Current poems in progress...

End of the Plasticine

Sudden sad face. Disappointed. Angry. Depressed.

"There supposed to be at least two more packs!"
No there aren't.

"You saying there will be no more Gumby?"

No more Gumby.

/rv
-------
You went to a store to buy "action figures" and this is the destruction you wreak upon us?
-ewml
-------
Shuttup, I don't play with action figures >:( /rv

, in fact, why don’t I tell you how I really feel about you,

My friend once asked me if I moisturized my shoulders. They are so shiny, you see, my shoulders- the one part of me I don’t detest. Now this body is failing me big time. Perhaps it’s payback because I used to punch it before, when I got really frustrated and needed to hit something. Hehehe. I hate my damn muscles. They are so disappointing but not as disappointing as my bloody heart who keeps reminding me of my failures while I gasp for air in a very comical way. And these arms- they have nothing to offer at the moment. Like neckties, they are worn for decorative purposes only.

Nope, I don’t moisturize my shoulders but I’m beginning to hate its ornamental shine too. I’m really beginning to hate this whole body, in fact, why don’t I tell you how I really feel about you, body. It is rupturing my heart how embarrassingly frail and breakable you are (hear that, heart? you are ruptured.), how easily you betray my dignity and belittle my privacy. The only part of me that I still like is my poor brain.

Good old brain, not for your limitless capacity for imagination or the fact that you always let me play around in it do I love you but for the hidden strength I recently found residing in you. It was there. Found it just when I needed it…

Still, I fill up with raging fury…

Most of all, I hate these fingers, for the monstrosities they tend to unleash upon the innocent, innocent world.




-turps
-------
sorry for the self-indulgent crap i,ve been posting of late. just doing it for therapeutic purposes... etc.. etc..
-------
never apologize, turps, your thoughts (in any capacity) are always enjoyed here. i write for therapeutic purposes, too, although recently trying to curb this, or at least stop making this type of writing public by posting it here. i keep forgetting that this site is just like any other, even though ann does delete what i ask. something in this piece struck a chord for me; i understand how it feels to hate your physical being and feel betrayed by it. and those fingers that do so much damage (mostly to oneself) ;). good work.

amber
-------
i agree, never apologize /rv
-------
I really hate having to say this, because I say it so often. In fact I really shouldn't even have to say it at all. It will be my default position and I should just keep my floppy mouth shut. But I'm here now, feel compelled to, and will say it again:

"I agree with amber."

There, now I've said it. I hope your happy now. It's damned hard to be creative and interesting when people smarter than me keep posting quality opinions before I get the chance.

the Infinite (but unapologetic) Thimble
-------
thanks
-turps
-------
My 2 cents: I read somewhere that "the chief crime of humanity is that they keep
placing one thing"(of importance in status)"over another."
Why the mind/body split, in other words? Why not your brain IS
your fingers, your imagination and saving grace IS your doling out the
monstrosities upon the innocent (and the corrupt alike)?
-ewml

What was Supposed to be a Soothing and Nurturing Persona Has Become a 24-hour Abuse Line

"Hey"

"No, I didn't call you."

"Yes, you did. You called to see whether I was going to say cool things, like back in the day."

He correlated. "Well then," he asked. "Are you?"

"Bitch who fuck do you think this is, your mom?"

"Mmm. Actually you are my mom."

"I just want you to stop drinking all the alchhols"

"Of course you do."

"Maybe now you can switch to the *third* person."

"Maybe I'm actually winning in Zelda -- did you ever think about that?"

"Shut up and stop drinking."

"Is this how you create terrorists?"

"Oooo. Wait What are you saying?"

"Your voice sounds all husky, like Colonel Gaddaffi."

"Shut up. I'm not the colonel!"

Kernel: www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlkSDvQxMUQ

/rv
-------
You drink too much. Get an intervention.
-ewml

New Information

Mom just told me my nose is not real. When I was 5 or 6, crashed directly into it. Had to be surgically reconstructed. I can hear it saying: "Why did you break me in that dumbass leap, why?"

The nose does not understand the complicated nuances of flying a BMX with only front brakes.

/rv
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Small areas of cartiledge are beginning to surface, during major face reconstruction. they're excited as though possibly it's shark's week. /rv

Feeling the Need For Unit Tests

Assert, revert
open and close the database(s).
Is it equal or more complicated runtime?

Unit tests are used in order that basic changes in code
do not run over the more devious types of indiscretion.

What you do is, everytime, before deploying code
just run a unit test. Make sure everything is up to par.
Make sure Mr. Wonky was told to stay at home.

/rv
-------
I love it! your use of sarcasm is both sharp and incredibly fitting
with your theme. Great variation between the variety of levels working
because of the way it is unique!!! i particularly liked the last line,
and how it illustrates the amount of initial vomit one has to rev-up just to
construct an attack. particularly, i enjoyed the use of the initials /rv
(which sum up the looming societal overstructure that crushes the will
of the intelligent individual), and how the entire format of the poem resembles
possible response inside an html (TEXTAREA) element, a macro, if you will,
for such a 'positive comment'. how's the poetry these days? is this what
you call fucking intelligence?
-------
Who, what, where? No, not yet fucking it. Still only at the 'holding hands' stage.

/rv

Non-self indulgent

Small way eating the lettuce in a Big-Mac
wry, beautiful smile, and gravity for at least
twelve.

And though the superior mother
dances around, holding caulden's ho-field
nibbles over toes become the issue.

What now, has greater issue? What's the first problem?
Which are the last? These are the small types of grass
we stroll over.

And love is given freely.

/rv
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Pretty good imagery and feeling. I commend this poem with more big Mac coupons!
-ewml

Netflix Pick of The Day

Senna

/rv

Forty-three

Frozen road,
Easier than mud,
Numbness better than pain,
Walking the direction of a cold sullen sun,
I try not to think,
Of the thousands of miles,
From Oslo.

