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chantz's (chant_z on UKA) UKArchive
84 Archived submissions found.
Title
A Path Mirrored (posted on: 23-05-16)
As brief as it gets

A path mirrored down in obscurity, A lament from the lotus flower... One is one too many so they say, Still alive yet shaking My brittle life away... Enigmas to be seen, Will forever ever be now? I picked the wrong tree in picking, Now ever is never forever For I'm uglier than thou...
Archived comments for A Path Mirrored
stormwolf on 24-05-2016
A Path Mirrored
Hi stranger 😉
You lost me a bit here but reading between the lines I feel so many are expressing sadness and despair.

Aliosn x

Author's Reply:

pdemitchell on 24-05-2016
A Path Mirrored
Interesting read but the last three lines lost me being a tad thick - would welcome an explanation! Mitch

Author's Reply:
Not sure as to meaning but there was this storm...

sweetwater on 25-05-2016
A Path Mirrored
Well I just loved the reading of this, I think I have the meaning, or is it just my meaning? I wonder. I liked the weaving of your words especially the last four lines, beautiful. I too would like to know the real meaning as it's such an intriguing poem, please tell 🙂 Sue.

Author's Reply:

Mikeverdi on 25-05-2016
A Path Mirrored
Agree with all the others...whats it all about 🙂
Mike

Author's Reply:


Tie Break (posted on: 20-11-15)
Last night

Last night I had a scary feel; Last night my husband broke down So please forgive me if I'm wrong, I needn't be the one to come on strong; It's just a wardrobe thing to me, Like there was no other thing to be Than a lucid tie in spring As my heart keeps wandering. So put the sky on hold will you 'Cause last night was never meant for two.
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Put ... (posted on: 12-10-15)
Basically an "embryo" for a work in progress. Any comments most appreciated!

Jeremy was a happy man; he was a happily wedded man and to him that was perfectly fine. The problems that sometimes occurred were somewhat tricky for Jeremy though. There was nothing wrong with the wife; not at all. It was more a question of the man she was wedded to. Somehow it seemed to Jeremy that he differed from himself in the respect that he was somebody else and that struck Jeremy as slightly strange. However, in the mornings Jeremy couldn't resist breakfast and even though the break was fast because of something somewhat practical he was very grateful for the wife being so good with getting the goods together for the daily breakfast and for breakfasts to come. Jeremy didn't realize any apparent way for the morning goods to enter the fridge before hitting the table if it wasn't for either him or the wife. He was very confident with the thought that the lawn on the other side, with was brown since it was on the other side, a side opposite to the way ready made lawns tend to be, couldn't possibly get food into the fridge. Maybe it was customized, he sometimes thought to himself, but that certainly couldn't be a very realistic way for the lawn to get food stuff into a fridge next door; any fridge next door to be precise. The conclusion had to be that he much appreciated his own work and the work of the wife, quite regardless of her being wedded to Jeremy or non-Jeremy. At times he went mad with himself but instead of hitting the table he had entered a very stable relationship with the bathroom mirror, a mirror he liked because it tended to show him at his best; he wished it no harm and hence he didn't hit it. Sometimes it struck him that the mirror was cheating on him and on those rare occasions something hit the chair and that was Jeremy having a seat instead of a meal.
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Medicine (posted on: 09-10-15)
On the Nobel Prize

It's fascinating indeed To realize How and why A very old book In traditional Chinese Can be transformed Into medication In "Our" sense of the word. The good part is; it's very useful.
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Oath Under Pressure (posted on: 04-09-15)
Whose enemy am I?

The lamp light lit In an Oracle of havens ... The mistress is in Although people 'round here Say she's a witch. Which hunt are we To dwell on now? Travel by thought Into mystic layers Of what used to be Petty religion ... Whose enemy am I But my own ...
Archived comments for Oath Under Pressure
sweetwater on 05-09-2015
Oath Under Pressure
I liked this very much and enjoyed reading it, didn't really understand it, but for me that never spoils any poem if I like it. Sue.

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Quite often when I write the "understanding part" isn't necessarily the main thing. Thank you very much!

Mikeverdi on 06-09-2015
Oath Under Pressure
See answer on your other poem, I too love this one.
Mike

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much! I guess my comment above stresses a ponit of mine here on "understanding".


My! Did I Write That? (posted on: 04-09-15)
Short of love. Something for the longing ... disguised as a droubble. 20 pounds please .. 🙂

The phone rang not knowing it was invented. Somebody answered not knowing how to; it just happened; like it happens every time. Time the avenger. Sometimes it disturbed him and sometimes it didn't. On the former occasions it was like it was perturbed in him; a feeling he couldn't deflate; he could only relate to briefer moments making the aching worse. How he longed for one ... a single one ... phone call. It may be from a moth to a flame if it wasn't for the sad fact that the moth was a mother. Bloody Freudian manners; put all the blame on her. Not an ordinary man; just some vin ordinaire. She was in love with him; I was in love with her; hence the phone didn't really ring. So it happens every time and every time (well almost) there is an implicit deceit in the airy ways of the phone; like looking at the back of the moon and discovering it's all tapestry. Anyway, anyhow it was never she or her; it that was left for him in his little and belittled life (or so it seemed) was the carpenter's smile on the wall like if a moth.
Archived comments for My! Did I Write That?
Mikeverdi on 06-09-2015
My! Did I Write That?
You have indecated comments/critique so...
I read your work with a mixture of wonder and confusion. So many great lines mixed with metaphor and smoke-screens. "It's not you,its me" I just need to get out a bit more.

Looking at the back of the moon and dicovering it's all tapestry is just brilliant.
Mike

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Something for me to chew on then. I guess I have my moments and other moments too ...
I need to admit that it was a quick write so there's a bit of irony in the title of the piece.

Popeye on 08-09-2015
My! Did I Write That?
Yes I would mirror Mikes comment, looking forward to page 2 🙂

Author's Reply:


A Dasein or Two ... (posted on: 24-08-15)
On the fear of ontological commitment and the conflict that arises when it's met by intellectual maturity ... Bullshit ... Moi? It's disguised as a droubble.

I often wonder about my lack of selfitude. What the heck do I mean by that? Well. Ever since the 20:ies with their sad ending I've had it in my mind, so to speak, that John Kenneth Galbraith was the main man but now it seems to be me ... And who the hell am I? My lack of selfitude forbids me of saying anything and moreover I'm too keen on the martial arts for comfort. I was robbed once by a female imposter who's name is Comfort. She ended up in Sheffield; maybe I should contact her and see if she remembers me; Sheffield somewhere. Maybe I should go to Sheffield and tell her to her face: ''You are like a hurricane''. What about this thing of mine, my lack of selfitude ... eh ... eh? I may have a fear or two of ontological commitment. Is that the name of the game? My lack of selfitude prohibits me from answering the question. Maybe I misled it from the start. Heidegger was a stinking fart anyway according to some, so give me some ... Selfitude ... What's for afters?
Archived comments for A Dasein or Two ...
Weefatfella on 24-08-2015
A Dasein or Two ...
 photo c673dadc-2d28-4407-9a21-a191bcf6d656_zpsp2y54f3y.jpg

Aye! It's an awful thing having to exist at all.
Weefatfella.


Author's Reply:
Existence is futile. Time for a beer ... Thanks!


Withering eyes (posted on: 14-08-15)
post intellectual piece

My eyes withers; Moist uniform umbrellas, Mute as they commute ... A fool's tale And a Samson in New Orleans ... This Derrida fellow Must've had a screw loose.
Archived comments for Withering eyes
deadpoet on 20-08-2015
Withering eyes
Aha no insider knowledge in me- but a nice pace and quirky- fun to read- I think the first line "my eyes wither" without the last s!
Pia

Author's Reply:
Thanks. I like the idea of it being "quirky". Of course you're right about the "s". Typo on my part.


A note on music (posted on: 14-08-15)
On a novelty

As for Sweden there's something in the contemporary music scene that I would regard as a novelty; to me it suggests something that's more French than traditionally Swedish really. The thing I'm referring to is these female singers with an attitude. Traditionally there's been a person in French culture who impersonates what the French woman was supposed to be like. Brigitte Bardot is a classic in that respect. She says "Don't fuck me me" to put it crudely. The Swedish novelty is a variety of female singers with that approach; there are too many to mention. Why do I glance at the music scene? Well! To me music is an aid in writing and by that I don't mean the lyrics but rather the rhytm. It can be any kind of music really; as long as there's rhytm I can write. From the point of view of theory that makes sense I think. When I was very young I used to do my homework listening to music; at least it kept my parents away; that's the way my mind is construed. A short while back I had a look at the Australian top 20 in music. More often than not it was female singers and man did it wipe the shit out of what we have here from the point of view of quality. A preliminary conclusion then would be that female singers are on the march. I can live with that.
Archived comments for A note on music
deadpoet on 20-08-2015
A note on music
I learnt about music here- I used to type in time to music- must have been some strange writings I had!

Pia

Author's Reply:
That's fairly normal to me. Thanks! The truth of the matter is that Australia's always had one h-ll of a music scene. A whole lot more than just AC/DC which seems to be all that matters on this part of the equator. Thanks!


What is there to Understand? (posted on: 07-08-15)
A 1,5 minute piece

What is there to understand But the remnants of a fury Past imperfect like the stars That greet the solemn sky With a humid smile For all occasions .... What is there to see But the pertinent features of daybreak Past imperfect like the distant moon The back of which Is like a theatre For all occasions ...
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Bozzz on 09-08-2015
What is there to Understand?
Waking is partaking - both of the dream that went before and the reality of day that is to come - a succinct and excellent piece, Chant-z....Yours aye, David

Author's Reply:
Thank you. I guess sometimes you don't know what there is to understand until somebody points it out .. :). Thanks!


Somewhere There's a Place (take 2) (posted on: 13-07-15)
An edited version of a piece I posted the past weekend. I've added 4 lines with the edit. Less bold and maybe less interesting ... 🙂

Somewhere there's a Place We call the rainbow's end; Redefined it whispers; I long to state the case. Trip easy through my wire That's all outdated now The state of love is what I'll bring into the fire ... Aetheral do you speak Of tides yet to return; Alas ancestry begotten, There's no time to be meek ... Almost I can tell Enigmas that you are, In constant shades of black and red In love I'm lost so well ... Occasional it rings, This happiness of Peace; The love of your Creation; A well that's lost in springs.
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Somewhere There's a Place (posted on: 10-07-15)
A piece with some weird rhymes perhaps. Feel free!

Somewhere there's a place, We call the rainbow's end; Redefined it whispers; I long to state the case. You trip all though my wire That's all outdated now The state of love is all I'll bring into the fire ... Aetheral you do speak Of tides yet to return; Alas ancestry begotten There's no time to be meek ... Almost can I tell Enigmas that are you; In constant shades of black and red In love I'm lost so well ...
Archived comments for Somewhere There's a Place
gwirionedd on 11-07-2015
Somewhere Theres a Place
Not so weird, chant. It's a form of "envelope rhyme", where the rhymes come in the first and last lines of a quatrain.

I think you use the word "all" too much in the second verse. Maybe think about cutting that.

Also, please avoid old-fashioned speech patterns. This is the 21st century, and speaking like someone from the 16th century just sounds wrong in a modern poem. For example, "Aethereal you do speak" and "Almost can I tell".

Why not "I can almost tell"?






Author's Reply:
Thank you. I guess the "reversed" language was an uncertainty part. As for "all" I'll see what I can conjure up. Thanks!

deadpoet on 12-07-2015
Somewhere Theres a Place
I liked this Chant_z- It's good we have someone like Archie to point out the professional bits and pieces. I stumbled over meek- but that's just me. Don't ever feel meek- just humble perhaps.
best
Pia xx

Author's Reply:
Thank you. As for meek I hardly know what it means ... 🙂

sweetwater on 12-07-2015
Somewhere Theres a Place
This is very nice, personally I love the 'old' language so much more interesting and less workaday and prosaic than the more modern stuff. I would like to read more of it on this site. Sue.

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Like I said above that's the uncertainty part on my part. There's something redefined in the first part and then that comes in, but I did an edit according to the critisism and maybe I'll repost. Thank you.

Gothicman on 12-07-2015
Somewhere Theres a Place
Bold writing here chant_z from days of old, interesting to interpret and tug on, feels like another take on "lost past".

Author's Reply:
Thanks. I guess it's a Little bold yes but then again what to do with something redefined .. :). As for your response to my comment I agree with you in full ... :). I've done a less bold edit and addition that I'll post asap. Thank you!


My Tiny Shoes (posted on: 03-07-15)
There are one-liners that are too good not to be used again. Send my regards to Lloyd Cole...

The reason it's a clich Is because it's true; The harder you climb, The harder you fall And I don't mean maybe ... Your treason is a touch That turned overdue; I could spread the word All over this damned town If it wasn't for my baby ... So bear with me now; Walk a mile in my tiny shoes; I don't know when nor how, I guess we all have a taste of that same ol' blues You were too big a morie To be within view; The tardiness within Is all I carry on My very own queen B
Archived comments for My Tiny Shoes
amman on 05-07-2015
My Tiny Shoes
I presume these are song lyrics, they read like them anyway. Stripped back, cryptic writing just like a Lloyd Cole piece.
Haven't really caught up with your stuff - been away for a while but I'm a fan and will definitely catch up on your back catalogue.
Cheers.
Tony.


Author's Reply:
"When I'm nothing to noone"... :). Thank you very much. Yes. They're supposed to be read like song lyrics. For better or worse I don't know.

sweetwater on 05-07-2015
My Tiny Shoes
Hi, the last line of the first verse gave me the song titled ' Maybe Baby ' I caught myself reading this as song lyrics rather than a poem, and it's none the worse for that, I especially liked the ' same o'l Blues' line. 🙂 Sue.

Author's Reply:
It does have that form. The oneliner is "The Reason it's a cliché is because it's true". I simply had to rewrite that one. Thanks!


Cataclysm (posted on: 03-07-15)
This one is a poem that I actually know the meaning of ... feel free!

At home; Reluctantly speaking to the wall, As if in shades of grey It could change it all ... At sea; Repentantly tied onto a log, As if my hearing aid Could sense the fog ... At breast; Precambrian lie without a mother, As if the corn of all Was more than for my brother ...
Archived comments for Cataclysm
deadpoet on 03-07-2015
Cataclysm
This is good and descriptive- and it rhymes- nice language and words- good images to feed the imagination. Something to think about- thank you.

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Well. The images are mine but the imagination is all yours; I guess there's a point to that. Thank you.


No sex please, we're British? (posted on: 29-06-15)
Just one of 'em drobbles. I rather fancy it.... 🙂

The flowers of evil have surely multiplied. Like cancer seeds they should not be disturbed in their weary quarters, where abandoned feather-like clouds choaked the ceiling of the little church where we once wedded. I loved her then, my little dairy queen, or should I say queen bee after plan B hadn't rescued me. Where's the fire alarm, open window, third floor. I should know better but there aint no peace for the wicked. Oh yeah, I recall our last meeting in Amsterdam. It rained women on that day; a sad day for sure. It's always sad when it's raining but then again you Brits know all about that. However the fire in bed was quickly choaked by the wet rain and the city showed off at its best. Not too many churches here; more channels. I loved you then my little dairy queen and I love you now so let's have babies and show the world that there is tomorrow; it's more to the picture than the cynical but all too familiar fascination street where girls walk back and forth pushing their five year olds. No sex please, we're British. A bad pun? I doubt that to be true.
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Suntime (posted on: 29-06-15)
Not brand new and definitely without any disturbing rhymes .. 🙂

Whip me into suntime, Everyday visionary! A fool-moon's journey To anew As the Pleijades fall With no light ... The hounds howl, Puslike, When the night Opens its crown And lets me taste its nectar For the price of one day.
Archived comments for Suntime
stormwolf on 30-06-2015
Suntime
I liked this Frederick. I will whip you into sun time if you insist! 😜
Hope the Pleiades don't fall or I'll have nowhere to call home.😜
Some really original imagery here, well done.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
The imagery - yes. I guess that's my "trademark" lol. Somebody admired (even) my abandoned style. I know what that means but I've never heard the expression before and I can't translate it ... Thanks!

sweetwater on 02-07-2015
Suntime
I can't pretend I understand this poem, but that made no difference to my enjoyment of reading it. Sue.

Author's Reply:
Thank you! I consulted google translate (which I sometimes do) and I was suggested "Solar Time" as the correct interpretation of the title. My miststake entirely (if that's right). I don't know but just maybe "The Killing Moon" (song by Echo and the Bunnymen) could ackompanie at least some of the lines here (sub conscious influence perhaps)


Rainy Day Man (posted on: 26-06-15)
Disjoint piece of mine. I don't know about prosetry.

