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French Final 
11:47am 15/05/2006
mood: amused
I haven't forgotten about this community, I just haven't had time to write anything. I did write something last night though, as part of my final for French Lit. It's in a particular style of Oulipo called S+7 where you write a poem then take each word (not counting articles, prepositions, etc.) and replace it with the 7th wowrd after in the dictionary. I will translate it into english, but then the words won't make sense dictionary-wise, obviously. I mean they do in some (most?) cases, but you get the point. Enjoy!

FrenchCollapse )

EnglishCollapse )
it's a new one! 
11:05pm 29/11/2004
  Living With Picasso

These phantoms float in the vast sea of my mind.
Worldless, soundless, shapeless, they find me
Reaching to me, wrapping me in arms of abstract
Absorbing my consciousness, trying always to distract me.
They shout through murky water
Airless bubbles of thought
A butterfly’s broken wing to flutter
Breakable only when caught…
These hueless shades surround me, confound me
Taking up every daily breath of me
Satisfied only by my silent plea for relief
From all the silent screams, every faceless stare
Empty questions of how, why, where…why…
These phantoms won’t go away
My constant companions lie within
Within my distressed mind they stay
Forever to haunt my troubled dreams.

whatcha think? hmm... it's odd. but anyway....
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06:11pm 30/10/2004
  I just wrote this on my 2004 Magnetic Poetry Calendar:


Beneath this winter shadow
I can see the light of a new year.
Imagine shade changing to summer sky
Turning every dark moon to a
Dandelion of gentle spring and
Bringing beautiful birds to our
Special dance of life.

Pretty deep for magnets...
Sexy Geoff 
09:55am 28/10/2004
  Cuddling with Geoff
Is so soft, sweet, and sexy
Oops! He lost his shirt!
e.e. cummings 
06:10pm 18/10/2004
  e.e. cummings - woah
His name has no capitals.
Crazy poetry...
07:59am 29/09/2004
  It's alright if no
One is bowling with us cuz
They suck anyway!
08:32pm 28/09/2004
  Noah's going down
Chimichangas rock my world
I'll save you a bite
03:30pm 18/09/2004
  Chick-Fil-A Chicken
Waffle fries, mayonnaise, ketchup
Dip it in my sauce...
Haiku Bowling! 
08:26am 17/09/2004
  I am, among others I know, poetically drained at the moment. Writing essays about poetry makes me inspired but time takes its toll and I can't find a minute to dedicate to a decent creation. So I propose we revive the community and begin a continuous session of Haiku Bowling. Who's with me?! Let's begin!

Squirrels chase eachother
Eventually start humping
They like their big nuts
08:42am 04/08/2004
  The glass shattered only inches away from her stocking-covered foot. I'm glad I figured out how to put socks on, she thought as small shards glanced off the top of her feet. Ignoring the continually raising decibel level, she mustered all her concentration on her favorite game: finding and stepping carefully over fragments of the words "Jack Daniels", in order. She'd played this game many times before, ever since she had learned to read from Miss Finnigan, the nice lady down the street. She liked people who were nice. She liked Miss Finnigan. Miss Finnigan didn't yell, or break bottles.

After successfully identifying the glass attached to the paper fragment "ls", she bounced out of the kitchen and to the front door, where she strapped on her orange Velcro shoes. Orange was the color of adventure, and today was an Orange day. Outside, the weather was typical spring. Sunny, warm - the perfect Orange conditions. She walked down the steps to the sidewalk. With a proud grin and a glance in the direction of Miss Finnigan's house, she deliberately did not step onto the black pavement. Although the black pavement was much more interesting than the dull grey of the sidewalk, Miss Finnigan had asked her if she would please, please not step onto the black pavement. She liked Miss Finnigan, so she walked on the dull, grey sidewalk, waving cheerily to the many cars that passed her by.