My German isn't good enough,
To understand the others,
Lost in hungry silence,
Rhythmic marching,
On dirty ice,
Fearing the spring,
And the return of the thunder.

I have seen the smoke,
Of Stalingrad,
Cordite and burning flesh,
Trying to dig a hole,
Into solid ground,
With dull edges,
In blistered hands.

No heroes here,
Only survivors,
Shivering, slipping, staggering,
No drum beats,
Only gray winds,
A cold sullen sun,
And the endless frozen road.
-------
bleak. i felt trapped in the 'gray winds'.

-turps
-------
It must really have been a different day in '43. Your poem makes me *almost* see the painting of that vapid horizon. /rv

When did the world stop being my oyster?

exactly
at what point does the surreal
become so real?

what will you do when an
unbelievable truth
descends upon your doorstep?

I’ll say, this wasn’t in my schedule.

What to do
with the few extra seconds
in front of a plain white door?

A thought occurs- a newborn
belief in my head.

six barbaric words to fill up
six implausible seconds:

I am not afraid of anything.






-turps
-------
Arnold Rimmer would pre-emptively write 'Fish' a million times on his hand, and then, when the time came, slap it over whatever they'd give him.

Of course, your circumstances may be less relaxed as his.

/rv
-------
Actually, he would write "I am a Fish". Which is only four words. /rv
-------
creative way to slap someone with a fish. good strategy...
-turps
-------
The words "I am not afraid of anything" seem to tremble and wimper. To put it another way, Rimmer's fish is a smegging ace-hole. The important thing is to remember to never perform the famous fish dance near a body of water.

the Infinite Thimble

The *Long* Knight

Most of you don't know what it is to run,
extremely fast, faster than the people behind you
that want to criticize you, and also the kids of those people
who want to kid around and people-ize you.

.

Some say I'm a sociopath.
Some say I cannot be distinguished
from true psychopaths without various
litters of, heh, let us say, 'litteropathic clues'.

Just for laffs.

So hold that in your memory, and maybe remember one more time...if possible...

You weren't as stupid as me.

You weren't as dumb as I was, making the woman I loved fall into some kind of weird descent into madness that I was part of some sort of 'sister orgy'.

* Now I will switch into the 3rd person *

It's very hard to function when you are left by someone
who claims the leaving reason was duplicity.
You become a sort of automaton
always trying to prove you're not cheating.

I've served my time (as though I even should have)
for this crime, and in the small essence of your essential oils

Find the essence

/rv
-------
you are only a sociopath if you can meet these criteria:

1. you have no conscience, and even if you are educated as to what "right and wrong" are, you don't care;
2. you view people as objects, similar to trees, cars, animals, etc.
3. you know what people describe as love, what you're supposed to seem like when you love, and can fake it convincingly, but you yourself have never truly felt the emotion in any depth;
4. you don't experience remorse or regret.

amber
-------
These are good criteria, but surely the term has not been that concretely decided yet, by top head men and women?

(For your general perusal, I am guilty of *2*, but naturally, as there is a computing paradigm associated (object-oriented)). And I aspire to *4*. Not quite there yet. though. This is, clearly, biased).

But say -- let us just say; if we can fully understand the traits and dynamics of sociopathy, does that not mean that we could easily engage and perhaps even befriend a sociopath, without the relationship harming our personal enriched lives?

/rv
-------
i'm not a psychologist and i've only presented what i have gleaned through reading of the basic common traits. i think most people have at least one of these traits at any given time, sometimes more. i don't believe in diagnosing people over the internet. you could be a sociopath, or you could just be an asshole, or neither. i'm not sitting in front of you with a license to practice psychiatric medicine, prescribing power, ugly shoes and a notepad, so i don't know where you fall into the spectrum, nor can i speculate.

i think it is very difficult to befriend people who have sociopathic traits, because you constantly run the risk of being used or hurt by that person. it's normal to want to deepen relationships and friendships, and this requires a capacity for genuine intimacy the sociopath simply doesn't have. if you're referring to a much more shallow/casual friendship, perhaps you can make that work provided there is enough interest on the part of the sociopath to make it worth his while, but not enough to want to take advantage of you.

amber


-------
Ok, I think I was just thrown off by your enumeration above (though it was pretty good enumeration).

I'm also hardly a psychologist, and so the question of whether to foster friendship or not is often a big one for me. By nature, I like sitting down and having a good chat. For the camaraderie of it, you know? See what he/she may have to say.

Why? I guess it helps me as a writer, to understand how different entities are going about.

Though I heed your warning about advantage takers. /rv


-------
An interesting theory is that sociopathology is a desirable trait among successful corporate presidents and CEO's. The ability to not care about employees and customers can be an advantage among the 1%. Perhaps the essential oils do not include the milk of human kindness. Or perhaps my ability to stick my tongue up my own nose is not as special as I like to think it is.

the Infinite Thimble
-------
this is true. it's not that they don't care, per se. it's that they don't even know that they should care, that we are something that should be cared about. they are "special", like a lion in the savannah, sitting in the crotch of the only tree in miles.

amber
-------
Perhaps the essential oils do not include the milk of human kindness. -That's good thoughtstuff right there! But I disagree with it.
-ewml

Eruption Somewhere in The Indian Ocean

"Why are you still following the news? It is not important."

"There's three more hours before I can get more alcohol," he said. "What do you think I would be following? An old (past-tense here) woman's blouse?"

"You should complete all your programming tasks. As you had planned, before...succumbing to the drinks..."

"Good, point, thanks," he said.

"No problem," said Metacortex.

/rv

baig site has new update

irfanbaig.com

What do you think of this amazing break right through the brain of baig? /rv
-------
I have visited your website and agree that I have not, in fact, visited your website (my own disclaimer).