Hallelujah It's raining ... So bring 'em all on Them dancing horses ... Wherever they may roam They'll do wonders To the myriad creatures On who we depend; We can't continue like this Was true 15 years ago And still My body weeps From the absence Of sunbirth; Like it was yesterday; The digster fresh ... A summer party; For the wicked There is no such thing As peace. Our lips are sealed ... But from silence No poetry can stem. Send my regards To Stanislav Lem.
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The Contemporary Question ... (posted on: 26-06-15)
A brief observation of matters ... (I have a history with being critisised for saving the rhymes 'til the finale but I hope you don't mind .. :))

In and out of love; Or in or out of a union? That seems to me to be The contemporary question... Wherever a union libre arises, There must be times of trouble, More so than for a droubble ... If the modern ancients Wish to continue Their mad affair with Bosporia, Then leave them for their weet ... for a better fate Than borrowing From a bear without teeth; On pense que Les Pays-Bas ont tout. Malgr pas la route Soit dr ... I don't always Agree with France ...
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Abandoned Time Peace (posted on: 22-06-15)
Any interpretation goes I guess.

Who wiped out the horizon? They're building something as I breathe ... Promiscouous flowers in a tiny rain; This fort has seen it all ... Oh thy amber seaweed Is more than a whisper From me now ... Regardez le Somme In a redish summit Reminding me of the drink I had only yesterday. My eyes are green, yet jaundiced; Can I still be Breathing like the tide?
Archived comments for Abandoned Time Peace
deadpoet on 22-06-2015
Abandoned Time Peace
Hi chant_z- this is both beautiful and ugly- I think that is on purpose? (otherwise please don't be offended)reads very well. I like it a lot. I'd love to see it expanded- it's as though you have much more to say ? Though I'd cut the "thy"- to the perhaps? or my?



How to win a Golden Egg!


Author's Reply:
The "thy" is an allusion to an early poem I wrote. I guess you hit the spot. There should be a tension in the piece. Thanks!

Supratik on 23-06-2015
Abandoned Time Peace
For me, I could sense tears through the beautiful images used. Thank you for sharing this. Best. Supratik

Author's Reply:
Thank you!

sweetwater on 25-06-2015
Abandoned Time Peace
I enjoyed this, if not fully understanding it all. The first verse struck a cord though and made me think of all the lost horizons there will soon be once the building starts where I live.
The whole piece had a real air of sadness. Sue.

Author's Reply:
Thank you. I guess it's a collage of images, creating an effect. Understanding isn't the main thing really here. It's the air that matters.


Horizon (posted on: 19-06-15)
Not something I'm very keen on describing (since I don't know what it means ... :))

A horizon for us to keep; Although changing it cannot be discerned, Yet for the longing There may not be such a thing As a return ... (Innocense long since lost) A wounded belt for which we weep, Despite horizon's killed it in lingered concern, For few of which so burned There aint no such thing As a return ... (Providence long lost)
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Time for concrete things to be done about the Oresund region (posted on: 19-06-15)
The title is a headline in today's local morning paper.

The bridge between Sweden and Denmark was set to be back in 1997. Providing the southern region with a mint terrorist building was in fashion. Of course it was televised as "The bridge". I believe that there's been a British/French version of that one. In today's paper, 17 years, 11 months and 17 days after the bridge was finished somebody came up with the whopping idea that maybe, just maybe Sweden could pay some attention to Denmark. Now aint that fascinating? I say; anyone care for tennis has been the theme ever since the f-ing bridge was conceived and as for the EU - why make it easy when things can be ultra bureaucratic? If I only take myself into any equation, I would need some state paperwork to be done if I was to spend just one night in Denmark. Now aint that fascinating? The EU sure made it! In today's paper somebody, a Swede, suddenly woke up (just before the election in Denmark (stategic move anyone?)). Somebody in here told me that the times there are not a-changin' and I believe that to be the case, but if Sweden actually stopped being so self important and payed some attention to the rest of the Nordic countries then maybe one day ... just maybe ...
Archived comments for Time for concrete things to be done about the Oresund region
Gothicman on 19-06-2015
Time for concrete things to be done about the Oresund region
Hi Niklas, I'm normally a great fan of your expressive English, but here, I'm afraid it doesn't really work, for two reasons, it's badly written even incomprehensible in places, and, in your anger, you haven't actually named or adequately described what the actual problem is! Needs re-writing my friend.
Goth!

Author's Reply:
I see your point. Maybe I shouldn't have written this one at all. I just found that title to be quite ridiculous.

Rypper on 19-06-2015
Time for concrete things to be done about the Oresund region
The headline appears to be someone's idea of a bad pun...

Author's Reply:
I couldn't agree more.

deadpoet on 20-06-2015
Time for concrete things to be done about the Oresund region
Was it a Swedish paper? There has been for centuries a bit of animosity beteen the Swedes and Danes- like brothers/sisters. We have had wars where the Danes claimed parts of Sweden and the Swedes occupied Denmark. I don't know much about self-important Swedes. But I like living in Denmark. I don't pay much attention to the papers.

Author's Reply:
It was a Swedish paper - Sydsvenska Dagbladet.


Parables (posted on: 05-06-15)
This one simply popped up while I was typing ... 🙂

Parables converging into sadness, Bleeding through on account of all the madness The 80:ies gave us no more prowess .. Throw the dice into a ditch of regress. Day for night in hobo town, Comes through a hollow bunk of comedown. Max factor doesn't care if we are dreaming of a better way than this to end the screaming ... Now 80:ies come again of that I'm sure ... No calculus for me to meet the score, Lowland's lower than t'was yesterday No need for rest that's put on replay.
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deadpoet on 08-06-2015
Parables
very good - I had an awful time in 80's, 90's and so on 🙂
Loved the line about Max Factor- so true...

xx

Author's Reply:


The Silken Night (posted on: 15-05-15)
A brief comeback on my part. Only starting out ...

There was a sound from a nearby garden. Shakib could hardly discern it through the softly humid night where the distant stars where blurry above a thick, dark layer of stratocumulus clouds. He followed the narrow, fenced path leading towards the gardened entrance. No source of sound was to be seen. The flowered entrance was all dark to his wetted eyes as a trembling sensation of constrained ferociousness around the flowered area hit him like a teslian punch. The wooden house had seen it all through decades and decades. It went along a circular area and the garden was designed as reminder of history; it must always come again. ''Come with me '' The wind seemed to whisper but all of a sudden as he shook his head it was gone. Maybe it was a trick of the night or maybe a trick of the light or perhaps the lack of it. The dimmed entrance was all there was and that was all, except him. He was alone but the humid air gave birth to a scent of flowers not far away from where he stood in a tranquil, marveled gaze.
Archived comments for The Silken Night
deadpoet on 15-05-2015
The Silken Night
This was extremely atmospheric Chant-z. I felt as though I was there in the dark night and the flower scent. I enjoyed reading very much.
Pia

Author's Reply:


My Constant in Opal (posted on: 09-01-15)
Brand new piece of mine ...

Oh, when will I ever see thee, My very own Constant in Opal? Izmir my beloved, From a distance, Like always ... I have longed for you For many years; For the time being Only tears rain down; The remedy is for time to tell, And time will be wise To make this madness stop; Our deed indeed ... If Christendom was ever missionary, Then all must have been saved Since the late 40:ies I guess. Nevertheless what there is to keep always Is faith, In our becoming like always ... A Constant in Opal; A Topaz star regardless of season, Independent of where it lives, Where it resides.
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New Year's Day (posted on: 02-01-15)
I wrote this piece very quickly on new year's eve back in 2006 and it tends to be okay once a year pretty much regardless of which year it is I think.

Banners of dreams unfold, And stars fall down Like intoxicated fireflies Into the night sky That greets them With a humid smile ... A man who is nobody Realises with a twist of his lip That he has 150 million years left In order to reach reality ... He starts the day smiling Knowing That he is A mirage.
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Only Blood makes Noise (posted on: 01-12-14)
Since I've been away so long everything I post for now is labelled "experimental". Regard The time being

You look so pretty In your criminal grace; Like a raven's treasure And yes - I do have the eyes for it. Some morons speak of S.W.Eden ... I speak of a special case Of an artificial paradise Where reality is condemned In silence ... This place is all on self destruct And the beggars in the street Increasing daily Don't bleed. Gypsies talking in their mobile phones Overflowing the lie of the land ... We're overfed and daunted Although we pretend otherwise; We must never forget Auswitch But we all have to shut up about Terezinstadt ... Just like in the US of A We must keep it up Our facade Although political extremists Posing as the protectors Of the environment Have really ruined it. I guess it's true ... Here Only Blood makes Noise.
Archived comments for Only Blood makes Noise
stormwolf on 02-12-2014
Only Blood makes Noise
Bravo!
So many things, so many issues. We are all suffering loss of national identity and so many are asleep in their coming slavery.

This place is all on self destruct
And the beggars in the street
Increasing daily
Don't bleed.

Gypsies talking in their mobile phones
Overflowing the lie of the land ...

Bloody brilliant! Boy do I ever empathize.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Hmm. The best beer I ever had was in Prague and the worse beer they have is sold here. That story alone is older than the anthem.


Sickness is Lame (posted on: 01-12-14)
Been away from most things literary; trying to retreive something I take for granted is lost. This piece is semi personal and that's not every day ...

Even if I said: "This place is killing me" It wouldn't take away The lack of pain I should feel But don't. In Spring I had a bolt of fire within. It hurt and I can't explain; Now sickness is lame ... And the remedy too expensive ... It might do me in Before leaving Which is what I must do It is not a case of "eat or be eaten" ... It's more a matter of "running below the radar" instead of being the radar. You can know it all ... My! Do I know it all? Am I sick of Knowing it all? Then sickness is lame.
Archived comments for Sickness is Lame
stormwolf on 02-12-2014
Sickness is Lame
I sense exhaustion, frustration and a bit of anger thrown in. I hope you are feeling better. Seems that SO many of us are sickening now in one way of the other....but not surprised really seeing what's happening with everything globally.
Alison x

Author's Reply:

Gothicman on 08-12-2014
Sickness is Lame
A well-written and intriguing poem, Chant_Z; One can read a lot into it including the mental anguish we all must feel, Alison mentions, but it could be more, or something else. As it is semi-personal, only you can enlarge on it with explanation, but only if you wish, as with this type of poem, the prerogative to do so or not, is always yours.
Gothicman

Author's Reply:
I'm so pseudo posh for a moment that I'm going to label something "The dollar bill theory". But then again IBM did buy (back) stuff that made Microsoft big once and I wonder to myself what will happen with Microsoft's HIV-program which was and is ambitious to say the least. "The Horizon is open" as a certain Dane wrote on the future (The Dane featured in an earlier one of mine here) is more my thing as for what will happen. On a very personal note my relationship with Hungary is life long and thus I'm definitely in quite deep in the Gypsie question (which seems controversial here but need I mention that it's a shared phenomena and not "just" a Romanian one (and this very fact seems chocking for young folks here). In the above written I touch upon politics as lightly as I can but wherever that one is I am not (but it's so bl-y typical that the Country's had a "Christian" right wing party in Government for the 8 longest years of my life). a non-native asked me if the Gov had paved the way for the radicals and my reply was a simple "Of course". I'm hardly a racist but the thing is that Sweden has accepted more immigrants in total than the entire EU has. Moreover Sweden is the only country I know where legal immigrants tear their papers after having come here. That's how welcome they feel perhaps. (Also it makes matters pretty difficult for the authorities figuring out who is legit and who isn't). And of course, as usual, The Dutch have to work very hard for "us" and I just feel sorry for Holland all the time. My frustration as one of them educated ones is that with my degrees from the Behavioural Sciences I could do some very practical hands on work with other people BUT I'm kind of put on hold waiting for a vacancy.


The Glow After Afterglow (posted on: 12-09-14)
Not brand new but it's a favourite of mine.

Yesterday's saturation is all a memory now, And the promise of this shining day seems To have left me jaded for a moment Before I took my eyes where I put them, In compelling grass, Outside the shallow cave The other day it seems. Lapis Lazuli shimmering ... A soft whirlwind; Oh how crowns of trees play Muddle, muddle With my senses As dusk awaits. It's on the wind for certain. A dim moon is anticipated Only to conjure up a night; A diminished sattelite forgotten, While it brings sleep. (The nimbus of a gate) Wide asleep in unknown havens, A Moiran box awaits ... Will the key suffice or suffer From this dreamscape? An ocean to part company with, Where seagulls never sleep; Prometheus and an eagle. (An interim of chaotic motion of fern) The Greek cradle I was born in is set ashore, And Spartan waves of incence Speak to me of innocence Once upon a brittle time; Why not speak of feathers yet to be? A bonfire gone in multiverse, The multiversa open; Progidies in becoming? Then the chant of Coptic lands, Where pyramids dwell in Mathematical precision. Waters unfolded and the priestess is lost In the riddle of her own mind ... A Morian box awaits; behold the mysteries Of ancient worlds and beautiful spaces, Butterflies in metaphor air ... I would fly with them still. Night is a wildfire; glowing eyes Seek a raven's treasure, Not a faraway beach, And the Bosporus opens the gates of the horizon That can only be traversed in dream or transmigration. It speaks in a Sufi's circle; The long forgotten Persia We call yesterday ... Hagia Sophia speaks to me, As if I could sacrifice Being a mere one Among the myriad creatures; Lao speaks in soft cloth Of yesterday's anticipation And Amritsar shines from a distance In high air Where the refreshed eye of my imagination Sometimes will be ... Let east and west intertwine; Fertilize futures yet to be seen ... Let us not believe in mere angels And devils ... Bring on the lights, Of ancient tales That whisper sweet music In our forgotten ears ... The blue mosque; Constant in opal hindsight, To make the future shine! There is no more sound; Only moist voices From the humid haven Of my feather-like mind; A siren wind passes gently, And so I hesitate once more At the gate of it all; Just like it was the end of the line ...
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On a Solemn Day (posted on: 11-08-14)
More to be done than ever really. No jobs they say.

On a solemn day, When I was almost with someone; Then maybe once, I could walk To the waterline ... It may take hell For the world to unwind To think beyong itself ... And I will surely, Live and die To try to recreate The once forgotten ... To represent more than oneself again, Only after breaking out Of the wheel of Shiva Imposed and cloaked As a clown in a pleasuredome... Are we to have dwarfs and giants (business as usual) Or equality of man? The answer may reside In Hilbert's maple fan ... The Rhine could have Been purified In the 19:th century, Only the vulture of time Didn't allow it then; (Call it Zeitgeist if you wish) Will the vulture now Allow chock to become A new awakening? Or will it take my Little soul And others On its wing?
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Supratik on 17-08-2014
On a Solemn Day
Very nice!

Would 'beyong' be a typo, or could I be missing something.

Author's Reply:
No doubt a typo on my part. Thank you very much!


Commute (posted on: 01-08-14)
Audio included. May be a "neologism" in there. I'm afraid I had to use google....:)

How could I ever forget The agony within, Made up by distant stars, Humbling their way Whilst I tumble As if astray ... The sky commutes And shallow voices Nearby glare, Like the sunburnt landlord, For all the people He can never be ... Meanwhile the tantric computes Like if in a moron's tale, Fed up to capacity Out of rum.
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Everyday chime (A Month of Tuesdays) (posted on: 28-07-14)
Ionescu - Moi?