She knew her destination. She'd found The Place on her way home from school last week. However, on that day, Bobby had stolen her favorite orange crayon. She also hadn't been wearing her orange Velcro shoes, so she couldn't possibly visit the place! But today!, today was an Orange day! The shoes carried her down the busy street, across the busy intersection, and over the shining silver guard rail.

Crunch, crunch, complained the dead, dry leaves as they crumbled beneath her spirited feet. She leapt nimbly over fallen trees and skirted thorny bushes. The place seemed wild, untamed, and fearless, as if there were some unknown force protecting it from any outside influence. She traipsed further, until she could see a sunny clearing through the trees.

When she stepped into the clearing (if it can be called a clearing, for indeed the grasses reached almost to her waist!), she gasped. She glanced over her shoulder, listening to the constant hum of cars on the nearby road, wondering if she had wandered into another world. The strange song of a strange bird brought her attention to a nearby tree. Looking up, it seemed as though the giant went up to reach the sky. She knew that if she could only climb it, she would touch the clouds. She ventured further into the clearing. Finding a small stream shouldered by short grasses, she sat down in order to more fully inspect the magical realm she had intruded upon.

The trees, she noticed, varied in size, shape, color, and character in as many ways as all the people she had ever known. Some were short, scrawny, mean-looking trees with sparse light green leaves. Some were medium, and reminded her much of Miss Finnigan: pleasant and normal. Some were tall, tall, tall, with great regal fingers reaching towards the sky. These were the protectors of The Place, in which many squirrels, birds, bugs, and various other creatures found a refuge. One thing was for certain: The Place was beautiful. She had never seen such raw beauty in her life. The trees were wild, weeds and wildflowers grew rampant, the dead leaves were not raked. She felt as though she was the very first person to ever enter here.

Glancing down beside her, she noticed she was not alone in The Place. Her fellow refugee was small and round. He had a thick body, and his round black eyes looked up at her with a rather defiant demeanor. However, what she liked best about him was his shell: a kind of checkerboard, dark green outlining each square, with lighter green reaching in and in until at the center of each square was a small patch of bright, bright orange. He also had two orange stripes climbing down his long neck, arms, and legs.

Orange was the color of adventure. She decided she liked him. By returning the look of defiance (that usually earned her a slap), she gained a friend.

Time seemed to stand still within this world. A mosquito landed gently on her right forearm, but she did not brush it away. Nature had given her a most wonderful gift, and she owed it to nature to let the poor creature feed. She knew what it felt like to go hungry. Nature had opened its arms, allowed her into this safe haven. No one could touch her here. There was no broken glass, no shouted words, only soft, swaying grasses and the beautiful songs of birds.

As she sat there in The Place next to her new friend the orange turtle, she didn't feel orange at all. No, this feeling was a new color, one she never remembered feeling before. Looking around her, she decided that she was feeling Green. She felt the Green of the leaves, the Green of the grass, and the Green of the turtle who seemed to have no worries. She breathed in the Green of the air. Her feet splashed in the Green of the stream, slipping on the Green moss (she had taken off her orange Velcro shoes).

Green was the color of peace.

As the sun sank lower, a voice in her head which sounded strangely like Miss Finnigan's voice reminded her that time did actually pass as normal, and she would need to go home or her parents would be very angry. She leaned down, kissed the green-orange shell of her friend, and reluctantly positioned the orange Velcro straps into place. She whispered a silent farewell to The Place again and again at each Crunch, Crunch of the fallen leaves. But as she walked home, she smiled, and looked forward to the next Green day.
it's been a while 
12:42am 13/07/2004
mood: artistic
as a poem, this sucks entirely. but it's written to be a song.. tell me whatcha think.. any and all opinions welcome, good and bad.

I know there's more here
Under the skin
Beneath the surface;
I know there's emotion in your kiss
But it's the kind
I always seem to miss.
There's just too much to fear
It's through, I'm done
Will you miss me when I'm gone?

Can't see beyond this fence
What d'you make of that sense
That just dont make sense inside your head?
Open your eyes, close your ears
Can't you tell I'm standing here?