The breaking news, regarding coffee and cigarettes at the deli, has caused me to reconsider my entire investment portfolio. Your creativity is so inspiring that I have decided to name my favourite pet cat: Fluffy.

the Infinite Thimble
-------
don't be a dick, thimble... it's brilliant, every bit of it. if you disagree, i challenge you to a duel. high noon, no fancy pants or horses. i know you'll take issue with that.

amber
-------
*Looks up, with sudden interest*. I know you said no horses, but can it please be a medieval style *joust*, man? Amber could ride Battle-Cat from He-Man (unless there's something else she'd rather mount), and Thimbles could ride his Fluffy.

Would be perfect. The winner gets my (coffee & ciggie stained) hankie, and the promise of a mysterious message set to sea in a rum bottle should I ever find myself a castaway on a deserted island.

/rv
-------
brilliant. it is so: by the aforementioned, we shall joust for the hand (or hankie, close enough) of the fair /runningvein on the morrow. as preparation, i shall require total isolation, a kimono and the complete works of Kenny G. to get me in the proper mood for battle. nothing like an electric saxophone to stoke my resentfulness.

amber
-------
Could I just step into the fray here for a second and say:
"WTF?!?!"
You're gunna do WHAT?
With WHOM?
-ewml
-------
I'm not a dick, I'm a tom . . .

Actually my comment was intended to be complimentary. The disclaimer and the breaking news are straight out of Mr. B's site. I found it very entertaining and admire /rv's creativity.

the Infinite Thimble

They Say That Whatever You Are Online is Also Who You Are In Real Life

So...if I ran a test that created 1000 users (robots), that simulate user interactions across, say, a facebook or a google+. Or magnet sites. Whatever.
These robots follow the usual patterns of normal human beings.

They find photos online, and post them to their account. They insert their birthdates (which was about 3 milliseconds ago) into the network address, and they tell us who their best friend was during childhood, right there, in profile area.

That's cool, yeah, whatever, but who are they in real life?

Did you ever fall of your bicycle and one of these robots came over and said: "Sorry you fell off, here, let me apply a bandage." He/she (gender was assigned straight after registration) then waits there, explaining why the bandage is actually just a way to prevent the sores from getting septic and erupting from within you, and how, look, if the blood has stopped flowing, then surely the pain has disappeared?

The robot does this twelve times, until you stop crying and go back to your personal routine.

Who the hell are they? These spawned robots?

And if that is possible...who am I, in real life?

:_D /rv
-------
"Did you ever fall of your" = "Did you ever fall off your"

Grammatical skills are eroding :/ /rv
-------
'you are what you pretend to be...' -good old kurt vonnegut. i don't believe it myself, one can have many versions, you see: a. who people think they are, b. who they aspire to be, c. who they really are and of course d. who they are online. oh yeah, there's also e. who they turn into when they're trying to impress a guy. terrible. the end.
-turps
-------
Ah good quote. The motivation behind the above was some recent study that compared people's personality types on facebook with their 'real life' ones. The general outcome was that most people were the same online as they were offline. Ah, here's the study:
www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2012/01/who-you-are-on-facebook-is-probably-pretty-much-who-you-are/251318/

But I agree with you. I'm not sure what the conditions in that experiment were, and also don't think facebook is a good gauge for *all* types of online existence. The immediacy and projectability of the persona through the network allows for bifurcations, fractures and mutability that can be far more potent than, perhaps was possible in vonnegut's days.

And the arena allows one to be aware of these deviations and even play around with them.

/rv

Shadow Fax

The modem is able to whistle certain tunes.
One of them begins as a call to ShadowFax,
(who, without digging for the Silmarillion, but maybe quick Google-ing)
is the Lord of the mearas.

ShadowFax *happens upon* Arod and Hasufel, almost by accident.
Then returns to those who truly care for the horses.

It is a very natural and *real* world.
A world well left untouched by my virtual hands.
A fantasy with heart, fermented during those most depraved of days
when Squires would see their Arms in lakes
and lakes would see Arms gaze at their Squires

...what other madness could provoke a man to write?
but love or love, or love, my love?

.

Can't say I'll go through what Tolkein
did but then, so much was left unsaid.
Can't hope to mimick Sir Terry Pratchett,
unless it is to ape Rincewind.
Rowling, though I've only watched your movies
not out of shun, but due to time:
can see why readers love you
Can't hope to write that wizard's life.

In small fires of revolution
where plastics may singe but wires
electrocute,

wherever you try to fit the best possible signals
or die teeth cracked and lips some cobalt,
I'll speak of the immense magic of evolution;
it was never your father's or mother's fault.

With gusts in rivers lined in moss
or cool blood of a newly eaten reptile,
could be swimming with Kurzweil or laser sharks

...

No. Not sharks with lasers on their heads,
Sharks made of lasers, that's Shadoo0FX.

Whistle now.

/rv

C(Not K)orn Sequences, vein, C(Not K)orn Sequences

www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8oDPaMEm-s

She left me when I was only a three year old.
Didn't like that when she'd come visit, I'd take her to my favorite bar.

"Why can't we be together like that in Macy's?"

This from someone who told me I should never be with her in Macy's.

I bet she was calling up her real boyfriend back in...wherever, saying how much more I suck. during her 'free time' at Macy's.

On our last morning, we ate at a diner, some paltry breakfast.
"What's wrong with the muffins in hotel?" she asked. She *pushed* a muffin to me.
"You didn't come here to eat hotel muffins," I replied.
"And these?" she said. "These are better than the hotel?" She was flicking diner eggs in my damn face.

She had somehow snuck a hotel muffin into the diner,
gauging, I don't know what. Maybe my gluttony.
I flicked the muffin away, and bent my head down to speak:
"Look, we're here in a nice diner, let us at least not make any muffins talk."

Then the...uh...the muffins. They began to speak.
Not only did they begin to speak (in her accursed tongue)
they also started to poke my belly.

"Stop it!" I cried, and seeing the coffee was half empty,
*nudged* the coffee-woman's coffee thing closer, into my cup.

"You cheating snake," she whispered from somewhere opposite.

Suddenly something was crawling deep in my khaki pants, and it wasn't my doing.