Tomorrow came as a surprise for Tom; he wasn't used to surprises. It didn't matter if it was on a Tuesday or Wednesday, surprises were always surprising. Remotely surprising was Tom's reaction; it always followed the same pattern. He stopped for a while, examined his presence and in a fraction of an instant borrowed some milk from his neighbour with whom he was friends. Dear Margaret, he would say. Can I borrow some milk from you? It was as simple as that. Margaret had been married once but her husband left her for anotherman which was more than society could take; hence a sudden move to Asia somewhere where there were no beaches; only peaches to spare. A wiser economy perhaps but Margaret and Tom were good neighbours. Their friendship had developed over the years to include more than what was normally the case with neighbours. If Tom had a problem with a shirt he could always consult Margaret and if Margaret ever wore a skirt, which was never the case, then in theory she could consult Tom. When Tom was at his best he was not surprised which may come as some surprise, given the fact that he kept his nose in a jar most of the time, while the rest of the time passed like snowflakes falling upwards and not downwards which was normal for snowflakes that fell. Not knowing which species to turn in to Tom swallowed his agriculture whole and went to a sandy beach called harnest in order to make ribbons fly away from him. Tom was at his best whereas the beach was not; it had some minor flaws in the sand which was a pity given the colour of the year which was neither seven nor eight nor nine. There was no space between the two that could hold gravity for very long and non gravity was out of sight also like the puddle rain was instant. In an instant the surprise came to him and the rest followed the way that's already been described. There is no way a man can describe the ordeal that Tom took on after the surprise, that's the way the chapter goes. In a second the chapter was finished and Tom, who only thought highly of himself on rare occasions, didn't know what to do other than what he was doing, that is, sobbing through lunch with a Tiger mask carrying filled baskets of sandy glue to the jar where it was supposed to be depicted rather than described. The snowflakes didn't tire Tom as they should have done, given the momentum of the surprise. There was no way of knowing the route he had to go in order to give them a happy end as they merged with the feathered clouds. Oddly, yesterday came with a beatle backbone which was hard to master and equally odd as any fever could be. Tom was secluded in to the weary mask of iron depicted rather than described by Margaret's pipe since the break between east and west which wasn't due to the vigour of Mae West. With nothing to spare and little to wear, the backbone of Tom didn't catch fiercely the finger of which was not hither nor thither. The surprise caught the image and the release was sudden. Suddenly there was neither sky nor earth for Tom to pang and he had no pang for the conscious marvel of the trinity that divided the whole of the hole. Tom was in an autumn clearing which resembled a bottle of coke. Choked by experiencing too many hazardous passages in coming in to spring Tom found a compound of spring to catch ad did so. The autumn clearing followed swiftly the path Tom had caught for himself and borrowed a yellow mariner as weeping wine went up and not down because of the cause and the cost of wearing harvest in to the yellow autumn clearing. Margaret came along and borrowed some flavour, not doing Tom a favour delivering the message of a stormy sandman who couldn't pay attention. What letter should come next, one might ask oneself but Tom didn't and thus spoke the sandman with the plastic bag from fall wart who couldn't grasp the grape. If you think this is nonsense you're positive. If Tom ever thought about yesterday it was like the temple which is not to be found in the upper left corner. Borderline with the tide of Babylon where anyone could speak and a myriad of convents to go with it, the shoreline stretched out beside his jaded gaze and the coffee spent on hanging gardens that didn't match. The fact of fiction struck Tom like winter strikes a cannibal and lightning dusk. It was in this tiny place on earth of which the body of calculus stood that encapsulated the whole of the crescent and thus was there light if not more than that. The surprise was ready! Already? Of course a crossroads came across the fence in to the hanging plant that was in the garden of Morse's remorse and the feathers of the trees hung up in a dry place that didn't make any sense; hence the dryness. Not without shyness the traditional fact of fiction, just like make believe, tried to pull a leg on a joke that was in the clouds like the next of kin spake. Even the brake broke. Not withstanding the fear of the moment before the surprise, Tom knew that tomorrow would not cease to be and thus he wandered down the road and since it was morning already and since he never thought much about yesterday except on Fridays, Margaret was there with a shirt, forgetting the birthday cake which was all hung up in metaphysics. The strange notion of solemn disorder grasped Tom as he counted the feathered leaves and came to the preliminary conclusion that they might contain yellowness. His laziness, however, was not without reason and the morning subsided in to a strange room whereas Margaret held the surprise for Tom and all of his other neighbours were singing along. The absence of weariness was a part of the surprise that Tom thought highly of since it had a quality which seemed slightly royal in it's dampness. The sounds of music escaped him as he fell in to another cage than normally and the hind of what was behind him came in hindsight to be all there was to the box that was hidden beneath the jar of interpretation which was lost in translation. A single room with a double bed was all there was to Tom's surprise without which he was fully capable to navigate and since he didn't speak any other language there were birds hanging upside down which would be normal since the snowflakes were foaming the moaning of the night before the surprise came along. Margaret was sowing a new blouse and Tom came to the preliminary conclusion was to bake a loaf of bread in dough whereas daybreak was distant as yesterday fell in to the theatre of the children who were playing in the yard. Tom was as silent as the dew of which he was born on the day the surprise came along and hence the absence of weariness in his condition which wasn't very subnormal. He took the subway to where people used to dwell without being inpatient with the strange delight of the night before the aftermath of interpretation was lost in translation. The homeopath didn't lie as two pounds of salt lingered in the quiet morning when there was not a single sound in the street behind him. Yesterday was dead and gone long before daylight and the fuzziness that surrounded Tom's presence didn't count him out as he didn't make it to the Paris match. There was no other direction which he could have gone while he underwent the same procedure as usual with his shirt left where he came to stay as he strayed along a cat that came to town for the second time. Nobody was there to greet him with a humid smile and the years had shrunk in the washing machine just like Margaret's ex husband had gained a lottery ticket to ride. Tom traversed several birthday cakes as he couldn't count the clouds that bore him and gave birth to whatever came along inside the mansion of hinders which were not there to greet him. The surprise took on an ordeal which was pale in scent and didn't make much sense to Tom who neglected the entire process that lay before him in an instant. As the story continued down the lane there was no sound to play towards and the surprise lingered in the air like a glass of sweet wine that didn't make an ordinary sound. The style it took to be the only child of the family wasn't easy enough to handle for poor Tom who couldn't make his wishes come alive; the birthday cake was swallowed. How was Tom to know what to do when he didn't even have a clue as to why the glue in his shirt was all green and blue like the blues that carried a hand bag for the rags of ms Jameson who was related to Margaret in a secondary way. Knowing how to play basket ball wasn't enough for Tom who graduated at an early age diminished in time and space to a place which wasn't dreamlike in essence. The surprise hit him not unlike a dentist would if he was angry just before he changed his profession; dentists do sometimes. Indecision was Tom's marginal note and the surprise didn't know; only hesitated without knowing why. The space between what was then and this is now is not measurable like other objects and Tom knew it; he knew how to keep score. On the other hand something other than this came along to go with the surprise and the demise of it wasn't Tom's idea of a good time. The dice, however, rolled themselves in his direction and the yellowness, which was the property of the constant fog surrounding the twins who had left the womb like Achilles if not like someone else, turned to pale white dampness for Tom's eyes to watch and a silver moon rose over Texas the very instant they were all born. Guess what came as a surprise. The twins, newborn or not, left the motherly milk and honey, I don't have to tell you I don't mean maybe, Tom thought for himself while he was resting by the armchair of his mother. There wasn't time for consultations on a night like the preceding one. There wasn't any ghost left; they were too scared by the surprise. All that was left was the birthday cake Margaret had done for Tom and he had it with a kind of weird but sublime pleasure, bathing his moustache in the wrong direction. To do that he needed a device which resembled a living frog drowned in orange juice and in order to get that he had to go to his grandmother who was long gone but so was he since it was tomorrow and it was a lonely stretch that he had in front of him going backwards instead of forwards for the sake of ms Jameson who had appeared as a part of the surprise and was not at all surprised by the sadness of her neighbour who was grooming by the side of a distant road. Automatic like the cloudy beach in Vietnam Tom throttled along by the side of the sidewalk sidewalking like a Jesus or something not unlike a nearby camel. What was there to know except the novelty the birth of which was not like anything Tom had ever seen, although he'd heard of tomcats. It was an ordinary day and he was an ordinary every day self. Ms Jameson lived in a shoebox and the pleasant fact that it was blue didn't matter much to the sun that day which deserves to be mentioned at some point, although not now; too busy doing other things like nicking furniture and flowers with the top of his lungs Tom knew he could chant a little. Happy birthday ms Jameson could have said, knowing Tom and the rest of the carpet which refused to fly. By a car wash it was quite impossible to say what everyone knew beside the end of the road which was sooo 20:th century. Ordinary people are supposed to live ordinary lives but mss Jameson didn't fit easily in to the category in question, which was questioned by a lot of people however natural to Tom, having read the book. People are as strange as strangers are foreign in French. The dialectics of matter suddenly gave way for Tom, who had hit his head real bad in a corner where there was a shop selling foam and the dialectics formed a parable without any corners. It was a sad and weary sight for most people and Tom didn't like it either but there was a cat he couldn't get rid of lying in a corner hit by a marketplace where there were only dim lights. It was hardly time for tea nor was it time for coffee nor was it time to take some air, curved or not, in to action without telling the rules to the few but enthusiastic people watching the scenery. Ms Jameson had a cup of something other than what might be expected and suddenly rose to the occasion in order to be grasped by the police and sent to spring where she walked a line non famous to the locals who smutted and hissed for the benefit of the doubt. Ms Jameson was taken in by Liverpool and Manchester United just like the next of kin would have if there had been something in the way to stop her from sobbing; she enjoyed the uniforms, and the tear gas too. In bloom not unlike the groom she pasted a little extra on her forehead and just like honey under a Virginia moon she put together a jigsaw puzzle which was tumbling with the dice. It's not everywhere to be found, the Virginia moon isn't. Ms Jameson was lucky. Tom didn't bother to look for it in the bath tub, although there had been side effects from taking too much brick walls together with the birthday cake. Two ounces of salt was all there was to it; surprisingly and oddly. The whole thing was served with the surprise by which Tom was taken in to tomorrow where seagulls lived and strayed under cover without any hedgehogs of interpretation that didn't tell a story. The surprise was more than words can express, would be a romantic expression of the whole thing if this was romantic, because Tom really didn't know what to believe. You should decide what you want to believe in but for Tom words like that were futile; lost and forgotten all at once. There was no way to escape the fact that propositions are sometimes ready made. Tom knew it and adjusted to it; he didn't want to be surprised again (one time was enough). The derelict quarters of the passed quarter didn't move in to the bushes whereas Tom wouldn't know how to deal with his situated mantra; it escaped him in a shy way, notwithstanding the reassurance of ribbons that painted ugly masks of friction beside the pavement. The pavement stayed put as Tom did a manoeuvre in another direction than what was his intention at first; that way he surprised the pavement. Wise enough not to have his head in the clouds and strong enough not to let go of the soil which wasn't as barren as his hairstyle, he escaped the fact that ribbons came and went while he underwent a journey to the south. A metropolis was wise enough to stay put as there wasn't any trace left of the original worth. Chairs broke as Tom tried to capture another fink that did talk. Oddly enough he spoke Vietnamese and didn't bother about the other finks; must have been odd as a baby fink. The metropolis stretched out a lot and Tom was weary for a second or two. There was nothing left of any glorious temple and the hey didn't come as any surprise as such but was interwoven with the surprise in a yellowish kind of manner that did suit Tom's manners. The battery was near the end of the road as Jaques Derrida's haircut grew on a vine. A metropolis wasn't wise enough to stay beautiful; it grew in to the dusk of the days. There was no noise in the barren street as he stretched out above the horizon and near the dawn where pigeons met for breakfast and the manoeuvre was ready to cut in to the wild. There weren't any drinks to drink and Tom contemplated ms Jameson's fate in a convex box before entering lunch. There was not a single hillside in sight and he wondered why while he waited for the bus to arrive at sunset. Dawn was drawling like an absent dog as he merged with the yellowness of the surprise. It was a fact that he had a profound dislike for ordinary rats; miles preferring the more unusual ones like a cup of tea at Weesington's on Tuesdays. The preference had a sublime aura; some auras are not sublime. Pleased to be aware of the consequences of the manoeuvre Tom didn't realise that he was five minutes late for the lorry to arrive; it was surprising for him to know. He didn't understand why there weren't any chickens on a Sunday like the ones he'd known and he didn't understand the reason why. Nevertheless it was a pleasant holiday to spend tomorrow with and thus he continued the swim session until it came to a halt. There was no more sorrow as Tom entered the caf without a sound. The strange thing was that the clock had turned blue like time had and he couldn't grab the counter in the caf. Polite and civilised, he went straight to Margaret to ask where it was possible to buy a shirt after sunset and he came to the preliminary conclusion that there weren't any churches open; it was June. Nevertheless he continued to wear a shirt despite the fact that it was tomorrow and that the minister had turned the entire town upside down for everyone to see, all due to the snowflakes. It was only on Wednesdays that he wore something else; gravity wouldn't have it any other way. Since mid day there was not a single sound in the street surrounding him and everyone else had gone to church but since it was time to practise another move there wasn't anything left for the den to remain at the dentist's. Strange things can occur where there is no sound and Tom knew it; he knew most things. The main gradient of the map was at his mother's and since he left town there was no way to trade in everything he hadn't done. The repercussion came as no surprise whereas the cat was on the end of the horoscope and weeping slowly while day broke. The surprise lingered in its yellowness and a boat appeared from the skyline, not knowing what it was there for. Not knowing what he was there for, Tom inhaled in anticipation as he left Margaret on the sidewalk by her home and continued to brush his toes. By the time the surprise was over it wasn't tomorrow anymore but today; a fact that puzzled Tom but he was used to it so he didn't mind much. Today was a good name for today, he thought and continued to chew on his left cheekbone which left him with something yellow in a sordid background. The noise from a nearby washing machine didn't make much difference and a pencil appeared to be broken while a guitar cried by the side of the pavement nearby ms Jameson who had just finished dinner. The dinner took her to the emperor of Bulgaria where she was easily led down the stairs to a new town where there was no electricity due to a missing bill who had been delayed in Cairo on his way to work and wasn't skilled with waiting for the bus. By the time he came to work Tom was all over the place, now that he'd left the surprise behind him; quite a relief for him. The emperor of Bulgaria had two for dinner and since he was out of numbers Tom had to be there; eaten. Tom did not like it but there was little else to do whereas twenty miles away there was a carnival and the twenty disappeared in to the emperor's belly in a rapid fashion making Tom a little hungry. While Tom was hungry and ms Jameson was complacent there was some noise, yellow, in the Bulgarian street below them; it was Tom's uncle who was late in coming; he had it wilfully. The weirdest things can happen if one juxtaposes weird things. Learning by doing was Tom's cup of tea but the deed had something yellow about it which didn't make much fuzz and some cool jazz music went down the little red lane in to a harbour where there was an old philosopher who didn't know Frank Sinatra's nephew. There was no need doing any deed since the deed was done and all mixed with yellow ice cream that flourished in the afternoon sun and was very appealing to the emperor. The afternoon of today wasn't big enough for a room to capture and Tom knew it; thus he placed a bet on a horse and one dog. The horse came second whereas the dog had just joined a radical left wing group and was busy all the time with elections, the outcome of which weren't certain. The witch who lived further down the road laughed about it all when Tom came to visit having trouble with his toes. They were as crossed as ms Jameson who's eyelids were dry as camels or crocodiles in a not so distant future the distance of which was marked with a cross. The notion of everyday life came yellowish as the sea that wasn't disturbed, if only for a fleeting child that would not appear with the turning of time in an ancient clockwork. The clockwork in question was as old as the stars that would appear in a carnival room digested with milk and honey by the side of the entrance to a jar. Nobody came to stay where there was no ambulance that could take care of the yellow part which was all that was left of tomorrow turned today. The people in the ambulance were as real as the deal the made before going to the show where Tom was lying in bed telling a lie to ms Jameson who was as absent as the ambulance men were when they came to see her. Nobody was there to welcome them and if Jesus had a brother it wouldn't be Tom; his behaviour wasn't appealing and the pile of milk beside the end of the road's pavement really made a sound being transmigrated in to a suburb to Los Angeles. Angels weren't singing an ode to strangeness as Tom didn't feel at home with the situation at hand. The hand that fed Tom was fed up with Tom as such; he had to do something strange as he felt the entire thing imploding with a yellow quality which was not at handtoday was the day. He kept the hand and was rather ignorant of ms Jameson who needed it and the ambulance men had a roadmap which was outdated. In time with the circumstances all the ambulance men knew about today was that it was rather dim and slightly hesitant in quality but the ambulance men didn't hesitate about ms Jameson's condition; she was apple-like and radiant. When the nurse came to pick flowers some people arrived forming a square in the air, curved or not curved, which was the answer to a question in question. The question quickly rose if Tom was going with the ambulance but a queer thought occurred without any doubt or hesitation that there would be a number of people there to prevent ms Jameson from going mad. She was mad at Tom for being non-happy and the strain of it all was as simple as a kind of hesitation forming yesterday which was the day preceding today which had been tomorrow before the surprise hit Tom. Without a sound a butterfly rose like a summer bird and signalled the season as oranges grew where there was winter in timely waters that never ended not unlike the coming of fall. There were quite a few sounds as Tom's neighbour started to change clothes in to a skirt that she almost put on but not entirely. The sound of the skirt hitting the flower pan did everyone a big favour the interest of which was enormous and un-Christian. In a pagan way the flowers surrounding Tom made an arrangement not to hit the roof of Tom's house while a guitar-like sound hit the ceiling. Tom was in a strange mood as the fan hit the roof of the ceiling and didn't produce a single sound after that. It could have been the end of the story but somehow there was another fan that hit the floor and Tom was happy; there was not a single sound of him being un-happy so he must have been. While logic was not entirely his cup of tea his bag included, there was summer that came in to existence for him; he was in a garden displaying a skirt his neighbour's skirt while chemistry came and went. The flowers paraded in to the sunset like gigantic elephants all in line with the times. The strange sound they made up wasn't enough to satisfy ms Jameson's need for further inquiry; they did the contrary. Unsatisfactory ms Jameson went and so did Tom although in another direction; there was still a little time left. Orchids grew by the side of the walk Tom took to wear a cross that suited his suit and the colour of which was neither black nor white. Tom was happy. He had gained a lifestyle suitable to ms Jameson and that was quite glorious to him. The glory of England wasn't met by the compassion Tom felt for autumn. All of a sudden, from out of the blue, a semester came along just like at school. Tom was not late; he took it and ran. Where all the flowers were gone there was not a single sound of amazement to him as the leaves of the trees fell upwards because the snowflakes did and before he knew it he was married!
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Diamonds, Earrings and Mysterious Matters (posted on: 21-07-14)
Out of words...

The title is suggesting that something very interesting will come but it won't.
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I Stole the Moon (posted on: 21-07-14)
For the weekly challenge...

I stole the moon, La luna,la lune Only to bring you A crescent tear Eyes jaundiced From weeping I went down, Back underground, Where once I was Before I thought I was alive Scattered wears Joint in tarnished feather. Where art thou now, Oh you precious Child of mine?
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Convalessence (posted on: 18-07-14)
Breathing like the tide ...

