes, I saw the signs, the unanswered why's, the consummate consumption, the Big Gangbang of Earth, the failed state of mankind and I... I cried. Cried for my Mother, cried for my child, cried for the newborn on their way to starve and die...! I cried with the poppies, the lilies and the birds, yet nothing, nothing, nothing!... I had but hollow words. Withered children's eyes gazing never more as mankind slowly dies with his whither's and his why's. I lift my parched lips to sing my last halleluja-ah and fade away, as not a thing escapes this Gomorra-ah.

Another great piece.Sadly this will continue as long as people recklessly have children they can't afford to feed or love.When it's no longer Macho having as many children as possible,this may one day cease to be.Unless fools stop pumping out children,this will be an ongoing crisis.

Originally Posted by OrchestraInside

... Nowadays, I'm more inclined to think it's something in the depths of my subconscious mind. But do I know for certain?

I was gonna say... For me, thinking too much up front blows the mood of writing, or too easily diverts it from the original quest. it's easy enough for either of those things to happen to me, so I usually go to incredible extremes to avoid thinking

Originally Posted by OrchestraInside

Bleeding Children's Eyes

Like seeing the horizon and knowing you'll never be able to touch it, but in an opposite brand of sentiment: It's far too easy to see what's happening, but impossible to fix it. Although we wonder why it's so impossible.

I was gonna say... For me, thinking too much up front blows the mood of writing, or too easily diverts it from the original quest. it's easy enough for either of those things to happen to me, so I usually go to incredible extremes to avoid thinking

I like to see it as a combination of thinking and non-thinking. Thinking is akin to a pianist practicing, honing his skills so that the "flesh and bones" don't get in the way of the soul; non-thinking is the pianist simply playing, not stopping to think. When there is enough skill, it no longer is the fingers dancing on the keys, but the soul itself. To achieve that, much practice is needed; but one must remember that practice is only practice, not the real thing.

Like seeing the horizon and knowing you'll never be able to touch it, but in an opposite brand of sentiment: It's far too easy to see what's happening, but impossible to fix it. Although we wonder why it's so impossible.

I was feeling very personal when I wrote this, thinking of my own children. I would still plant that apple tree, even if the flames were licking my heels; but I do shudder from time to time, as I glance ahead - like Lot's wife, only in the opposite direction. Incidentally, Cormac McCarthy said he thought of his son when he wrote The Road, and dedicated the book to him.

It seems to me that we are blessed to be able to draw this breath of air, watch this sunrise, share this kiss; whoever knows whether there ever will be any more to come? ...the brief visit of a soul in this sea of dark and light - this quirky thing we call life.

Just Another Morning Something flew by - just another morning; a red streak of eternity.

Hahaha How did that go? Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!


This referring to an answer by O.I on page 1. Don't know, how it ended up here

A B@astard Has Many Dear Names Anarchy, monarchy, plutarchy, panarchy malarchy, synarchy, paparchy, kritarchy - a b@stard has many dear names but rule of men by men it still remains. The blind shall lead the blind alone or side by side for where can they find a man with eyes that they can see? A man with eyes whom they believe? The one-eyed man shall remain a lunatic while the blind reign.

Originally Posted by OrchestraInside

Cormac McCarthy said he thought of his son when he wrote The Road, and dedicated the book to him.

I've gotta get the book. Viggo M. is my favorite dramatic actor but I have yet to see the movie all the way through. Anyway, I'm sure the book is 10 times better.

Originally Posted by OrchestraInside

It seems to me that we are blessed to be able to draw this breath of air, watch this sunrise, share this kiss; whoever knows whether there ever will be any more to come? ...the brief visit of a soul in this sea of dark and light - this quirky thing we call life.

Sounds exactly like someone else I know.

The sad part about The Road for me is that I had a very similar book idea independently a month or two ago, only to discover The Road and throw the idea in the garbage bin. I was even inspired by the same thought, that is, what kind of life might my children or grandchildren have many years from now.

I think I'll focus more on the Pythonesque side of things for a while

The Middle-Class of Kings Fruits from afar sugar and salt magical entertainment: kings of old now you and me rich beyond measure.

What are little children made of? The sins and whims of flesh and blood, the hills and slopes of man and God, of sleepless nights and angry fights, of demons, devils, shining knights, of love where love is bound to grow, of highest highs and lowest lows; the stars and scars of mum and dad, of theirs before them, good and bad, and theirs before them, 'til we find the dawn of time, where the shadows lie.

a great entity, rich in language, but not an overdose of anything:
Orchestra: your subconscious mind is surprisingly correct!


can I borrow babyshoes as you talked about "babysteps"?

As soon as I have outgrown them!

I am right on my way to get them,lol

Life kicked in the door Life kicked in the door Lust and Desire fired like mad bullets smashed into Existence bleeding, I shot back my Beretta singing "1812" then they brought the RPGs... Blasted, bloody Existence.