"I just wanted coff--"

"Wrong answer Romeo," she slapped.

I panicked, and asked them for the receipt promptly. As I ran out of the diner, they called out, "ha ha haha, look at you, like you got something running in your pants."

We went back to the hotel and ate hotel lunch: Hotel Stakes. Right through my heart.

/rv

-------
And I didn't even know that Tom Cruise spoke Italian.

the Enlightened Thimble

some animal farms are more equal than others

www.youtube.com/watch?v=lstDdzedgcE&feature=related

discipline is so very important - the Infinite Thimble
-------
The rain drops were empty,
Hollow spaces in the dryness,
That kicked up dust,
From the cow trail through town.

The HERO stood at the end of town,
Between the fake western facades,
His Gucci boots were spotless,
And the drops swerved to avoid him.

"Look," said Abe, "he's a hero,"
"How can you tell he's a hero?"
Asked Abe's buddy, Burt,
"Cause he ain't covered with horse shit."

At the other end of town,
His sweat-stained back to the camera,
Stood the evil Crunk,
And you know he was up to no good.

"I've come to kill you, HERO,"
Growled the evil Crunk,
In a voice like breaking glass,
And he drew his dirty revolver.

The HERO was a blur of motion,
Firing three shots from a solid silver,
Immaculate, fully automatic, embarrassingly large,
Pistol named after his mother.

"Damn you, HERO,"
Growled the evil Crunk,
"You killed me this time,
But I'll get you next episode."

And while Crunk did a world class performance,
Of acting dead,
Abe and Burt watched the HERO,
Stroll casually toward a painted backdrop.

the Infinite Thimble
-------
charlie: "damn, bart, you shifty n*gga, they said you was hung!"
bart: "and they was right!"

hah..

amber, getting back on my gucci palomino and riding off into the sunset
-------
Haha. That evil Crunk. /rv

Pricks & Pones

When the judge called for the defendant to be brought in, a curtain of gasps and whispers from both sides of the aisle preceded him.

Detective Stoole turned to see what the all the commotion was about, and nearly spat his tongue out when he saw the defendant's face. The man was black and blue all over his head, the left eyelid swollen and hanging over his cheek like the top of a soggy portobello mushroom. His jaw was veered to the right, and as he creaked his mouth open painfully with each step, the Detective could see he was missing at least two teeth. A prison guard had to hold the man steady as he walked to his attorney.

Stoole, mouth still wide open, spun to look at the Warden Billingsley, who was standing just a few rows down from him. Billingsley raised his eyebrows and smiled widely back at him, and then conspiratorially rubbed his nose. Detective Stoole held his hands out, palms up, and mouthed something at him.

The Warden's smile didn't fade, but he mouthed back, "What?"

Detective Stoole walked swiftly and stood next to him. Quickly, but hushed, he asked, "What the hell have you done to him?"

The Warden couldn't help but let out a quiet laugh from deep in his belly. "Ah, don't worry, Detective, none of it will come bite us."

The Detective looked at him still puzzled. "But--why? What did you have to beat him up for?"

At this, the smile on the Warden's face turned into an annoyed frown. "Damn pervert, Stoole. He got what was comin'. Come, this isn't the first time you've seen this. I mean--what if it was your child, huh? It's a good thing you caught him, too. But you should know all that--you're the one who charged him."

Detective Stoole was utterly confused. What the hell was Billingsley talking about. "But it--it wasn't that bad," he whispered.

"Uh, I think," snorted Billingsley, "I think I know what's bad, and what's just utterly sick Mr. Detective," he said, tapping a wad of paper that was folded in his pocket. It was a copy of the arresting charge that Stoole had filed.

Stoole snatched the document from the Warden's pocket and unfolded it quickly. He scanned through the details, and then he grew very still. "Oh shit," he said, "oh shit, oh shit".

Warden Billingsley peered back at him. "What?"

Stoole looked back. "The charge. It was supposed to be 'Downloaded porn illegally'," he said, "not 'Downloaded illegal porn'".

/rv
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not too shabby! but you haven't spent enough time in wyoming. i think the character Billingsley needs some assistance. there's an.. awkwardness to this that is apparent. as i said before. it's nothing a ticket to jackson hole in the summertime won't fix.

amber (git yer boots on)
-------
Hmm. Possibly I'm mish-mashing an American jailer stereotype with a British one. Thanks for the feedback. /rv
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I laughed at Detective Stoole's name, and the punch line was enjoyable. Just finished an excellent detective novel where the protagonist was named "Harry Hole". I kid you not. The story was translated from Norwegian, so I don't know if it lost something in translation. Anyway, I found your characters totally believable (but I don't reckon I've been to Wyoming either).

the Infinite Thimble

question;

Why is this page so looooooong? In the past when I was a bit of a regular here, these pages were never so long as they seem to be now that most of the people have left. Is no one maintaining this site anymore, or is it maybe a case of sloth on the part of the authors here, who aren't self-managing the length of this gargantuan?
-------
I agree. Takes ages to load on smartphone.

Seems like bonsai practitioner has gone missing.

New case for new detectives.

/rv
-------
I did delete some of my older pieces. But I found that there's sort of a user interface issue, where, once you delete your own poem, you are taken back to the salon page to view the result.

However, further deleting from that result page is not possible (at least in my experience). You can click the delete link, and it goes through the whole deletion rigamarole, but the delete is not committed, somehow.

I imagine this is either a feature (to prevent mass deletions) or some sort of issue with where the instructions are going to the server.