The nosdrils of years Make up a day, Or two While we gather; As constant flowers Chant their way To rebirth, Which is nul; And nothingness Prevails. Seek what you Must find ...
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Teddy Tremendous Takes a Walk (posted on: 18-07-14)
Oh well. I resign from writing for kids ...;)

Teddy Tremedous is a nice Teddy bear. It's nice, Teddy thinks, to be a nice Teddy. Teddy is in the house where his mate lives. Teddy's mate is called Tom. Tom asks Teddy if he likes to take a walk with him. Teddy Tremendous Walk. How is that? Tom Walk is like this. Tom puts one leg in front of the other and then moves the other leg. Tom Look Teddy! I'm walking! Teddy Tremendous Is that walking? Tom Yes. I'm moving forwards. Tom walks from one side of the room to the other. Teddy Tremendous looks at him with awe. Teddy Wow! That's very nice. I can sit. Tom You can walk too if you like. Can you do like me? Teddy I don't know. Tom takes Teddy Tremendous' hand. Tom If you stand up I'll show you. Teddy I don't know. Can you stop? Tom No. Okay. I get it! I can never write a childrens' book.
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16 (posted on: 13-06-14)
Didn't know how to categorise it really - a sign of the times and a critique of what I often call "the bastard press and their bastard universe".

One day it was in the daily news. The story ran 2 pages with pictures. It was about a girl who had cut her arms for years. It was all over the pages with pictures. The story of her tragedy went on in the form of an interview and she said that she had found comfort in her new boyfriend and that had made her quit. A month passed and then the entire country had young girls cutting their arms with razorblades. The tragedy was that it was too much to handle for the hospitals. Anthropology is a bitch at times. Luckily Philosophers didn't come up with the synergy concept which is known as ''dynamic effect'' in the media. A dynamic effect can be a great deal but the very notion of a dynamic surely sounds like a lasting sales argument. Never mind the young ones, here are the ones who prefer dogs to people. As a former worker in the Kinnevik group I'm well aware of the fact that they preferably want everyone to work on a commission and it shouldn't be more than 1 pound per hour. That's how cynical they are. I never regret quitting that job. I've been in the board of a magazine myself once. I was one of the favourites in the board and I received very versatile tasks to do. Those were interesting times and the magazine in question was a very friendly one, although with a rather strange name. With my academic background I was constantly corrected. In the academy you write in passive form I was told, whereas in journalism you write in active form. I enjoyed my journalist time but I miles prefer the academic jargon to the journalist one. Why? Because in the academy nothing is proven and there always has to be a degree of uncertainty hence the passive form (for example). The drawback of the academy is when words are picked up and overused. One example is synergy. Also the very word science has been a victim for inflation. Here it's called ''literature science''. Why? Do they run stats on how many times the letter ''T'' is used in Homer? Oh my, have we gone mad?
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expat on 15-06-2014
16
Very readable; it drifts like a natural pub conversation.

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. I lost my ego somewhere in the drink. Much needed...:)


Layers of Reception (posted on: 02-05-14)
I dropped the stitches and this one popped up. Comments most welcome. Shaky legs...

Citrus springtime, And a Lotus flower In bloom as the groom Undresses for the third time While the mirror looks Like he looks in the mirror. The arc of a world Ascending Like the Lotus flower, Stretching for a sun ... A transcendental Thoreau In a costume And the Gamma of the sun Make up layers of reception, Before he is ready For the guests to arrive. Indeed he is a lucky one ...
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pdemitchell on 03-05-2014
Layers of Reception
An interesting piece based on a surreal tickling of the pre-nuptial sensitivities. Mitch :0)

Author's Reply:
"pre-nuptial" ... 🙂 My head "ticked" a little extra there ... Thank you very much.


Lightening up the Ingmar Bergman Syndrom (or a Different Approach to Chess) (posted on: 02-05-14)
The Seventh Seal is quite well known I think. This would be an alternative ending of the chess part.

Knight: Here's looking at you kid. Death: What do you mean? Who are you; Bogart? Knight: Oh no. I'm just an average guy but I do have somewhat of a crush on someone. Death: Crush? What's that? Knight: It's complicated. You wouldn't understand. But I fancy you. Death: Huh? Knight: Never mind. Let's continue playing. Death: Excuse me but you've disturbed my circles. Knight: Chess. Death: Oh my! Knight: What do you think? It's not child's play you know. Death: I know, I know. We all have our crosses to bare. You're a knight right? Knight: You can call it that but I have a subscription for the journal of Consciousness. The complete issues. Death: The journal of what? Knight: Consciousness studies. Death: Hmm. Sounds scary. Knight: Calm down will you. Death: Can I ask for your expertise, please? Knight: Of course! Go ahead. Death: You're a knight, right but then who am I? Knight: Not sure. Haven't reached that stage yet. Anyway, I have a clown to consider. Can we continue the game? Death: I feel shaky. Knight: That would be scientifically adequate here, I suppose. Death: Oh my! What can I do? Knight: Chess mate! I win. Sorry. Death: Oh my! I didn't expect this. It's not in the script. Knight: Forget about scripts. Don't you have any imagination? Death: Imagination? What's that? Knight: It's a property of consciousness. Death: Seems handy. How do I get it? Knight: An annual subscription for a magazine on consciousness comes with a beautiful life insurance. If you get it from me, that is. Death: Life life Rings a bell somehow. Knight: In that case I might tempt you to find out more. Death: Oh yeah! Knight: My sincere apologies for winning the game but as compensation you can get 50% off the insurance. Death: Is there any catch. Knight: I have two horses nearby. You have to ride one of them. Death: Horses. They are they are Knight: Living yeah. Death: Oh my. How do I mount one then. Knight: It's included in the insurance letter. Don't worry. Death: Thank you so much, sir knight. This is the best thing that ever happened to me. I've always loathed this role. It's all black and white and I'd like to see colour some day. Knight: Look over there. It's sunset. Beautiful. Death: Where? Knight: We better mount the horses. You'll have a better view then. Then the knight and death rides happily through a Swedish desert towards the sun and a place where smoking is strictly prohibited.
Archived comments for Lightening up the Ingmar Bergman Syndrom (or a Different Approach to Chess)

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Bring on the Rain of Rhyme (posted on: 28-04-14)
This is an attempt to do a poetry fusion or derivate from 2 songs (basically) that I like a great deal, namely "A Pagan Place" (The Waterboys) and "Bring on the Dancing Horses" (Echo and the Bunnymen) (old timers).

Blinds couldn't do it, Since you found your way, On pathways of mysterious eminence. It simply came on; Or was it you? Strong like a bird on the wing; The sharp eye of a raven; A tranquil storm By the rythm of which We dance one last time; Of hearts and skin; Yours is too gentle To bleed, Like the fragile legs of amber In a mansionlike clearing of peace...
Archived comments for Bring on the Rain of Rhyme
chant_z on 28-04-2014
Bring on the Rain of Rhyme
Did that make sense anyone?...:)

Author's Reply:

Kipper on 28-04-2014
Bring on the Rain of Rhyme
Hi Chant_z
I'm afraid I do not know the two songs you referred to, so perhaps I start at a disadvantage.
I will admit that had you not asked the question I may not have responded, but since you did, I will.
I read your poem a few time and while some of the passages were pleasing and created certain images I could not get the sense that I was seeing the picture that you were painting, or if I was heading to where you were leading.
Sadly therefore the answer to your question is no.
(But I'm only one!)
Michael

Author's Reply:
Thanks. The songs I used may not be important to mention (maybe I overdid the presentation). As for my poetry so far meaning or a red thread (so to speak) isn't always the thing. Overall I'm trying to get back into gear as for writing poetry - hence this method I conjured up. Maybe doesn't work. I value your comment. Thanks!

Kipper on 28-04-2014
Bring on the Rain of Rhyme
Hi Chant_z
I'm afraid I do not know the two songs you referred to, so perhaps I start at a disadvantage.
I will admit that had you not asked the question I may not have responded, but since you did, I will.
I read your poem a few time and while some of the passages were pleasing and created certain images I could not get the sense that I was seeing the picture that you were painting, or if I was heading to where you were leading.
Sadly therefore the answer to your question is no.
(But I'm only one!)
Michael

Author's Reply:

pdemitchell on 28-04-2014
Bring on the Rain of Rhyme
Hi Chant - apologies but it was too disjointed for me to groove to - like the needle-skip on an old and warped 45. It needs some more links and/or thread as each line or small group of lines did not relate to the rest. A valiant attempt that lost me, alas. Regards, Mitch

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Yeah. I'd better pick different ways of getting things together. This wasn't very good. Thanks!


This is not a rebel write (posted on: 28-04-14)
Don't know really

There's been alot of talk about social media. Maybe, maybe too much talk. This write is not a rebel write; this write is a plee for asocial media. More books to the people!
Archived comments for This is not a rebel write
Bozzz on 30-04-2014
This is not a rebel write
No body can disagree. Brevity masks the serious nature of the statement. Are we talking about books for prisoners? or generally?

Author's Reply:
You have a serious point. Generally I'd say but yeah ... it's interesting times. Diplomacy may do wonders. We'll see.


The 2 minute piece (posted on: 28-03-14)
Since it's experimental I guess the title is sufficient

I travelled my annual 10,000 miles, Only to find a grain of sand. A passing by, And a smile from a stranger in the street, And the day shines again. In my dreams I see a love, Oh my; I'm in danger, Since I'm only a man! Whoever said something about the weak sex Somehow must have got it wrong, I think to myself I'm solemny out of breath, As my energetic mind, And the green of my eyes, surely are not bleen. Saturation is in the eye of the beholder, And you are beatiful to me Witout make-up. I wish to do no harm. People tell me I'm intelligent, And my words would have fallen dead on the floor, If it wasn't for the smile. The Ingmar Bergman Syndrome, Would have got the best of me, If it wasn't for all the women, Of my life. I love you all, The latin way.
Archived comments for The 2 minute piece
QBall on 29-03-2014
The 2 minute piece
Bleen! I don't know this word. Your thoughts and comments are clear, but I am not a good judge of this style of writing so it leaves me wondering what it is all about. Worthwhile effort.
Les Q.

Author's Reply:
"Bleen" in theory can be a mix of blue and green if I'm not mistaken. As for writing style I seem to have lost the feel for it. I don't know if the style reflects where my head's at in a way....:) Good point. Thanks!

pdemitchell on 30-03-2014
The 2 minute piece
A wee intersting tangential and disjointed muse on the flarer sex - Bleen ain't defined apart from three advocates on Google and a typo of beautiful unless beat-iful is a deliberate pun of course. More experimenting please! Mitch 🙂

Author's Reply:
I believe that you're experimenting, sir...:). Thank you...:). As for bleen it was ages ago but it's central in some philoshophiccall (what a word) argument. Maybe superseeded or so these days. I just picked it out of context I guess.


Love Letter from Abundant Waters (posted on: 28-03-14)
Too much to say really. I'm not sure about "doggerel" but it was as good as I could choose I think. It's more like epic poetry the way I see it.

The opaque sky, Is all in tears tonight. Rainy women, Brings to mind My rainy eyes When I carried my love Maya un encore; Only once more, Only one more time. World is ascending, And the green eyes of mine, Are jaded by the midnight rain, I often liked. In hindsight, Things always seem different. My sadness bleeds through As I miss you. All I ever loved for real, Has been tranquilised. Hue, Saturation, Brightness; It's in the eye of the beholder, And I'm dirtier than thou. It's ironic, For the women know who I am, Whereas the men who have known me, Never noticed that I'm older now. The reality generators, Tend to malfunction for some; And it's a shame, That these people, Are considered weak. It takes strength and courage, To be weak, In a special case, Of an artificial paradise. It is we who are the angels of light; Let us not forget that.
Archived comments for Love Letter from Abundant Waters
sweetwater on 28-03-2014
Love Letter from Abundant Waters
I like it, it needs careful reading, by me anyway, But it has left me a little confused- I'll need to ponder on it a while 🙂

Author's Reply:
Not sure what it means myself..:). I should ponder too perhaps. Thank you.

Bozzz on 30-03-2014
Love Letter from Abundant Waters
Hi Chant, I have flashes of understanding and then get left behind - what I ken has merit - much sorrow in there, but the overall story line is hard to assemble. Keep writing....Bozzz

Author's Reply:
Thank you. I can relate to what you write about flashes. Understanding is not always important in poetry (the way I think of my stuff so far) but the thing I guess is practise, practise etc...


The Jeweled Moon (posted on: 24-02-14)
Contemplation on Mary, (Tarkovskij styled), Kirkegaard and othe insignificant things...;)

The Jeweled Moon The cold, jeweled moon, blistered against my feet as I walked up to Mary's mansion; or should I say home. It hadn't been a happy time lately and I wasn't impressed by her 4 flight under storage room where she kept her cloudy secrets just as if she was Swedish or something equally distasteful. Bird watching was the name of the game and if you know the name of the game birds tend to fly differently depending on the season, so consider the birds dear Mary and let me in. She didn't let me in; the clouds told me so. There's a hippo living in all of us and if you find this a strange story then by all means read Boris Vian or get a new taylor. The furry clouds were just that; furry. Not fluffy as some US comedian gladly would have them. What's wrong with people anyway? Why can't they appreciate something novel? Why does everything has to go on repeat? Oh! I forgot! It's all about oil. Alladin's lamp doesn't seem all that important to me; all it tells is lies anyway. Tales of lies and deception; the deception of mankind? Maybe! Anyway Vian is in fashion again. Haven't seen him around for a very long time. I guess the world is going to end because we're afraid of novelties (and I'm not talking about Lou Reed's new age here that guy is much overrated regardless of what Rushdie thinks.) Mary, mother of all who do not know what it's like to have a child. You will surely look away. Sometimes I believe that it was Thomas who was right. A twin star has to have a twin brother and I mourn for India; this poor and tormented country all because of a nation the language of which I tend to use when writing. Mary, mother of all who does not know what it's like to have a child. I neither raped nor revered you. I know for a fact that I was not born in sin; no man nor woman is born in sin. Hence I can enjoy the gospels but I cannot believe. Once a pope was raped I believe. But then of course it's easy to ask for forgiveness; like Pasteur. How does the tune go? We have some kitchen delivery. Oh my! Does that one has to go on repeat too before some of those who don't understand much starts to think. I was dreaming of creating poetry that made up a framework for thought but it fell dead from the press to paraphrase the Empiricist David Hume. People seem afraid of thinking whereas I find it to be a virtue; that is one explanation why people are afraid of the new; even in literature. Set your mind free for Christ's sake, and feed your mind. Is it hard to be human? People say so but what they forget is the Kirkegardian suicide; dying from happiness. The middle path, preached by so many, seems to be the safest way to go. I hope that I'm not disturbing people now and make them ill at ease. It was never my intention; only serious thoughts needs serious language. A death like Kirkegaard wrote would be something. Kirkegaard, the Dane, also wrote somewhere (I don't recall where) that when the world ends it will be like people sitting in a theatre watching a comedy not noticing that the theatre is in flames. It is getting late and my lamp flickers. I bid you a humble au rvoir.
Archived comments for The Jeweled Moon
stormwolf on 26-02-2014
The Jeweled Moon
Hi Frederik
I confess to being lost at times, probably my fault. I felt it was very deep and perhaps best understood by those who have studied the philosophy of Kirkegaard et al. It was deep and asked pertinent questions.

Loved this line
Kirkegaard, the Dane, also wrote somewhere (I don’t recall where) that when the world ends it will be like people sitting in a theatre watching a comedy not noticing that the theatre is in flames.

Exactly! That alone makes me want to learn more about him 😉

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Tarkovskij is a deep film maker. Kirkeegard was the som of a priest and there are a number of pretty outstanding people like that. The movie "The Hairdresser's husband" illustrated some aspects of Kirkegaard well I think. His most prominent book (which I haven't read myself unfortunately) would be called "Either or" literally translated. The Tarkovskij film that gave birth to this piece is the one that keeps the approx. 2 hour format and the setting of it is Italy. The first 20 minutes of that one is what I had in mind writing this piece. Tarkovskij's most well known film would be the 4 hour long "science fiction" film Solaris that has a US remake or so starring George Clooney (more action driven and sticks to the 2 hour format)


The Kangaroo Union (posted on: 12-08-13)
Toying with stereotypes really. Not to be taken very seriously. May need more work too. It was a very quick write for me.