I burnt my tongue last night
On all the things I didn't say
Who gave you the right
To leave me this way?
Starving for attention,
Craving your affection
I'm drowning without you
In those words you'd never use..

Can't see beyond this fence
What d'you make of that sense
That just dont make sense inside your head?
Open your eyes, close your ears
Can't you tell I'm standing here?

My field of buttercup dreams
(You trespassed here)
What made you think I'd
Let you plough this meadow?
I'm standing on my own, now
(I'm not hearing you now)
Now i'm free
(Now I'm me)
I can be whatever I want to be
Watch this shooting star
Shoot for her dreams.

Can't see beyond this fence
What d'you make of that sense
That just dont make sense inside your head?
Open your eyes, close your ears
Soon you'll see I'm not crying here

Fade out:
It's through, I'm done
(It's through, I'm done)
Will you miss me when I'm gone?
(Oh, I'm gone)
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Entered into Hotbodies Contest 
02:13pm 08/07/2004

comments? questions?
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Poker Chips and Future Wishes 
08:43pm 06/06/2004
mood: happy
Is it altogether wise to wish upon a falling star and hope that it comes true?

To dream a thousand dreams and pray a million things for the distant years ahead...?

Can we ever hope to perdict what cards will be played?
-No, never.

But if I'm dealt the foul hand,
I still know that deuces are are wild and that one-eyed jacks are lucky,

I can still bluff and hold back...
And gamble- take some risks.

Until my dreams come true and the royal flush is in my hands...
And I am my own queen.
It is altogether wise... if you know how to play your cards- chance deals the deck, but skill wins the chips.
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06:22pm 12/05/2004
mood: dirty
"Wellington Abides Again"
A Short Story in the Style of P.G. WodehouseCollapse )
Breakfast Sonnet 
03:57pm 05/05/2004
mood: hungry
Hallways are arteries People are clots and heart attacks Waiting to happenCollapse )
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11:06pm 29/04/2004
  tomorrow night is my last poetry reading @ PHS before i graduate. come by if you want. $3 at the door, which is at the courtyard.  
11:41am 23/04/2004
mood: bouncy

Well this has been bouncing around now since I read that one below.  There was no timing this . . .

Read on manCollapse )</span>

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Voluntary Timed Writing 
04:13pm 22/04/2004
  Alright, yo. I'm pulling something completely out of the ordinary and doing a timed writing on a friend's poem. I feel it necessary to explicate it to effectively express my opinion about this poetry which can be delved into psychoanalytically. The unconscious is clear throughout and I wish to expose the details about how her sexual revelations have surfaced, like bubbles in pancakes.

Pancakes - Not Better Than SexCollapse )
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Just a day, just an, ordinary day.. 
07:43pm 19/04/2004
mood: complacent

Short but sweet and oddly straightforward, once you read it once.

Your eyes,
My surprise
You cried,
I tried
You flew,
I knew
You lied,
I died.

Not so short, but sweetCollapse )



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To Frigot 
12:52am 18/04/2004
mood: giggly
Pancake batter
Swimming in the ratio of the tempting mix to water,
Golden brown delights, flipped just as bubbles appeared to create a warm fluffy masterpiece of culinary design
Smothering in yellow butter, thick syrup, and a good helping heaping of common sense.

Don't lick the spoon unless you fancy the taste of flour and pre dried ingredients.

But oh, so fluffy and delicious, jack flipped them golden brown, and accentuated a few with such delectible treats as blueberries and chocolate chips, or so thin as to be called a crepe- served with numerous fillings and a french accent. Whipped Cream? Perhaps.

And most definately a side of bacon, crispy and brown, having spittered and spattered in the pan, fighting back with hot spots of grease in all directions.

Washing it down with tall glass of OJ, the glass sweating profusely in earnest anticipation of the first sip (or possibly because of the warmer weather)

Good Morning
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