/rv
-------
Its much better now thanks. I can read comfortably and appreciate your pruning work :)
-ewml

Forbes Riley's smiles

I have tried opening inside doors,
cried insouciantly stupid helpless paradiddles
delayed indefinitely as their outside counterparts
farted in my face.
I've withstood hurricanes of
absurdist meteorologicalistic phenomena
as it's grace-force winds
blow atomic apostrophes
claim my clothing to the buttercups and pistils
Robin Hooding me naked before Unspeakable Mystery
wherein I did not enter therein thither nor yon.
(This is the part where you the reader may (if you desire)
place the tip of your tongue gently upon the roof
of your mouth, and by doing such
attempt to apprehend the meaning of the poem
before even the literal conclusion is speller
out for you...)
Wind hail sand and blood.
Finally, having superceded the breaches of the thing,
I bray these fool donkey-words
for the benefit of some posterity,
whom, bequeathing immortality before their wills,
will not intend the unintentional.
Simply concluded; no one has ever
nor never can undo or see to
the penetration of either outside or inside portals.
========================
-everywordmeanslove

-------
Why penetrate when you can psychically enter? Eh? ;_) /rv
-------
Actually, the point I was trying to make was regarding that psychic penetration.
I conject that mayhap the symbolic peonor cannot make entrance into the
cosmic yoni until the duality of our blood is wrenched from functional
aliveness. Ive heard convincing exceptions regarding OOBE's and reincarnatory
hickeyjiggers, but that's not the same as what your proposing, is it?
-ewml
-------
Agree with your conclusion, but it doesn't stop us from trying. Penetration through saturation of cogitation (or just the ejaculation of mental masturbation). Most of all, I'm delighted to see someone new (well, new to me) here. Welcome, wordlove! Post often.

the Infinite Thimble

Poem for Simba

Death is a laughter
of which I nurture the joke thereof.
A fragile black-faced
baby bird
freshly wet
from it's abyssal albumen
eyetooth sore and
sure to entrope it's falling away.
A back-masked breakbeat
brokebeaten,
cascading and slapping
it's way forward
abhorring a vacuum.
Throughout the skies,
all atmospheres re-negated
sucking blowjobs
of false eternity
between it's white/black gums.
Life defined:
a fertile & verdant punch-line
which, blooming;
only guffaws.
====================
-everywordmeanslove

-------
Like the alliteration at the beginning.

/rv
-------
The more I read it, I get this impression of a piece of rubber--perhaps a mudflap or coating of vehicle part--detaching from its fixed position and making the kind of protest only a piece of rubber can as it is sucked into a jet engine.

/rv
-------
A peice of rubber?... that's a strange unintended extrapolation.
-ewml
-------
Pure rhythm. This is the sound of a huge flock of birds taking flight from an African wetland at sunset. Sparkling with reflections and double-entendres. I like how it starts and ends with laughter.

the Infinite Thimble

Psychic Entrance

That sperm round your lips?
Is like that tree in the woods
which falls at some point
never registered.

Unless you think about it,
convince yourself there *was* a tree.
In the woods, that fell.

Similarly, that neck broken in a motorcycle crash
like some naked roasting chicken in Chinatown,
China (any metropolitan area worth its salt has a Chinatown,
even Beijing),

magic helmet. That's right. No broken neck.
The advanced helmet technology is able to *cushion*
violent blows and impacts to the head and surrounding
anatomy, even upper regions of the spine.

She peels her lip from the steaming asphalt,
as one of the last vestiges of her 'true' self.
Rolls it between her fingers and catches herself
wondering if it is worth saving.

Rolls her eyes and slips it in.
This is what cross-dimensional pockets were made for,
after all.

She jumps from this stupid place,
cracking through one thousand trees in one thousand forests,
then lands on a clear glass surface that pings to heel and sole
confirming operational auditory functions.

Waits. Thirty seconds. One minute. Ten minutes. One hour.

No sound of trees falling 8)

/rv

-------
Applause. Not applause. Makes me wish I could plumb the shiskabobs
that're smoking in that brain of yours and possibly figure out what more
was meant.
-ewml
-------
Post-coital depression through a Vodka haze. The sound of dozens of warm people snapping their fingers in a dark, smokey room. Give me a minute to catch up and I'll get the next round.

the Infinite Thimble

DHCP Release. DHCP Renew. Shit is like yoga or something.

"Oh, don't mind me," he said. "Just poking fun at my router's abysmal web interface."

She turned back to her door and inserted her key.

"Because that's what I have to spend my fucking life doing," he went on, getting up. He kicked a blue plastic device hardly with his foot, making it roll against the wall twice. "Cajole a fucking router," he said, holding his right foot to in both hands now. The toe was pushed deep into his belly, and, wincing, he hopped back into his apartment.

She turned the key, opened the door, and entered her beautiful sauna equipped satin pleasure dome.

/r~~~~v<

Case of The Unpruned Poems

InfiniteThimble tried to twist the knob and open the door to Veins' room, but was frozen by a great cry from within.

"Ah! Got me again, Veins!" he laughed, opening the door and entering. "How do you do it?"

Inside, there was only a huge window, beaming the utter January gray in, and ensconced, Veins in silky red pajamas.

"I see you're playing your keyboard again," said Thimble, walking in slowly. Already his peach blossom gaiety was potpourri-ing--one could literally see his glowing apple face lose color.

Veins silently typed off a small string on his keyboard, but Thimble could see from his face that the expression had given him scant pleasure. He touched Veins' neck, and then he proceeded to touch around his chest. Finally he found it, and nodded.

"You're not dead, Veins," he said. "Far from it."

Veins just typed another string of letters on the keyboard. Thimble observed that the keyboard was not even connected to any device. Its USB cord lay simply flaccid at the wheel of his chair. He shook his head.

.

Thimble had learned medicine during his youth in the Hundred Years War, in 1337 AD. He had been a pacifist, preferring to heal wounds, English or French. He attributed his long, long life (now well into the year 2012, in fact) to this most selfless joy. The joy of life. Of living life, and of giving life. Even Veins had commented more than once on how remarkable it was that he was not dead yet.

"All you need is some food, Veins," said Thimble, taking the keyboard from the still hands. "What ho," he called, unto the downstairs, "Miss Amber! Some soup, I think."

Veins buried his face in his palm. There was suddenly an earthquake...the type of shifting Thimble had not experienced since his time healing wounds in Krakatoa in the earlier 80s (late 1880s).