The day came when they'd had enough of it. I am, of course, referring to the Kangaroos in Australia. All male and mature kangaroos in the entire country had an enormous meeting not far from Ayers Rock. They collectively decided that they would all get drivers' licences for trucks. 99% of the kangaroos made it; nobody could stop them because they'd really put a great deal of effort into it all. I tell you, that's a whole lot of Kangaroos and a whole lot of huge trucks for each individual Kangaroo. A Kangaroo named William started his journey in Canberra going to Darwin. The truck was enormous but he quickly learned how to navigate it with ease. William had a sinister look in his eyes as he pressed the pedal as much as possible, the truck going at very high speed. Shortly after having left Canberra, William met a car. He made a quick twist with his hands, firmly gripping the wheel, and the car crashed while William continued at highest possible speed. By the time William had reached Queensland he had wrecked a multitude of cars and other vehicles with consistently lethal results. Meanwhile, the Swedish state announced to its residents that a minority living in Australia had gone tired of oppression and had started to fight for their rights. 99% of the Swedish population thought that the news were very good indeed. In Australia though, the population decreased at exponential speed, due to the numbers of Kangaroos driving through the entire country, smashing every living thing in their way. Melbourne was near empty when a couple, both 24 years old and recently engaged, discovered a hidden basement entrance in the home of a neighbour. They went down only to discover a tunnel which lead to Germany, Europe according to the sign post. They entered the tunnel which was extremely straight being constructed by German engineers. Some time later it said in German magazines that a foreign couple had been arrested by the police for boarding a train too fast and omitting a step while doing so. They were sentenced to 8 years in a prison located in Freiburg. Rest assure that the future of Australia is in exceptionally safe hands in Germany. In Sweden, there is a warrant for William, the Kangaroo being accused for having destroyed a sign post on which it said "Welcome to Queensland". According to the Swedish police the motif is unknown but assumed to be personal for the individual Kangaroo and thus it will not lead to any further oppression of the minority in question.
Archived comments for The Kangaroo Union
geordietaf on 14-08-2013
The Kangaroo Union
Beautifully surreal. Loved the bit about 'a foreign couple had been arrested by the police for boarding a train too fast and omitting a step while doing so.'

A bit more polishing and this will be a real gem.

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. In Germany it doesn't say "Mind the gap" really - it rather says something a great, great deal longer...:)


Imperfect (posted on: 02-08-13)
I'm short of a description unfortunately.

"The liberties that go with imperfection are imperfected with the going on of the liberties of inhibition of the perfections of the imperfected's inhibitions." "I disagree."
Archived comments for Imperfect
deadpoet on 02-08-2013
Imperfect
I agree that it is daft.. very amusing..

Author's Reply:

mageorge on 02-08-2013
Imperfect
I can make sense of this, now that I've had a few!
Only joking... My sort of poetry, loved it!
BTW, I think I'll agree to disagree. 🙂
Kindest regards,
Mark

Author's Reply:

ValDohren on 02-08-2013
Imperfect
I'll have to chew this over several hundred times before commenting ! Haha.
Val

Author's Reply:
Oh well. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do to do what a man's gotta do to do if I'm not mistaken and I guess I am. Thank you very much..:)

stormwolf on 03-08-2013
Imperfect
"Ma heid's in a spin"....
or to put it into King's English...
a very confusing, thought provoking piece that made my mind work over-time.

Alison x

Author's Reply:
🙂 I looked up the English word and it seems to be chiasmus or so in literary terminology. Not intended to confuse really even though it's a little long. Thank you!



Black Web (posted on: 02-08-13)
Uncertain how to categorise it really, but I picked "erotica"

Through unknowns waters Phenomena slide My gaze in hazy Pearl strewn pathways Coming on ... Come with me! Let us transcend Into the mystic Silk layered Cat-like tokens Where dawn sighs At last. Tant y soit possible Et je reste ici Avec les temps Dans mon me ... L'Amazon O je te perde Et te rtrouve Pour des instants, L'un aprs l'autre ... Le pont en tremblant ... Cessasion; Je suis le tien.
Archived comments for Black Web
deadpoet on 02-08-2013
Black Web
I am not too sure with my french but just the fact you included it in this poem gives it that extra erotic dimension.
A good piece of work. Dp

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. I'm very flattered by the rating and also the "Great Read" icon. I corrected a mistake in the final line which is now masculin proper. Frogs must be good for something then...:)

stormwolf on 03-08-2013
Black Web
Deliciously sensual and inviting.
congrats on the nib

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much/ Merci Beaucoup. Whoever invented the notion of "the weak sex" somehow got it wrong it seems.

pommer on 07-08-2013
Black Web
I think you picked the right description in Erotica.A very sensual piece of work. Thank you for saring, Mercy Beaucoup chant z. Pommer.

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. You may be right about erotica. I thought it would be best to label it that just in case.


McGuinn Was Right (I Take It) (posted on: 22-07-13)
An ode to the song "Car Phone" on Roger McGuinn's album "Back from Rio" (early 90:ies). Deadline for the annual poetry competition had passed when I considered entering with this one but posting it here will be better in a way.

I never was in Rio; Never did return... The space between The you and the me Has slowly grown Small fingers, And From a remote living room There is a solemn shriek; Parallel worlds Converge Of sadness 'Cause winter's bliss Is yet to come of age; In a dry and maddened space We live and lift a finger; Pull a lie, To a lever, Here we live, And there's no trace, Of humility in the estranged Metro Once called free... Is there anyone in space?
Archived comments for McGuinn Was Right (I Take It)
stormwolf on 24-07-2013
McGuinn Was Right (I Take It)
Hi Chant z 🙂

I cannot say i understood it but maybe because I do not know the song. It was written with style and confidence displaying a skill in writing. Loved this especially

Parallel worlds
Converge
Of sadness
'Cause winter's bliss
Is yet to come of age;
keep them coming
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. McGuinn (ex leader of "The Byrds") sing "and if there's anyone in space...what they'll learn about the human race...will be from listening to us...talking on the car phone" (for example). By the way the Internet has evolved since it seems a very interesting point to this date I think.


A Means to a Start (Preliminary title) (posted on: 19-07-13)
Since the actual story starts very, very slowly I wrote this piece for the opening section. It is intended to reappear later in the actual story.

The feverish moon was in full fervor as the shadows of the shadow clutched their way closer and closer; she could hardly breathe. There was a sudden shriek as a car was forced to change direction; she ran like crazy across the asphalt street that stank from disdain and burnt out rubber. She was lost; her eyes escaped her in the dark and then all of a sudden she could feel the cold. Being almost out of breath she had to stop, not daring to look what was behind her; she had given up. Half a minute passed and she just stood there on a pearl strewn pavement, all soaked but still breathing. She started looking in all direction but there was nothing to be seen but the numb emptiness of black and the street was without any discernible sound. Was it a trick of her mind? Her leg hurt; it was very real. Where was she? She couldn't tell. She was a stranger to this part of town. She closed her eyes begging for the shadows to remain still. A car passed by at quite some speed; a taxi it seemed, disappearing quickly for her ears. Where was the other car? Did she dare to move? She couldn't tell. From a distance she could hear sirens; it seemed to be the police. If only she could get to the police, she thought to herself. No, no! The police would say she's crazy! Her leg hurt like crazy and she sat down on the pavement, the chill plowing its way to her bone. If only she could be still for just a short while, she thought to herself. The sirens had stopped their noise; they should be there by now but she couldn't go back. She trembled. Having recovered from running away she had to rise, her entire body shaking from the chill and the fear that was with her still. She started to look around for a direction. Where was home to her, she wondered. Unknowingly she started walking as quickly as possible, her legs aching badly. Suddenly there were three people in front of her on their way. At first she was frightened by the sight but she calmed down realizing it was teenagers and they crossed the street before passing her; she continued straight ahead, not looking in any other direction being scared from what she might see. The teenagers seemed to flout from behind. If only she could find a taxi. She had the money somewhere, somewhere. A car! Anything! She continued despite the pain, her legs growing more and more numb to her. The harsh wind made a solemn sound her passing a high building which she tried to recognize; her eyes filled with tears from the pain and the unforgiving wind. Luckily she hadn't lost her bag but she could tell she was bleeding. Where could she find a damned taxi? These were alien quarters and she was out of breath again. She realized that she might be heading in the wrong direction and her legs feeling more and more numb she was forced to sit down again, the pavement being glittery wet still but this time she had her back against a metallic lamp post. There had been two cars and two shouts and then what? What had happened? She could have been dead by now, she thought. Hazily she tried to open her bag in order to find her purse but her eyes where to dim and the cold overwhelmed her as she sat there all soaked from the earlier sudden bursts of night rain. The night reigned and there was a slight fog from the street rising; it struck her like an augury. She couldn't help it; she couldn't get it out of her mind. The lamp post stiffened her spine and she was unable to move. She was freezing but she tried hard not to care, her stiffened hands grasping for the bag in order for her to see what was in it but her tarnished eyes failed her all the time. Finally she gave up and started to sob again. There she was, all alone, without direction. There wasn't any sound apart from the wind. She started to inhale the air, breathing heavily in and out trying to gather her senses. She didn't really make it, she thought, and so she inhaled even more forcefully, still sobbing, the only thing preventing her from crying being the wind striking her face like blisters. There was no more light; a shadow from above all of a sudden being there. From the shadow there came a razor sharp voice. ''Willows don't weep in real life. Where's the guy?''
Archived comments for A Means to a Start (Preliminary title)
Gee on 20-07-2013
A Means to a Start (Preliminary title)
There are some very good phrases and descriptions in this. However, I feel that you could cut this down quite a bit and make more of an impact with it. I would also like to see some description of the woman in this. As it is, you're not really able to identify with her and I think this would help involve the reader more in her situation.

Author's Reply:
A writer's lament: Unfortunately it's much a question of getting the proper amount of pages :(. Portraying the woman will be what I do starting in chapter 1 which will come immediately after the text I present here.

Thank you for the comment. Much appreciated.

sirat on 24-07-2013
A Means to a Start (Preliminary title)
I don't want to offend but there seems to be some confused thinking going on here. You tell us that your reason for creating this 800 word section is because you think your story starts off too slowly and you need a hook. That's fine – certainly it's something I've done myself. I added a 'Prologue' section to my novel Engineering Paradise because I thought the opening was a bit tame. But then in your reply to Gee you go on to say something about needing to get the proper amount (number?) of pages. Now, adding material to a work in order to bring it up to a required length really isn't a good idea, and I'm afraid the misguided nature of this enterprise shows. I thought the piece was over-written to the point where the meaning began to disappear under a torrent of words and sub-clauses. I would strongly recommend that you start again and just say what you're trying to say, simply and clearly. If that doesn't produce some desired page count, too bad. Write a shorter book.

Author's Reply:
Not offended at all. There does indeed seem to be some confusion here; maybe I should have put more smileys in my first comment. You do, of course, have a point about pages. The piece will reappear in the book at a late point with a slightly different wording and the context it appears in will probably (or hopefully) make it work. Doing it shorter would limit the way it works in the actual story but I'll try to make parts of the piece stronger. Thank you for the comment.

Weefatfella on 25-07-2013
A Means to a Start (Preliminary title)
 photo 915e0b75-fce7-4fc2-9921-556099197c13_zps1f6b3c50.jpg
Hi Chantz, Good story mate.
I like the the idea, and that's the most important thing. Everything else can be sorted.
I don't believe you should be using the phrase " seemed." This doesn't help the reader.
You're telling the story.
Always be definite.
Always stamp your idea RIGHT onto the mind of the reader.
Never say seemed.
That's my opinion anyway.
I hope this helps.
Weefatfella.

Author's Reply:
Thank you. The way I thought of the thing, there's a great deal of indecision or so going on after the chase is over up to the final point of the piece, but maybe the word "seem" is out of place. I might (excuse me :)) rework that part a little :).


Notes from... (posted on: 07-06-13)
Sad short story?

Before I live I write this message. There might be secrets for you to know as my feet were below the ground that fed me like a solemn plant that whispered secrets in my mute ear; I didn't hear. Duty? Oh yeah! A crime was committed and it was the headlines; the bastard press as usual. Synergy! Oh how it's created. We manufacture disasters every day. I bet the opium is running as low as alcohol; not at all. Will east and west ever meet I wonder? I put a spell on me because I'm mine and I'm not free but born to stay; to stick around. The coffin was simply too small and I had to rise and at the same time make myself smaller. Quite an enterprise! Never was there any mountain to climb. Mountains are for adorers; we could be them if we want to. The words came to a brisk halt. Chaos but also a promise for a new beginning. The big bully is not as big as it used to be perhaps and Latin winds will hopefully spread across the land that has a patent in its name for an entire continent. L'America is L'America, America and L'Amrique for sure; let's face that fact and by all means try to stay together. They say Canadian mosquitos make a somewhat different sound than the Nordic and the Russian ones. I wouldn't know. The Russian and Nordic ones are probably keen on Vodka whereas the Canadian ones tend to fancy wine I reckon. I like wine. Never was a Vodka drinker; no offence to anyone. My taste is my taste and I don't intend to impose it on others. Canada might suit me though. Sting ray! What a name. Vehicles come and go and Tibet is open for that reason. Yes indeed. That's Ford for yah. Never mind the brands; let's settle for vehicles even though ''car'' more often than not is the first word a young child learns. ''Vehicle'' is a wider category; save that for later. So! What to do here above ground? Integritywise I might have managed to as good as I can. This cannot be ∑x+∞ because we're finite. It's just that I just rose and the rose spells Amanda. I wish I could reach her; she's had a rough time. Hey you! It's not over yet. The clock is still ticking normally, it's just a bully that's been torn as it lives in a bubble. The gates of the horizon are questioned; bolts unlocked and we live in a fragile society. I hope things will be better after I've had a small dish; at least my mind will be elsewhere. I wouldn't know what to call it but it somehow rhymes with an Austrian phenomenon. Much needed. What's wrong anyway but a lot. Now everything here is flooded. I have my space my space in which to breathe and I'm thankful for that. We are not free. Freedom is a buzzword; nothing else. There are so many buzzwords. Bastard press! Bastard universe. The multiversa makes up parallel spaces for us to have a glance at. I was always younger than yesterday; I must have forgotten that while in the coffin. Misery? Oh yeah! I'm grateful for the misery because it helped me grow. Misery can help people grow if you believe it will. Let's not believe in angels and devils in this world. Nothing is black and white and I disagree with one American writer; John Steinbeck. People are not born evil. People are shaped and they also shape themselves. Look who's talking! Did I shape the coffin? No sir! The coffin needed another craft than mine to be built. Another American informed me that Nihilism meant that nothing matters. It doesn't! Nihilism simply states that there are no values in morals. That is to say that there are no values unless we create them; that's what we need to do. People can hate religion but what they really hate, I reckon, is the political use of it. People often need guiding principles. Personally I'm stuffed with them, perhaps to stuffed, I was almost mummified; I'd like to give that to you my reader. We need to take care of each other otherwise we're wasted. I hope the big bully has learned that. Truths can be hard at times; any Indian knows that. I's hard to invert a dream; it doesn't work out easily. I'm looking for a woman simply because I like their company. We have a lot in common. I wish for my friend; I hope for them and if it would do any good I could get down on my knees and pray for them all. I never left them! I admit having been angry in disenchanted times but a man is only a man; what can he do? I'm not looking for a car. Some things never come back even though we can think of it that way even though Robert Kennedy probably was quite a guy. So was Martin Luther King probably. Elvis was just a man...if ''just'' is the word for it. Oh how fame rapes! People can be nostalgic. I don't intend to conjure up anything like that since it's not me. My navt is too strong at times I'm afraid. All angels of hell can go home the wars could be over. We have other things to think about these days and that's to mend what's broken by the 20:th century. The new millennium certainly didn't start well it's been a slippery slope. Bastard universe! I hope and if I can I pray that we've reached a turning point. Even Los Angeles and London suffer now and then. I have a dream! I want to go to Israel and from there to Iran to see Pakistan and reach India. Amritsar! Never been there but lions don't corrode. I'm in love with Sufism but I don't know if that's understood nor well seen. There are a lot of them. I've been an Indian hiding in the feathered clouds but now I'm back from the coffin where it sent me.. By Indian I perhaps mean that I have dreams. I CAN be a visionary but it sent me to the coffin. I don't know why I have to pay for my life. My friends! I hope that you're with me still, even from a distance. I don't aim to touch from a distance; that would be crude since the expression is taken. So take care ladies and gentemen. Bueno! Let's stop there now; there's a hippo living in all of us; it's easy to forget that. I think they're cute myself. Entshuldigung aber Ich kann nicht Deutch sprechen - you might notice that from the spelling. Dresden is not feeling good at the moment. Been there long ago. It was all like a huge grass field. I remember a church without a roof. Guilt by accosiation. I now recall my favourite Tarkovskij movie. It's all in black and white except the end when it turns to colours. 4 hours of pure magic! I'd better stick to something more familiar. We need to stay together, now won't we; or else what have we learned so far? Let me be Fractalabstractimmediate; The language wind That carries My name Let me develop Pictures of earth! Let me experience chaos In the motion Of fern. Let me be microscop wind Touching your face. A facial structure can be beautiful, regardless of age. It's how we're moulded and how we mould ourselves that matters. Please tame the beast that is within me and turn it into a hippo...not a hype. Enamoured with a jaded moon by my side; I do not strive for comfort in the ugly city where all I hear are the explosions of the future. If I can break a brick I would before the light flickers and spirits rise to the sky as to greet the bagpipe moon as seen from within.
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Unvacuumised (posted on: 01-04-13)
New poem-like work

I can't remember the name of the game; I just remember to wear and to bear My shame, In someone else's name. To see apart from a point of view, Try develop a photograph Of dew, For someone old and new. Holy waters, stones unturned, Ancient quarters, bones unburned. I just came in by the door one day, Leaving all of your guild astray In vain; Alas I hide in an ocean o'pain. The antidote's like a wasted wine; Tries its best not to intertwine In fear, A hologram in a world I smear.
Archived comments for Unvacuumised
Hekkus on 02-04-2013
Unvacuumised
Not an easy piece at first reading, but then a bit of work in understanding a poem is no bad thing. For me it was a sort of rap, saying something sad and profound in an upbeat way. The only thing I'd change is
ocean o'pain.

because the o' is out of place with the tone of the piece.


Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. You're probably right about the 'o too. I like the allusion to rap. Quite often I try to write musically. Much appreciated.

CVaughan on 05-04-2013
Unvacuumised
Intriguing as to meaning - meaning a bit of work cogitating on it which was I thought wortwhile. It read well for me on the read-over upon rereading.
I agree with Hekkus. (Frank)

Author's Reply:
I'm very glad you got something out of it. To me doing rhyme is fairly new and sometimes I think I'm getting the hang on it...kind of like it when/if I get it right. 🙂 Thank you.

BTW: I might owe my university degree to LLoyd Cole and the Commotions (Rattlesnakes). Mr Cole plays my hometown in September. If the piece above has some resemblance with Lloyd Cole's lyrics that may not be all wrong. It was a pretty tough upbringing listening to him 🙂


The Restaurant (posted on: 04-03-13)
From my "Work in progress" folder. Somebody tries to get arrested.

I picked the most prestigeous And expensive restaurant in town Only to have a splendid dinner And then appear to escape from the place I went there and the waitor Showed me a table, handing me The exclusive menu. Going through the menu I Finally picked a very expensive meal And to that I added A sublime south african wine Having finished the dinner I waited for a short while Nobody gave me any attention Judging the timing to be correct I rose From the table and headed for the door Having noticed the waitor wasn't too far away I was lucky! The waitor came up to me and said ''What are you doing sir?'' ''Getting out of here.'' ''You can't do that, sir.'' ''So. What are you going to do about it, then?'' ''I feel somewhat embarrassed to say it sir but you have a stain on your jacket.'' Hmm. That was a rather strange way of approaching a criminal. ''A stain on my jacket? So what?'' ''Well sir. You can't leave the restaurant in such a poor condition. Leave the jacket with us. We'll get it cleaned for you.'' ''That would be very kind of you but aren't you going to call the police?'' ''What for?'' ''Well. I've had dinner here for an average year's salary and I won't pay for it.'' ''The stain is more important. It would harm our image if you left us in that condition.'' ''Your image?'' ''Yes.'' ''But what about the bill?'' ''The federal bank reserve owns this restaurant, it's good for their book-keeping.'' ''But surely you must do something!'' ''Oh well. The bill is only 50 cent so it's on the house.'' ''50 cent? Why's that?'' ''The foundations of Mathematics are all wrong and so it's very questionable if 1+1=2. Since we're owned by the federal bank reserve we have the right to be intuitists, and so your bill adds up to 50 cents, sir.'' ''But won't that harm the restaurant pretty much? You might go bankrupt.'' ''Well. The IRS is into religion, believing in numbers and so. We're more into science here. And we enjoy some protection.'' I can't go to jail. And obviosly I wouldn't qualify for a job as a waitor. Just my luck. ''Would you care for some more wine sir? It costs 1000 dollars but it's on the house.''
Archived comments for The Restaurant
stormwolf on 04-03-2013
The Restaurant
hahaha well done! Gave me a right laugh.

Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. I really don't have any sense of humour but I try to hide it at times 🙂

Weefatfella on 05-03-2013
The Restaurant
 photo 93fe0fca-ac2d-451b-b74e-dd1b917176f4_zps1e26e487.jpg
Ha! Sophistry at its highest.
Enjoyed.
Weefatfella

Author's Reply:
🙂 Your comment gave me quite a laugh. Thank you very much. Glad you enjoyed the piece. Fredrik


Forgotten Eye (posted on: 01-03-13)
Suddenly

Someone remembers Losing his mind Drinking tea The bowl of which Was witchcraft In reverse. Fragments of oblivion; Help the poor man! He cannot see! The sea i alive With cancer seeds Not to be disturbed; The sky intertwined; The ocean is still. Somewhere There must be an eye The poor man is becoming; Help him, he's transforming! The I might not be performing; It's all a fraction of one tear.
Archived comments for Forgotten Eye
deadpoet on 02-03-2013
Forgotten Eye
I like this poem Chant- I like enigmatic poetry and your use of symbols and words on the whole- much enjoyed- should that be 'is' the sea is alive?

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Very flattering comment. You're right; I must have made a mistake with the keys while typing - it should be "is alive" and not just "i". Looks weird :). Thank you for very nice rating also.


Give Your Life to the Tranquil Storm (posted on: 18-02-13)
I haven't written any new stuff for some time. Thus what follows is a little old but I thought it would be nice to post. I don't know if it makes sense but I guess thats not up to me to decide.

Give your life to the tranquil storm; To hover over subordinated landscapes In grief or other. The life and times of Valentine's Days are babies shimmering... Give your life to the silent birth Of murmuring skies Unfolding like the tide turns In the final moment. We are not to touch; We are yet to shiver. The smile and praises Not unturned Like the holy tide... Give your life to mine; I'll keep it hidden.
Archived comments for Give Your Life to the Tranquil Storm
purplespirit on 21-02-2013
Give Your Life to the Tranquil Storm
It was the title that caught immediately my interest. Not an easy poem to read because it holds depth and demands thinking over. A good poem must not be a bright poem, this I think after reading yours and I really appreciated the thoughts it stirred. Great write, thank you. Purple

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Very pleasing. One very important point in writing rather abstract to me is to invite the reader to think and there is (hopefully) a pretty large scope for personal interpretations, thoughts, feelings etc. Thanks.


Metropolis Revisited (posted on: 30-11-12)
One more from my "Roses of Another Moment". a contemplation on the big city.

Metropolis Revisited A city rises towards a melting sun! An ambush in disguise. We are not unaware Of the fagments of time That make us up And multiply; Scorched by ancestors; The city monstreous, Like a newborn Satanic fire. Ohthe choke! The logistics. The load and the toil! Even this Is doing it As fragments of time Which made me Discover the secrets Everyone knows! A new day. A new choke! Experience. In a street of hazy diamond Golems Making their way, And they burn And the sun stares Through the fog Of man. Nature will survive; Only man will perish As entropy walks the streets Of metropolis And lights a fire For every newborn! The myriad burning golems Travel by xenon speed Hither and thither And there is nothing we can do As entropy walks the streets. Estranged; In the absence of nightlife Coinciding gently With the thirst Of the trusted few. Am ''I'' alone Or am I a wheel Dropped in a Paris jar? The stranger Kills time While arabs Turn to the sky In mute consent. The calendar however Will remain the same! Male as an oyster In its prime.
Archived comments for Metropolis Revisited
Bozzz on 01-12-2012
Metropolis Revisited
Visiting London from our small Dorset village is just as you write. Expansion eventually brings entropy, yes...good read,
Thank you for posting....Bozzz

Author's Reply:

cooky on 01-12-2012
Metropolis Revisited
ooh I like this . Excellent write

Author's Reply:

butters on 02-12-2012
Metropolis Revisited
there are some phrases in this that leap right off the page for me, from your opening lines:

A city rises towards a melting sun!
An ambush in disguise.
We are not unaware
Of the fagments of time
That make us up
And multiply;

to

In a street of hazy diamond
Golems
Making their way,
And they burn
And the sun stares
Through the fog
Of man.

and

Am “I” alone
Or am I a wheel
Dropped in a Paris jar?

The stranger
Kills time
While arabs
Turn to the sky
In mute consent.


some striking visuals, and your opening lines coupled with this

Oh…the choke!
The logistics.
The load and the toil!

remind me of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself. you have a typo with 'monstreous' unless you intend for us to be seeing this through the eyes of animé - which works, too! 😀



Author's Reply:
🙂 Thank you very much. Well received indeed. I never thought of the world of the animé though. Simple blindness (read stupidity) on my part :).

Kat on 27-03-2014
Metropolis Revisited
Hi, just reading a little of your work seeing as you had shown interest in the UKAway, and I wondered who you were. lol

Am impressed by what I've seen, and this piece is particularly resonant. Love

'While arabs
Turn to the sky
In mute consent.
The calendar however
Will remain the same!
Male as an oyster
In its prime.'

That speaks volumes to me = I'm impressed.

Hope you're coming to Lanzarote? I think we are looking to confirm numbers by tomorrow, and I think you'd be a great addition to the company, not that it isn't already oversubscribed with talent and great people, and I'm really not talking about myself here. Haha.

Kat x





Author's Reply:


Transcendental (posted on: 30-11-12)
Celebration poem from my new "Roses of Another Moment"

Transcendental; Emerson grows To the sky! As if In a trance The dance of this heyday Cannot comply to The roots That keep it. A bird whispers secrets In the silent wind Only an emerald ear Is able to hear.
Archived comments for Transcendental
japanesewind on 30-11-2012
Transcendental
A bird whispers secrets
In the silent wind
Only an emerald ear
Is able to hear.

Good this HUMMINGBIRD shot into my mind..David

Author's Reply:

butters on 01-12-2012
Transcendental
japanesewind got there before me, but that was exactly the image that came to mind. there's a kind of delicate richness to the wording; in fact, that piece works as a stand alone poem, imo.

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 02-12-2012
Transcendental
Photobucket



Ya almost had me buyin' into that emerald ear thing. 😉



Cool poem!



Greg 🙂

Author's Reply:
🙂 Thank you all for commenting. Very flattered and yes - Greg's picture was pretty cool *lol*.


The Damp Cathedral (posted on: 19-11-12)
My "Roses of Another Moment" is out now with lulu.com. I'm not into marketing really; just thought I'd let you know. My "Maya in Motion" is due by March. "Roses of..." comprises one novel, one short story and 3 poetry sets.

The Damp Cathedral Omnipresence! One furry night In lightning; Thunder; Harsh, crazed rain! Electric hill, Approached in solemnity, Unfolded Like the Magic mountain Ripped out Of its dense cave. (Moans and hazy whispers) Opaque in shivery stone With teslian rythm As is In our minds Omniscience. Opalescent lights Caress our leathery limbs! Jade harbours The eyes of the icons Pierce dimensions As they glow And without sound Stretch out Across the damp cathedral Where we stand, Minds moist, As if to grasp We take it all in; Devouring everything And with a sudden Burst of immature wisdom We bow Contentedly.
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Memories of Noth (posted on: 12-11-12)
This one might pass as a Lloyd Cole song but it isn't - I swear.

You came across like a wasted wine I tried my best not to intertwine My tears Had it bad and I rid my fears. An island got me; I took my time A refugee in a sacred shrine Of weed Your voice was there Oh, my fear to speed. I could never believe you're true You could never perceive my blue Despair In something else's care. You lay your focus on wine and time. I could always put blame on your cigar; You blew smoke and I fade in tar. An island dream. Your desert smile. I'm not your toy. I should be a big boy.
Archived comments for Memories of Noth
stormwolf on 14-11-2012
Memories of Noth
The feeling is all there alright. Loyd Cole? now there's a blast from the past. 🙂

great lyrics..
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Always was a fan. By all means check out "Broken Record" from 2010 but don't get depressed by it 🙂


Born to Stay (posted on: 02-11-12)
Early this year I wrote approx. 15 songs yet nobody seems to want to work with me on it. This one is a comment on Lady Gaga's image

It doesn't matter if you love him or if you live in a capital All that matters is your relationship to your redshoes Just hold your head up 'cause Nietzsche's on sale...again If you know the real deal you know how to turn history round and round like a record baby Round and round like a record babe Sometimes I go to Morocco where I call the wild dog's name At times I feel like throwing it away but then I'm safe because I'm sane Don't bring tears to my funeral baby you know me better than that Bring your fears to the softest night I'm safe in marble gazes but... Refrain: I'll never be a virgin honey I know hy - it's way too late I'll never be a virgin honey I know why - it's 'cause I'm straight I'll die older than Judas babe I know why - it's 'cause I care I'll die older than Judas 'cause I care
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The Holy River (Contemplation) (posted on: 02-11-12)
Varanasi, India - written on location. I'm twice as old now but regardless of that I stand for this one.

The Holy River (Contemplation) Babies on shore emitted by water Caressed by the breath of their ancestors or maybe just delivered from the painful truth the seabirds know too well Here if anywhere the water is alive Broken bodies tormented souls seek peace in divine waves that speak with terrifying voices of agony of despair
Archived comments for The Holy River (Contemplation)
cooky on 02-11-2012
The Holy River (Contemplation)
A poem that speaks to the reader. I like this a lot

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. I remember the so called Ghats very distinctly. Some memories simply don't fade.

F


Salut (posted on: 29-10-12)
Here's an old one.

Salut And the sun burned of jealousy that day like every abandoned parent burns For this moonchild follows her own laws and others can only numbly behold her dance And she dances for it pleases her to dance And she smiles for it pleases her to smile And the thought she broods on carries secret wings
Archived comments for Salut
Andrea on 31-10-2012
Salut
Like this, Chant, although I think the sun should have burned with jealousy, rather then 'of'. I know English isn't your first language and I have every admiration for those who are able to write so eloquently in an 'taal' which isn't their own 😉

Author's Reply:
Thanks alot for the comment. "Eloquently"? You flatter me. I'm just a beginner in language.

ValDohren on 01-11-2012
Salut
Lovely poem Chant, great imagery.

Author's Reply:


Philosophical Crime Affair (posted on: 26-10-12)
Time for a break...

Plastic highway A man reaches out for a gun but unfortunately for him it's been put there by Shopenhauer... In distresse Crawling vampires in a film starring Paul Ree takes him over and he tries to do the same failing as would be natural In desperation He buys a plastic gun Looking very real And go to the nearest bank At the counter he says: ''Give me all your money or I'll shoot all of you!'' The lady on the other side of the counter responds: ''That piece seems slightly gunnish to me'' ''What do you mean. It's a gun and I'm serious. Hand me the money!'' ''Well sir. It may be a gun or a non-gun but it may also be gunnish'' ''What the hell do you mean? A gun is a gun and a non-gun is a non-gun. This is a gun so hand me the money!'' ''Only because that thing seems gunnish it doesn't entail that it is neither a gun nor a non-gun sir.'' ''Forget about the bloody gun then. Just hand me the money! All of it.'' ''Sorry sir, but I can't do that.'' ''Why?'' ''It's not in line with our bank policy to hand money over to robbers unless they express themselves in synthetic a priori expressions sir.'' ''I don't care about your bank policy! Just give me the money.'' ''I would break the law by doing so. I simply can't. Otherwise I'd be happy to assist you sir.'' ''But since I haven't expressed myself properly, won't you call the police?'' ''No sir. It's a bank policy but it's not a federal crime.'' Leaving the bank weeping he went straight to Kaliningrad.
Archived comments for Philosophical Crime Affair
Nomenklatura on 26-10-2012
Philosophical Crime Affair
Splendidly bonkers.

Btw, you have a few typos...
Schopenhauer

"He buys a plastic gun
Looking very real
And go to the nearest bank"

should be "goes", no?

As I say, splendidly bonkers. I think I'd have gone to Kaliningrad too.

Author's Reply:
Thanks for the comment. I guess he desperately tries to get arrested but fails. Upshot.


Untitled (posted on: 26-10-12)
First Haiku for me ever; western styled I suppose....a bit broken perhaps.

Canvas boxer short Of perfection, riddled mind; World is ascending
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A Rider of the Times? (posted on: 22-10-12)
This one is not brand new but it seems up to date nevertheless. Please forgive me for using the concept "Maya" once more...

''Is there a rider of the times?'' I asked in mute confusion. Is there a chance for us to see Beyond this great illusion? All the clockworks and the chimes Transgressed by nature's grace Can the bee so humbly be In Mayan lands; no trace?
Archived comments for A Rider of the Times?
ValDohren on 23-10-2012
A Rider of the Times?
Short and succinct, but quite deep. Well written and rhymed.

Author's Reply:

CVaughan on 25-10-2012
A Rider of the Times?

Thought provoking as was said good use of rhyme, sounds chimes well as a piece. Frank

Author's Reply:


Parade of Lost and Found (posted on: 31-08-12)
Juxtaposing didn't quite work out the way I thought. It turned out differently but so what.

Juxtaposing boulders, Desperate as the time smears the windows; Trying to make it big 'cause ''big'' is where the mouth is Oh so hard to come by, And oh so hard to tame, This wind of mad fortune lost Or won in a wonder or in between The Sundays and the Mondays Too touch to win, this game; Far too much of that old ache and pain. I'm not to gain from its chill. Never a mountain to climb 'cause Mountains are likely for adorers; Their peaks must not be claimed Like the tip of an iceberg would, A cube in my drink Or two Can we make it from here? Juggernaut vine tears down the pillows; oh How I'm in love With the scent of your shoulders.
Archived comments for Parade of Lost and Found
Andrea on 01-09-2012
Parade of Lost and Found
I honestly think you should use 'because' instead of ''cause' which doesn't really sound right or fit with the rest, at least to me...

Enjoyed it nevertheless...

Author's Reply:


Mayan Winter (posted on: 31-08-12)
Yet another Maya poem

''Come with me,'' She said obsessed. No wind to see; A voice caressed Of ancient knowledge; Words to go In tarnished circles, Dare I say ''no''? A Mayan winter, Sure to me; Illusions splinter! Born to be. The Mayan matrix; Hardly known, Is always veiled, Thus coins were thrown.
Archived comments for Mayan Winter
stormwolf on 31-08-2012
Mayan Winter
lovely! A surreal mix of mystery and uncertainty. Right up my street. 😉
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thanks 🙂 Comment very much appreciated!

Andrea on 01-09-2012
Mayan Winter
Agree with Storm - very nice ChantZ

Author's Reply:

purplespirit on 15-02-2013
Mayan Winter
Lovely mystical poem, thanks for an enjoyable read. Purple

Author's Reply:


The Fear (posted on: 27-08-12)
And so I finished this little piece. My problem is: is it good or bad? 🙂

Transgressing clockworks; Give me time To shiver Since shivering Will cease And I will be wiser. Combining frameworks; Throw a dime To thither, 'Cause lingering Will ease The pain I feel despite her. Obsessive night hurts. Pass the wine; My Maya, Since Maya Brings us peace And makes things nicer. Cloak of night bursts; Hearts entwined. It's hither. The quivering Release; My Maya lessens night peur.
Archived comments for The Fear
Andrea on 27-08-2012
The Fear
I liked this, Chant, although I did think the French 'peur' at the end a bit out of place. Perhaps 'the night fear' or 'night terror' would be enough? Just as thought, and nice to see you posting again!

Author's Reply:
Thanks Andrea. Yes. The French ending was what I was most afraid of. "Night fear" seems to be the most appropriate to me. I have more to post now since I've been away working.

Fredrik

barenib on 28-08-2012
The Fear
Some interesting word play here, and I see that you were trying to get as close to the rhyme as you could with 'peur', but I think fear would certainly work - the use of a French word does jar a bit. I also wondered a bit at the separated use of hither and thither which again seems a bit strained, but maybe that's just me? Otherwise and interesting and cleverly worked poem - John.

Author's Reply:
Thanks. Yes. I'll settle for fear instead of peur. As far as my hithering and thithering in this poem the piece is supposed to appear in a book where I use hither and thither in other places. In short it's a context thing (and maybe a complete failue *lol*)

CVaughan on 06-09-2012
The Fear
A bit late commenting but am glad to make good for tardiness and address this work. No question of the quality for me, a fine little poem.
I actually like the distanced rhymes "shiver/hither/thither" and their placement. Maya is a love object in this I take it, not the ancient Mayan cilivisation/culture though I know from your other writings you have an especial interest in all things Mayan. Frank

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Maya is a theme and not an obsession :). Maya here is reality; just like in the ancient cultures. I tend to use the two senses of the word interchangeably. Thank you for the comment on theshiver/hither/thither. It helped. I wasn't 100% sure myself (not being a native speaker)



Faster than the Speed of Light (posted on: 23-07-12)
Last autumn there were novel findings in Physics. Italian researchers found that particles sent from CERN arrived significantly sooner than expected. If further assessed this might outdate Einstein in the long run. What follows is a comment on that.

A Mayan matrix; Days of old. It's faster Than the speed of light. Stars in flux; An unknown world A Mayan matrix Every night. Day for night; Oh, wondrous man The Mayan matrix To discern. Night for day; Of Physics new. Where are the frontiers Yet to learn? Our measurements refined Of instruments to date. Of course we can't deny; No element of fate. There's naturally no sense In all of us to know Why stars exist in harmony; A problem yet to show. We are aware of things Pragmatics made us learn A Mayan matrix in disguise; A truth for which to yearn.
Archived comments for Faster than the Speed of Light
Weefatfella on 24-07-2012
Faster than the Speed of Light
The sooner man learns to accept his insignificance, the closer we will come to understanding the Universe.
We may be only incidental.

The Universe will teach us.
We only have to ask but when given the answers, we only have to believe.

Author's Reply:

Texasgreg on 24-07-2012
Faster than the Speed of Light
Fredrik, I have the answer: Stars exist in harmony so that they can all be in the show. 😉

PhotobucketLOL,

Really good poem stimulating thought.

Photobucket.
Greg 🙂



Author's Reply:
A very laidback observation the way I see it. Thanks alot 🙂


The Schizofrenic Moment (part 2) (posted on: 20-07-12)
A number of days ago I posted a text called "The Schizofrenic Moment" - basically a severe critique of the use of the concept. Since the entire text is 6000 words I here post what I refer to as part 2. It's really the continued story as started previously.

The above paragraphs were serious in nature and there were good reasons to have them because there was no need to attempt to humour the mood in the focused condition. I deliver a piece of text to depict a moment, and the age of doubt the above-recorded suggests is important to obtain as full emphasis I can make possible with these words of mine to give a momentary magic mirror effect such a good embedding as possible. This is an aspect of the weather and some prior knowledge will benefit the reader - thus my words above. Below is a damned beautiful sun of a summer evening below the sun's drunk rays were completely discernible and an important ingredient of the prerequisites for a moment of quality. I try to approach the moment with the phenomenological focus and has released a piece of chronology to give an overall picture as accurately as possible. There is no reason to be phenomenological, although I do not do it justice, I am not competent enough, but stumbles on the words which bubbles of injustice like that everyone knows who spent ten years in vain in the therapy of someone in Psychodynamics. Freud's disciples live well on other people's growing misery. My great reward is the approach to the art I try me on when I know that my language is poor compared to others. My faults shine through gaps in my ego, which in everyday life do not exist. Je suis un tre-au-monde avec tout le monde. Ltranger noir. There was no time to not remember, I had fever in the body. I know it now even though I barely noticed it after the spectacular thunderstorm that had provoked, and which I described earlier.Summer in the outside world stood in silent relief to autumn in my heart. It was autumn in my heart and the season's colour was a rusty red, like a beautiful autumn leaf. The beauty of the moment can not describe it, all examples seem paltry and full text can only give an idea of its concreteness. One of the main presuppositions for this my beloved moment, my inner autumn the summer time and the onset of fever, whose birth coincided with a brief thunderstorm. A crescendo of silence. A fever was in motion in my body. A seed had been sown, a mustard seed was born in Dijon. It was summer and a crumbling angel dance was approaching. Such was the setting and little did I know the moment of indescribable joy my approach to fever should lead me to; the moment of birth and dumb conspiracy inside of me, oh what joy. The fever would reach a loud cry of frisky union and then it was an exhausted happiness that paved the way for bedtime; happiness without non-enjoyment. Good luck in its purest form without utilitarian trouble. Good luck plain and simple. To understand a moment is not an issue because little can be understood. It is more relevant to present an as adequate interpretation as possible and in my interpretation which the fragment of this paper is, the concept of "access" highly relevant to an asset, it is in my life and I will not remove the iron in the chair with the sun in below one summer. How weird can it get? An experienced disease is an experience that can be an asset. Thus it is of course not to say that a disease is worth to covet but to see it as an experience and an asset can be and has for me been an important part of the recovery process regardless of the illness' stupid name which is a rape of a language which is one of the older we know of. To think that you know nothing beyond empathy's framework without having had the disease itself is self-deception, all doctors should know this because those who have had or have the disease are extremely few and far between. Self deception is not pleasant, nice is not the thunderstorm I have described as a chronological point in the story that tries to depict the most beautiful in my living memory - the moment. It is hardly to be nice that I healthily nail down my attempts to get close to the written arts with the help of this, my beautiful oh so beautiful memory of a moment just so strange that this text can never be on this side of eternity. Limitations inherent in the text and a piece of bird excrement does not sound much to the parable matter how apt it is. The sentence may be met right. Like the sky. It was clear blue, what else? The sky to the extent that the synthesis was of course the moment the fund for a fact.Something darkening blue sky was moments before the moment because it was so that the sun was below and that it was outdoors is obvious to everyone thus far. It was outdoors and the sun was below a summer in Sweden, so the time was pretty much because it was light when the sun was below; the sky was dark blue. Like the sky is a viable line of text: it is usually something that will return just as the sky or just like heaven or comme le ciel. I lose myself easily in a change of language, I apologise for that. Light blue to almost a white lie. The moment is hard and tangible and it may seem nave to approach it in the text, but I'm nave or at least my blessed moment and try therefore to attempt the impossible: to create art with an elusive moment as theme. Why should certain things be so difficult to comprehend? In healthcare devoted to the fact that juggling with abstract concepts which often lacks ontological status, that is, they are not or they do not exist or they exist, where was it, no. Concepts that do not correspond to any of the facts can of course be used to cage a human being because he or she is politically inconvenient in a society where the fact that one indicates conformity is of paramount importance. A dissenting opinion may be the victim of a censorship or, if it continues, the person with the view is detained and referred to a longer stay in the care of the simple reason that, unfortunately, there are papers with a disease classification in an abstract field. So you can handle things, I'm not saying it is so for then this text never published. Let us prevaricate. I'm constantly hovering outside the target when it comes to the moment and it's fate for the moment does not lend itself to be described either way. It is a task that Odysseus had dreaded facing. The Greeks and the irrational was not unanimous but there were Dionysus rites of women, closely supervised in everyday life, so there should have been some understanding. No understanding had existed if the Greeks had experienced our time wretched abuse of Greek concepts. Not all who understand certain things and doctors and others should shut up and change conceptual apparatus to any more prison-sounding, one might think. We want so badly to live in the belief that we live in a democracy and psychiatry only wish well; perhaps it is sometimes true and sometimes not. It is in the current situation perfectly legitimate to write in the newspaper, on the cultural side, of things with strong racist overtones without being told off, only one is an immigrant oneself, it is legitimate. This is just one example of how conformity bursts of coherence. An inverted Aladdin's lamp, it may be an apt description of the climate in the conformity of Sweden. I float on the goal here, looking for a better picture. It says I delivered a little so I agree there. Back to the point - the moment. More chronology might be in place and it was certainly more than a thunderstorm that preceded the moment and who collectively represent a story that leads to the goal. A description of these thunderstorms is a mighty task too difficult for me but let me draw attention to a thunderstorm as it took a while to realise that there was one. Fever flame flowers lay on a bed of rice and I remember one trip in the tunnel of darkness that led me to a crescendo of silence that made the thunderstorm of course. It was later and it was not so much people including me. I can not answer for what people saw and experienced, even if I knew what they were saying and therefore can approach myself to their opinion, but I stick to the tunnel and the thunder as revealed. Another storm is described briefly. This storm came after what was described first, and of course got all portrayed before the moment depicted. The exact number of thunderstorms remains in the dark mist, but note that it probably was a starry night when I was exhausted, slept the night after the moment, I fell asleep full of momentary beauty and happily exhausted after a day of electrical noise like thunder, and more. It should be mentioned that the fever born blossomed in the second of the two depicted thunderstorms that after a while tighten again. However, I was not unmoved and the fever was very well marked. The fever took a new approach in a non-storm I experienced indoors and in company. We were all quiet as it had become known to us but fever is throbbing like a newborn star in the cosmos. How many stars are in the cosmos. There is none but there are many, very many. There are maybe stars like this planet that we jointly destroy every day. One moment we are glimmering in the cosmos and the next moment we are gone again. The moment I depict here is a moment in more ordinary times, but still just as elusive as the cosmos. I have mentioned three thunderstorms. Let's stay there. It is not necessary for anymore thunderstorms to bring the account to where we want it to lead us; I hope not. It was summer and the sun was below one month in summer one year different from other because it was a special and distinctive year, it was a year of hesitation and a moment: it was a year of fear and trembling before the thunder, it was a year of fever that pulsed clear and distinct, like a newborn in this cosmos - our microcosm, and every pregnant woman is carrying it. A unique impression is a peculiar impression but as well becomes less strange if one wants to be keen to make it more peculiar by clownery and therefore makes the peculiar less peculiar. The moment is peculiar, and this modest approach allows no mistakes because then it becomes peculiar individuality not alone in the cosmos (as if it was there but it's a little thought provoking). The moment had no spatial extent, despite its spatial extent, it is a mental phenomenon that seemed mundane and therefore objectively discernible even though I knew deep down that I also now know: it was merely a product of me. The moment was huge concrete and its massive impact on me was and is no mistaking what mentally it may have been. The language does not allow easy but clumsy metaphors when talking about mental objects or phenomena, let us stick with the feet on the ground, a seed is resting in the cosmos. A seed in the cosmos is resting, and this deserves a new paragraph. The moment had colour but we can not say that, strictly speaking, if it had the form and extent. A colour is perhaps the form or extent, but this is not a scientific treatise on philosophy so let's keep it simple - it was a hell of a spectacle! Well. I remember it like yesterday and it was not November and not September when the autumn months are purely lexical, though I do not want to sabotage everything by referring to the moment itself. It roared through a thought that was born in me. The idea was born probably due to sentence the base of a word in the previous paragraph - the word "philosophical science". That all or many scientifically trilled individuals know there is physical noise and organic noise. Noise in biological context is essential to close thoughts. If we extend this to include physical noise then thought would be a bit all over the timespace. A fascinating thought that bears the closest religious implications - I think most of Hinduism. I unfold myself in contradictions? Not here in this piece, and certainly not unconsciously. Like the idea! It is difficult to be completely contradictional when one relies on metaphorical language. We talk in metaphors - hence the word "metaphor" that has been established to distinguish what we know from what we do not think about, we do not know better. As far as I know, I know what I know I should know better because I do not know better, because I have formed me a little. A little education is good in order to form an educated opinion, otherwise the idea is not formed but either uneducated, abandoned or otherwise. This moment we take the opportunity to re-approach the moment.
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The Schizofrenic Moment (posted on: 16-07-12)
This is one third of a short story originally written in my native language Swedish. The original text is extremely complex and thus the translation is rather poor. I've done my best though. The topic is very often misunderstood and it's mainly a critique of present day so called "health care".