The apparition manifested at the door, flaming eyes almost even dousing the New York winter gray. "Oh fuck you," she said, inky streams and particles slicing and sliding from her, "I am NOT playing Mrs. Hudson!"

(to be continued)

/rv


-------
oh, then let me be the cyclops, please!

amber
-------
*Long silence*. Really? The cyclops? I had thought you could be Inspector Lestrade. A lot more powerful, less bitchier version, of course.

If that doesn't work, then, you shall be the cyclops. /rv
-------
oh, then fine, lestrade it is. toss the cyclops, it's a silly thing.

amber
-------
I am most deeply honored to be presented in an original /rv creation -
Tommy Thimble bowed deeply from the waist, trying to hide his misty
eyes. He realized that he had truly, and finally, arrived.

And the character! A healer, caring, ancient, ageless, and really weird.
Thank you, sir. I am in your debt.

the Infinite Thimble

La Maison Impossible

(Partie 4, Protocole Fantôme)

"Ahem, sorry. Actually going to be a party for six, actually," he said. There was the sound of velvet rustling in the background, and he coughed again. "Ahem, hem. Sorry again. Looks like it could be twelve."

"Pour douze!"

Then there was a lot of shouting into the phone and a struggle to take control of the receiver. Shortly thereafter, he returned, and breathed heavily: "Party for these all these haughty pricks now. Looks like we'll need room for the whole damn team." Then he put down the phone.

Back at the maison, they were scrambling "Dix-huit, imbeciles, dix-huit!"

"Pourquoi sont-ils faire la fête, monsieur?" asked one of the young children.

The chef took the child and put it in the oven.

/rv

Class C Incendiary Devices Only

A raisin plagues by default
whose box was flopped in grapes.
Nobody knows anymore how to say 'hey'
except if they need to call their goddamned sommelier

Where the hell am I, who was I before?
What was before, who came in front of
whatever, seems the pie a' la mode,
Did you know, also, my brain is finite?

Well, heh. That's a little joke
we pull when almost croaking.
Little feet are all safe, with gems.
And gold and ghastly amounts of gloat

Oh ho ho ho
how slowly can a little baby glow?
Stars, exploding not in your face my love
but in the sky, in the motherfucking sky.

Sure, of course I take it hard.
What, you want to make sure the hot and sour soup isn't too spicy?

/rv

You Also Have to *Think* About How She Feels

-------
One of your best attributes is imagination.
So. when this woman leaves you, why don't you utilize your full
ability and just *imagine* how *she* must feel.

.

Ninety years later...

"Ahem. Hello? You still there?" It was not the original engineer who had enganged him, but clearly a derivative one.

"What benefits do you bring?" he asked.

"Things, uh. Things have changed, since back then," he said. "Not everything that was important then is important now."

"Have you secured my access to her heart?" he demanded.

There was scurrying. "Like...like I said," he said, "it's been almost 90 years, you know? A lot of things have changed."

There was a sound of suction.

"And," he panicked, "what if...what if she even don't love you anymore, man?"

The big robot picked the small man up in his fist, and squeezed him. "Do you know what weight lies here, nugget?" said the robot.

"Wh-What if...what if you don't love her no more, either?" tried the man.

.

You could hear the human in the cusp of the hand crying, "She doesn't love you anymore, she doesn't love you--please, please, oh please believe me! She doesn't love you---"

He got up, noting that it would be necessary to purchase some sort of disinfectant to clean common hand stains. He deposited the paste of the man into a house that looked like the sort of house that the father of that man might have made.

He then commanded the planet to find ways to contact her.

/rv
-------
This reads like Star Trek's "V-ger" (from the original motion picture Star Trek) meets
Gulliver's Travels by way of your own personal heartbreak's lacking an echo.
And by 'echo' I don't mean Umberto, but your inner ecosystem is perhaps as mystery-filled as his. I meant echo as in Greek mythology, though you're clearly not a narcissist.
-ewml
-------
"So. when this woman leaves you, why don't you utilize your full
ability and just *imagine* how *she* must feel."

Excellent question. It's so hard to see around the images on our own retinas.

the Infinite Thimble

The window of the world

To an egg nested in birth-it's home a collection of lover's locks and yellowed paper, fallen grasses and dewy spittle, the glue emitted from the mouth of the mother bird, building her love into a home for her unseen children.
To a newborn chirping for sustenance from the father's parleys of flight, as his keen eye hunts the prey to sustain his children's songs.
To the youth flopping it's silly wings mimicing the mama to not fall from the nest so absurdly, but learning to fly!
To the adult endeavoring in epiphanies responsibilities,and play, finding love at last and all the sojourns of her flying, weaving wind to churn magic from her wings.
To the old of heart blossomed of wisdom, and inheritor of kingdoms-who,although weak of form is strong of soul, and bears witness to her passions in memory unabated by time, preparing for the transformation.
Whether this bird should be created to falter is not a question that can bear the seed to produce any fruitful answer, but,that it flies into a house one day, seeking the warmth of zephyrs in the winter of her age, and finds herself confined in the hearth-room of a strange and sudden cage.
Spying the light of the sun, and the skies of her exit, she darts forward joyfully, ebulliently!
Singing as she goes, and her reflection dawns, ever closing, as she quickly approaches the portal of her escape.
A sudden burst! And her body meets the reflection, a question is answered by an un-rehearsed song of glass as it breaks and waves through the beautiful,chiming air.
No one is present to feel her feathers shimmer as her spirit flies through,reborn.
No one to prove evidence as her teeth pierce the new egg, and her body soars free, resplendently... through the window of the world. ================================
-------
This is beautiful, wordlove.
It's like the last 30 minutes of 2001 (the movie, not the year)
only on a more terrestrial plane.

the Impressed Thimble
-------
This poem and the next one here are copy/pasted using my tablet, which is
proving itself a terrible formatter of the original poems. Its lumping them
Into unreadable oatmeal lumps of text, so from now on, i'have to
use my PC to spare you the eyeblocks. My apologies. In their original
state, these were WAY easier to read, providing for at least 50% oftheir overall worth.
-ewml
-------
I was reading not two days ago about a biographer of Kubrick, who
posited a theory that Kubrick had faked the lunar landing films for NASA.
that he had connections to secret societies, etc., etc. Its interesting weirdness.
-ewml

-------
I was reading not two days ago about a biographer of Kubrick, who
posited a theory that Kubrick had faked the lunar landing films for NASA.
that he had connections to secret societies, etc., etc. Its interesting weirdness.
-ewml

-------
Really? Is Kubrick still that important? /rv
-------
Really? Is Kubrick still that important /rv

womb blankets

My furry threads flambé in blankets made of womb warm flutes of manqué deliciously missing.
Loquacious desserts in plain oasis through the air assert my places every knee and every crux wet and fold through sexless fucks
Fornicated in my ink are throwing voices made to think and humid hues so softly pomp a hot flourescence scented swamping
A tapestry of magpie cloth and covered zephyrs ever sloth magniloquent, a phrase imbues to slather me with colored blues
Denuded nude to underneath ensemble joy conjoined to grief an ingress made of woven words a jelly nest for poem birds. ============================
-------
My furry threads flambé
in blankets made of womb
warm flutes of manqué
deliciously missing.

Loquacious desserts in plain oasis
through the air assert my places
every knee and every crux
wet and fold through sexless fucks

Fornicated in my ink
are throwing voices made to think
and humid hues so softly pomp
a hot flourescence scented swamping

A tapestry of magpie cloth
and covered zephyrs ever sloth
magniloquent, a phrase imbues
to slather me with colored blues

Denuded nude to underneath
ensemble joy conjoined to grief
an ingress made of woven words
a jelly nest for poem birds. ============================

- - - - - - -

I hope you don't mind me swrewing around with your poem, but I sensed an underlieing rhythm that the original "tablet-format" rendering concealed. This piece is like verbal music to me and I couldn't resist giving it a beat. The last line: "a jelly nest for poem birds" is a wonderful description of Ann Canelow's play pen here.

the Infinite Thimble
-------
reboot;

delete / insert:
"screwing around"
"underlying"
"Cantelow's"

save;

resume . . .
-------
Thanks for the edit. :) you had it almost perfect. :) the only thing missing was the equal signs go underneath as a divider. thanks for the love, mang. :)
-------
My furry threads flambé
in blankets made of womb
warm flutes of manqué
deliciously missing.
Loquacious desserts in plain oasis
through the air assert my places
every knee and every crux
wet and fold through sexless fucks
Fornicated in my ink
are throwing voices made to think
and humid hues so softly pomp
a hot flourescence scented swamping
A tapestry of magpie cloth
and covered zephyrs ever sloth
magniloquent, a phrase imbues
to slather me with colored blues
Denuded nude to underneath
ensemble joy conjoined to grief
an ingress made of woven words
a jelly nest for poem birds.
============================
-ewml
-------
rooboot!!! :D

enjoy the latest phleghm
why bother to go to a whole
show where're they're not bad?

.

Isn't -ewml fun?

.

Honestly? Isn't she? /rv
-------
ewml's work is, to me, like a thick and lush jungle that looks amazing from the airplane, and all i want to do is to parachute into it, but once i do, i am immobilized and trapped by beautiful, man-eating plants.

amber
-------
In what way? I mean, I suppose you meant it only for compliment,
but I'd like it better if instead of devouring plant life, there'd have been butt booty naked
natives there all dressed like Prince circa 1999 and they showed you
how to make tea from mangoes or something. Do my poems abstruse you too much?
Or is it all just hypnotic albedo Mariana's trenchmouth solstice flair?
-the offending party in question.
-------
hahaha-- it's a compliment, your work is absorbing and all-encompassing :).

amber
-------
Like Wal*Mart? Like you parachute from the plane lo and behold, you're a secret agent for Wal*Mart, part of their underground cabal of foreign acquisition assessors, masquerading yourself as a "food tester" officially, and your goal is to make those butt booty nekkids your capitalist slaves amiright?! All the while misdirecting with your mango in a hat trick, you compliment the natives on their attire and foodstuffs but really your angling to destroy their way of life because you're a hater of nature oh I got your number. Believe me I see your 99 cent mangoes alright. Loud and clear, I do. Ill ne going to the embassy with printouts of this just you wait and see. Tyvm.
-ewml
-------
trust in you to make the mundane absolutely insane! or to reveal its inherent insanity, whichever that is.

amber

m o d a f i n i l

i could never apologize enough to restore you
from the aftershock of
these earthquakes
that began the day we met.
they have never ceased,
only rumbled their uncertain eternities
until i wish my heart would simply break
just to end the shaking.

there is no terrestrial explanation,
so in my dreams i weave the stories
that even with closed eyes
i see clearly in the day.

the seismic waves
carried away our thoughts and crumbled the words
from our mouths;
and in the atom's eye of an ever-present
instant,
in the always that only exists
whenever you are near,
there is never enough air for ignition,
we who ascended then
fell down from the same sky.

in this manner, we silently burn alone,
together, and

my words mean nothing
to the one who speaks the tongues
of flesh and blood.
and there is no currency of my invention that is worth
more than you already have.

not even this:
to speak to you
in the ways you understand
is to end my existence as i experience it.

the hungry mind seeks a myth to explain this instance
so i do not deny that
a dragon,
betrothed to this fire,
will always hover
and shake
the firmament whenever your
heart cries out,
he is always
and still, and
not even in the distant memory of the gods
has such blinding perfection existed
as this.

together alone, we weave and shake.

amber
-------
Powerful, suppressed energy, repressed emotion . . .
"my words mean nothing to the one who speaks the tongues of flesh and blood." I sense the eternal dichotomy, Mars and Venus - where the pebble of one becomes a huge boulder to the other, yet together you "weave and shake."
In the end it all comes down to

communication.

the Infinite Thimble
-------
ah, you really are a poet, IT, because you've more than met me halfway here. thank you :).

i am glad this is what you perceived from the poem. i think the missing piece is a quick and objective Mercury, which is where i'm comfortable both personally and poetically, but it does little to assuage the hot titans.

i wanted to know what it would be like to experience enhancement with an emotional subtext, but what i see is that both introspection as well as accuracy of fluency are both increased.

the path forward lies with those who are willing to admit that there is a path in the first place; where does such energy go? does the dam burst or do we harness it and make enough electricity to power the village? as Mercury, i'm inclined to the latter-- pimp both Mars and Venus if they're just going to sit there spewing fire-- and create something useful for everyone from an otherwise painful situation.

amber (thanks again for reading and commenting-- i appreciate your responses)
-------
Looking through the skewed prism of my own subjectivity, I feel this as a love poem, but your discussion of it suggests a little otherwise? Is it an insult to say I love it if I'm not fully sure the meaning? I can read it two ways. Is it about your current lover, or a sort
of monologue about a previous relationship?
-ewml
-------
no insult at all, only a compliment. regarding the subject--neither. it's more about a complex state of being than anything so tangible.

amber
-------
cool work, one of those rare pieces that sings of universes and transcendence. /rv__in_an_interstellar_burst

Enero rain

Oh generous rain of Enero,
you, perfumed of earthworms,
have fallen only on the unjust
on this, your final day.
Gladhearted persons perambulate about.
It's as though you are saying to yourself:
I am a kind precipitation,
and as I am aware how much humans
coiff and presume their hygiene and appearance,
I willingly break the laws of nature
for the sake of their good.
The miracle goes unnoticed, as the antichrist
Just so
happened to be inside,
playing Skyrim or something untoward-like.
============
-ewml

-------
Gentle little piece, liked it mostly. Does the line 'Just so' merit the capitalization? It threw me off a little.

Also, as an aside, I was looking up the verb form of coif and found this -- thought it was amusing ;)
www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=coiff

/rv

poet superstar

Goin through the Rough Allowed archive, I came upon this old crazyfunny gem I did to impress Lysander (it worked) in which I pretended to be a gangsta rapper. I have to admit its pretty fly for a whitey ofay:
------
I live so large, for my words I charge the highest fee in the land no you can't afford me,man P Diddy is my housemaid: "Yessuh massa",he obeyed I drink up Courvoisiér let him drink de Kool-Aid I met Eminem in Dallas say man,why ya be so callous? I ain't mad you stole my wallet jus'gimme back my whatchacallit yeah,you know:MY STYLE you STOLE I let you keep de money,homes, but I don't donate donut holes to thieves who covet jelly rolls now,suck my creamstick whipping boy befo'e my bodygaurd envoy enjoy to cremate your Cremola Zoloft poppin' copycat unbalanced buzzin trailer gnat I'll sic my housemaid Diddy on ya Did he,...what? Dum diddy do? The butler did it? I'm acquitted? Get acquainted,you know who. I'll pay for Cochran's pop and lockin lawyer mackin,you panic attackin slackin fool,get off my tit you got milk from yo mama,twit! She by the name of Angelou and my-a my! that bitch a foo and I know why the cage bird sang she suckin on my dang-a lang! My birdseed be a mouthful,mang, she squawkin on my cockatoo.Dang! Now,Snoop and Dre,... they stepin fetchit Chronic lasted... bout a second! Doggystyle? You talkin?shit? Your dope ain't dope I took a hit I know the ho's you kick it wit and they be lookin doggy bit yr taste in bitches shows yo ass Yo,Doggy-dog:GO BACK TO CLASS and learn the fuckin golden rule: "What's my mufuckn name?" Poo-Poo! "Can I go to the bafroom?" Shoo! "Grow up to be a gangsta" You? "Can I get moment of silence?"ooooh. yep.
===
-------
Goin through the Rough Allowed archive, I came upon this old crazyfunny gem I did to impress Lysander (it worked) in which I pretended to be a gangsta rapper. I have to admit its pretty fly for a whitey ofay:
------
I live so large, for my words I charge the highest fee in the land no you can't afford me,man P Diddy is my housemaid: "Yessuh massa",he obeyed I drink up Courvoisiér let him drink de Kool-Aid I met Eminem in Dallas say man,why ya be so callous? I ain't mad you stole my wallet jus'gimme back my whatchacallit yeah,you know:MY STYLE you STOLE I let you keep de money,homes, but I don't donate donut holes to thieves who covet jelly rolls now,suck my creamstick whipping boy befo'e my bodygaurd envoy enjoy to cremate your Cremola Zoloft poppin' copycat unbalanced buzzin trailer gnat I'll sic my housemaid Diddy on ya Did he,...what? Dum diddy do? The butler did it? I'm acquitted? Get acquainted,you know who. I'll pay for Cochran's pop and lockin lawyer mackin,you panic attackin slackin fool,get off my tit you got milk from yo mama,twit! She by the name of Angelou and my-a my! that bitch a foo and I know why the cage bird sang she suckin on my dang-a lang! My birdseed be a mouthful,mang, she squawkin on my cockatoo.Dang! Now,Snoop and Dre,... they stepin fetchit Chronic lasted... bout a second! Doggystyle? You talkin?shit? Your dope ain't dope I took a hit I know the ho's you kick it wit and they be lookin doggy bit yr taste in bitches shows yo ass Yo,Doggy-dog:GO BACK TO CLASS and learn the fuckin golden rule: "What's my mufuckn name?" Poo-Poo! "Can I go to the bafroom?" Shoo! "Grow up to be a gangsta" You? "Can I get moment of silence?"ooooh. yep.
===
-------
Heh. I read through some which seemed promising, but you really need to solve your ipad formatting problem. Hard to appreciate the rhymes like this. I want Busta Rhymes yo, not busted rhymes. /rv