The moment when the text was born into an embryo of explosive life is dedicated to none as the colours it concerns can not be captured because they were not, however, a reader will encounter this hopefully written text. If you do not understand so far it's in order; books can be read about. Understand, you are perhaps the epicenter of the action (I do not promise that it will happen). Ecce moment! Ce moments perdu. Mon amour! Je suis hereux un instant pour ta mmoire! Henceforth I will try to stick to the text and be as objective one can never be in non-somatics; does anyone seriously think that the Greeks had accepted this language? The integralisation of Mathematics can simulate a continuum of moments, but it serves not because Jesus wanted that ten would be one and such a free radical bites no math or chemistry. Full respect for the Ecce Homo and the excuse that a simple man like the author avails a Latin paraphrase of biblical dimensions, but every moment becomes a unison if Ecce Moment is mentioned at least once, and my scrubby French is illuminated by the more original. This text is not about anything other than the weather on a summer evening and there was no Monica that summer, therefore, no sensuality. The love for a moment that is implied can not be non-forgotten if the possibility would be rigorous perfection, the world would all that is the case as is the case of Eden. I have just been witty and I'm now so self-righteous that I tell it, we all have faults. My shortcomings come short of rigorous perfection. This is, in other words, no academic treatise, but only a prayer that the toothbrush to the right of me to make my teeth less ugly a number of electric lunar month from the context unimportant moments we so un-Greek and softly call now (let there be cool gate). Nothing in the neurons of dreams rain dance footsteps could achieve the sophistication a simple oboe can achieve in a Mauritanian Symphony Orchestra Robert Broberg to defy. Ecce Moment are in a battle for the Trinity that should be given. Ecce moment once again to the life of Jesus that becomes one with his brother's bread; daily. I can babble at speed as a Rabby can shave sharp given that I write for a few moments so that mathematics does not disappoint itself. One moment is strangely anomalie like an irrational number, this the most precise instrument of Matematics - the accuracy and whims of the irrational. Let there be passing fancies! The time is seven to religion as the most rabid supporters. There will be seven religions with seven prophets and seven creations. Only one has a bar with wine for religious reason. There were not many right on the V75 - it's called Christianity. The drinks are apparently healthy - damn! There is much misery in this world said his uncle before he threw himself into the wall for a mere teenager's sake. An age of doubt, make a certain moment certain. This moment. I benefit nothing by taking advantage of Latin. The weather was the issue or matter that this is all about, one aspect of the weather, like a number in Mathematics, it's irrational and completely fresh and true. One moment that really does not belong here yet defunct, like a fairy on a flat vegetable shining like a foot of any bald material from which Milan is Milan with all the non-existent kingdom of Italy, is it when my mind's eye crossed a thought in a flash forming saying that each person knowing their pastor Berkeley knows that I have delivered a Christian "I refute it thus" (it says so in empirical contexts). Jeez! I have just written in a moment on a moment and have already delivered in four languages. Four languages are more than three elephants, it'll all that seven dwarves know. If anyone is wondering, it's Swedish, which is the mother tongue all Danish poetry of defiance. Let there be Strunge on forever young in the crushing rigidity in midsummer - a summer. When I was about to turn the page, I realised a mistake - I thought of a isokaeder while I saw something else: a Platonic body has nothing to do with my personal life since I have a toothbrush that does the heavy lifting while I portray something as perfect as irrational numbers, a moment of perceived weather, such as whipping the shit out of the Italian league. Thank you for your entertainment! A true Arya has a message of peace and this is one aspect of the weather as fresh as a summer breeze can explode in nearly Romanian national team colours. Talk about deficiencies in other words - it's serious boys and girls. I'm writing life and the breeze I recorded stiffened rapidly and became a fairy for children's rights in Leningrad; welcome into the greenery.It's summer in Rnneholm and the sun is below while writing even if the season for the gospel can be set off. It is the experience that counts and no drugs or other things needed if you follow me to the point. This is written for I suffer for art, but the publishing company I so to speak, is on (even at night) is no less hungry for money, it's easy to consume a matter I delivered purchased by a person. Please buy two and pay for seven seven times twice. It is de facto modern times and, unfortunately, the economy is invented. I may be cheeky, but for the story's sake, I ask about the economy, for a publisher for a while; philosophy is clinically accurate and I do my - I appeal. So! The story has now received new business and I'm back from the somewhat metaphysical morass of the appeal. I utilise a wink a moment to bring myself to approach the story or the penning's object that it behooves every seemingly mad scientist's honour. A moment of sun without food below; a sober moment a drunken summer in winter to entice one to contemplate on the current season when it is read. Here and now and for all human future in the modern language figures usually four seasons, like a pizza, please select weapons. I deliver at a distance. A moment's colour hidden in the blackness like ink on paper. This is the adopted antagonist or obstacle I wait and then it's easily realised that the colours of the moment are insipid in each transmittion in writing. This is also transmitted in writing intended to sell because of agreement with a colourless publisher. Everything is relative except Einstein, he is out of the picture. These are modern times, les tempes modernes, the sixties are perhaps equally inside the fifties which is nice but we are on the abuse seriously here and ponder soberly on the weather and think of the weather colour. Do you see the point, dear reader? If yes, please continue. If not do as it pleases, and I pray for mercy for the future. My words are not enough. It's common sense that apply. A moment is all that is the case and Monica is not. Without Monica but summer is the summer and dance around the Christmas tree makes Christmas to some extent non-commercial for a grateful pope - we hope for better times for a German pope, the diamonds in, he was its recent history and beat the world with positive amazement. It should be a German pope to make a positive story. This is another story which is all about magic, a moment. It is a sad fact that a concept borrowed from classical Greek was misinterpreted and misunderstood from the beginning. Every ancient Greek had detested us because today it is a conceptual inflation that erodes all significance in language which was deeply serious about the Greeks: they loved their language and their view of truth is rubbished in everyday life. A concept is necessarily removed and this letter does not deserve its name, its title. A concept has been raped and I have it as the central position in a title, this is the first and last time I mention it in writing - an omen, and the plague is with us all. Anyone can be there, a sudden smile is enough. All spontaneity is prohibited by non-somatics otherwise it is no affective ill. Everyone can be there and a few have been diagnosed. In healthcare, the problems of recruiting of all must be cared for. Whole of Sweden can be, and in health care, one must be healthy. This applies to exempt one wants to work with the rest of the population. So arbitrary is the fact. It's hard to write about this moment without colour explosion becoming very flat and the text therefore very short. A parable of a drive is enough and a sudden bird shit on a forward journey of a CAR WINDOW captures a key moment in the moment. It's a good analogy for the moment I portray, but it lacks the richness and another, the parable with bird feces do not do it justice. I have been evocative and less curious people have probably stopped reading. I continue with appetite whetted for those who have the taste for continuing. Unfortunately I have to accept the medium's limitations and therefore making a superfluous sentence, that sentence. Alas the medium is further limited, and it serves no moment why the medium, ie word processing program, may not appreciate my way to be pleased of it which is to me nice and beautiful.Perhaps I do it no justice, what do I know? There is a lot of moments in life's continuum reformed to mathematics, but this one frozen moment one summer was so distinct and marked that no mathematical formula could induce to catch it. We talk a precision that chaotic features perhaps have if they freeze in the winter. A crescendo of silence. So, the moment can perhaps be described.Is it to be more precise or calculable perhaps the irrational numbers, may serve, but in everyday speech, it becomes difficult; normal usage does of course bear the appearance of being rational.The standard will be unique in any unit of a continuum of finite possibilities. Entropy walk in the city streets to avenge the Mayan calendar's apparent death. Astronomy of great stature and a natural pause: this was written before the current winter. The winter after Hollywood has a new toy to supply; discussed here are other things. No film could capture the moment, the writing is more elusive and interesting. Scripture is more interesting, and yet there is nothing left about five thousand years of cyberspace, the space that is and also non-is, will drain the write word. It is a question of which modality is chosen for the present, that is the way in which it found there. The written word should have a place, a given place, in history because religious texts are not obvious on the web these veiled days. A moment of trembling snow, whose compound materials crack like frisky angels dancing in numb crushing. There is a picture, a perverse image, of a moment, but more than a little movement.It requires movement to get at the moment that seems so beautiful as it was and is for me, it requires movement and fever and a park of unknown age. Let me explain the fever in a piece of chronology. It was a cover up in the air out of the ordinary which led the moment. It was no ordinary storm. The first came in the afternoon without warning. I was in the company of many and it was nice outside, when it suddenly was not fun anymore. The usual stratocumulus clouds were suddenly different and the thunder was a fact. It was not pleasant, but an omen for more. More was to come. The turmoil was considerably. I felt uncomfortable and the company was not in a good mood, there was thunder without rain, but thunder was near, no doubt, but verging on being predestined close. It trembled like aspen leaves in the air when the lightning flew and rumble came immediately: one succeeded the other. It was all over after a very short time and thunderstorm colours didn't forewarn about the moment that this writing is all about. It was summer and a healthy sun hid hastily behind a sick cloud, there was a sudden thunderstorm. I was taken by surprise and very small a great moment when the weather gods brilliance in dance at the summer sky made us all small, me least of all. I felt the respect in me solid and I finished talking, everyone was taken by events and I had a run of fever, the weather had had a fever within me that was easily visible - visible to everyone if it hadn't been for a long-term turmoil around me for mothers and fathers called their children. The children called their mothers and fathers and all found each other and no one was injured by lightning, only I was struck by fever, mild fever. An eternal verdure one summer was as nothing to this approach to the fever which unknowingly pointed toward the moment this is all about. I am choosing my words in a way that Nietzsche would probably have applauded because everyone tells a story to come to grips for itself. Some are such that they must endure themselves with their respective histories. These are not noble, but with the ugly faces of their nature. A homeless person can have pathos. Let us not forget that. A homeless can have rank, high rank. Let's not develop us into political complications without recovering the history we are here in the text to read about, and I is the exception when I am the special case that both reads and writes.
Archived comments for The Schizofrenic Moment
Texasgreg on 18-07-2012
The Schizofrenic Moment
Aye! You're a pretty deep guy, Chantz. Ya know, I'm quite a believer in mathematics myself. It really explains away many of life's mysteries that the average Joe refuses to acknowledge. Superstition appears to trump truth at every turn for some reason. On languages...I can kill the "Napoli" dialect with fervor, LOL. I can always translate into Texican fer ya though. Good...no, really good short observation on need of health care, too.
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Keep up the good work.

Greg 🙂

Photobucket.

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. I suppose the topic needs some thought. I'm not worried about the topic much (it's much needed) but I AM worried about to which extent the translation is good. Thank you very much for your encouragement. Unfortunately doctors and psychologists in Sweden and the US alike have far too much legal power. That's a very worrying phenomenon and fortunately I'min a position to change it somewhat at the moment (at least in Sweden).

Alot of diagnosises have been sadly misused and schizofrenia especially. Take the diagnosis schizoaffective syndom as an example. It's about displaying emotions. That means that it can be applied to some 98% of the global population and the criteria for it are really random.

At the moment I believe there is adangerous trend going in the media about celebrities having this or that diagnosis. It serves as a way of popularising the diagnosises and the effects of that can be very, very harmful to alot of people but of course it's big business for the pharma industry. Really worrying.

Like I've stated the entire text is 6000 words and I've just submitted the following 2000. Should appear here shortly.

Fredrik


The Softness (posted on: 13-07-12)
This one is brand new and is included in the Maya project. Critique much appreciated

Tranquil storm A feather rises and for a moment we're strangers drifting away to unknown shorelines unaware of any tidal wave to bring us together anew Like babies on a shoreline crying for milk long forgotten we are and April snow will not bug us since we're distant only for a tranquil time Oh you sweetness of mine
Archived comments for The Softness
cooky on 15-07-2012
The Softness
I like this. very well written. Good opening two lines.

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. It took a while but finally there are comments :). I guess it's fairly explicit in nature. Flattered by the rating. Fredrik


A Waking World (posted on: 13-07-12)
Here's a brand new one intended for the Maya project. Critisism much appreciated.

A brittle ray of light sets fire to a waking world A gentle funeral pyre tells tales of which we've heard We prayed all along for a new dawn in ultra-violet coloured spring The facts of it alas are torn oh...memories they bring Let's face it - we are all alone our bodies in despair The hardest night we're indeed prone to make it unaware The making of a waking world I fear it's way too late And history like moistful curd it sets our feeble fate
Archived comments for A Waking World
ChairmanWow on 16-07-2012
A Waking World
Like "history is like moistful curd" --what a comparison!

Ralph

Author's Reply:
Honestly I was desperate for a rhyme :). It creates some kind of effect. For better or worse I don'¨t know

chant_z on 17-07-2012
A Waking World
Ok. I've changed two lines in the poem - hopefully for the better. The new poem is below:

A Waking World

A brittle ray of light
Sets fire to a waking world
A gentle storm of fright
Tells tales of which we’ve heard

We prayed all along for a new dawn
In ultra violet coloured spring
The fact of it alas are torn
Oh…memories they bring

Let’s face it – we are all alone
Our bodies in despair
The hardest night we’re indeed prone
To make it unaware

The making of a waking world
I fear it’s much too late
And history of which we’ve heard
It sets our fragile fate


Author's Reply:


Ray (posted on: 09-07-12)
Being a bit lazy I decided to post some old material. "Ray" is published since 2010 in my "Journeys Among Abstract Imagery and Other". It was published with the not very serious minded Publish America (we all make mistakes) *lol*

Ray Cloaked and smiling Unknown sources The burning and...yes Ray Ferocious friend Focal fire Re-ignites Swaying Hidden in the starry trees glows and rejuvinerates A birth of murmuring, narrow skies Sliding phenomenon in a shallow distance Step forth and see Ray Come pulse Come storm Come silence innocence Come playground Fragility Soft laughter glowing eyes Arch-angle sighing And...then Ray Implicit treasure hidden in Alhambra The veil of the quiet lake as the sword sinks gently the chorus whispers outside and the foam the light and...yes Ray Abandoned like an infant's kiss and there is silence
Archived comments for Ray
Andrea on 09-07-2012
Ray
Publish America is an author mill 🙂 Don't worry, I made the same mistake years ago too.

Enjoyed this, Chant.

Author's Reply:


Afterglow (posted on: 09-07-12)
Here's another one from my "Journeys Among..." (2010). I tend to favourise this one but I don't know why really.

Afterglow Saturation The half-lit cave craves lightly Humid haven Slow pulsation Moist voices fade away Ecliptic gaze Cessation Effeminate and evanescent Transcending maya without motion but hesitating at the gate of it all And so... afterglow The roses of another moment shimmer quiescently and in an interim the ripeness of echoes seems transparent as seem your eyes when I nearly delve into the nearness of their intangible surface Slow and pure Immaculate and still The warmth of night embraces my feeble self and whispers secrets in my ear Secrets of Persia and of the ancient kingdoms while I turn to the future waiting in motionless bewilderness This time is as sacred as the distant stars that play magnificent temples in my jaded eyes It will never be the same There is no more sound only shadows and imagery made up by the modest fire in the shallow cave Oh how I wish for unknown lands A city in the sun A long forgotten goldmine A butterfly in metaphor air I would fly with it But now... Stillness Silent contemplation of nothingness Daylight is yet to come and I will be ready
Archived comments for Afterglow
niece on 10-07-2012
Afterglow
Chant z, this is full of mystery and a sense of anticipation probably...really very nice !!!

Regds,
niece

Author's Reply:
Thank you. Very nice observation. The main idea with these poems is to make them in a way that gives the reader space for his/her own thoughts etc, so I guess you hit the spot.


Homo Ludens is Not (posted on: 18-05-12)
Another piece from the Maya-project with a question mark (depends on if it's as well received as the others). Overall I'm very flattered by the comments these poems have received. I hope this lives up to the standard of the others. What I lack is a serious minded publisher. Anyone recognises this?:)

Homo Ludens is Not A most radical gesture born from common sense I fear Alone I thread a wheel of danger Honoursuicide I prevail in mystic times Honesty Serenity Soft laughter Aurora whispers Twilight smile We were born not to walk away in silence
Archived comments for Homo Ludens is Not
Andrea on 19-05-2012
Homo Ludens is Not
Are you talking about Huizinga, here? I must say I don't really get it, although it flows beautifully, and I love the last 3 lines (which I did get, happily :))

Author's Reply:
Homo ludens is the playing man. As a fan of LLoyd Cole I must stress that "I wrote that song but I don't know what it means" ;). You don't have to understand it. Your comments on the flow is very fine.

Andrea on 19-05-2012
Homo Ludens is Not
Yes, I know - the book written by Huizinga. I did get it then! Hoorah!

Author's Reply:

Nomenklatura on 20-05-2012
Homo Ludens is Not
"A girl needs a gun these days on account of all the rattlesnakes."

I think a virtual hat doffing is due to you, Chant Z, because you are not writing in your native language. I'm intrigued by 'thread a wheel' I don't know what it means but I like the sound of it anyway.

Author's Reply:


Jew (posted on: 18-05-12)
The letters of Paul are dated earlier than the gospels. The birth of modern mind control anyone? Just being silly but this one just popped up.

A genuine fake Catholic heaven Fallen from dew the you in me I see For heaven's sake a jew There were three that sunscorched day and they sang a sanguine song sung by many more to come and go A Saul would rise A book to write We could plan a murder or start a new religion
Archived comments for Jew
stormwolf on 18-05-2012
Jew
Started with a paradox....and became more thought provoking as it went on. May have to re-read it a few times but I like the simple way it is written, simplicity has its own power to my mind.
Alison x

Author's Reply:
Thank you for the nice comment. The subject is, unfortunately, destined to be controversial it seems. As far as I know the jews see Jesus as a prophet. I'm more into their position than the christian one to be honest.

Andrea on 19-05-2012
Jew
Agree with Alison - thought-provoking little piece. Nice.

Author's Reply:

Nomenklatura on 20-05-2012
Jew
A great effort. I'd punctuate this, or get rid of any capitalisation altogether.

Thought provoking, and, thereby, interesting. Well done
regards
Ewan

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 20-05-2012
Jew
agree with your sentiment. Muslims also regard Jesus as a great prophet and revere Mary. The claim that he is actually the physical son of god seems completely spurious and probably unimportant in the whole scheme of things, but people have fought over it (see 'Life of Brian')

Paul of course was the man who popularised Christianity across the Roman Empire and gave it a foothold. (reputedly because it was 'easier'/demanded less than Judaism so was a soft option). Such is life. Acorns and oaks.

Author's Reply:

Capricorn on 20-05-2012
Jew
This is an interesting one - very thought provoking. think perhaps a little punctuation might be good(as suggested)
Eira

Author's Reply:


Hyperheart (posted on: 14-05-12)
Hyperheart is an attempt to do a (second) full lenght book in English. Since I'm not a native English speaker I'm sure it's full of faults. Please correct me and please forgive me - word count said 2900 words 🙂

Prologue The speed of water is unknown to man just like the secrets of the ocean. There resides the cure for everything. We don't know anything about ourselves but we're pretty good at Physics. On waking up the next morning Kate felt untidy, unclean. She wasn't used to this madness making her estranged for a moment or two. She went in to have a bath. The water in the tub, filling up, was warm and moreover there were these funny spirals and stuff that only water does. Could the water make her feel more at ease? As far as she could tell it already had despite her not having entered the tub yet. Was it a miracle? By no means! It was Sunday at 10:15 AM. Peter meant the world to her and it was a little funny because they had only just met but it wasn't exactly a chance meeting to her and he made her feel wonderful he made her feel whole and saturated; content. Her contentedness spread through the water in the tub as she inhaled the slightly perfumed air in the bathroom. She sighed and whispered lightly her breath going outwards and then inwards where the mind's eye is they say. Oh they say! They say she's mentally ill, they say. They say she needs Lithium; the killer substance. Poison or not poison? That is the question. She knew her vote on that one. She had seen others now, victimized by some alluring illness nobody knows exists. It has no modality of existence. Carefully refined and sealed over but definition kills as does poison. I The living room was only slightly lit as she moved towards one of its two windows. She pulled the curtain aside a little so she had a wider space for her eyes to spread their vision outwards. The sky was in a shifting phase between darkish blue and black, with vague shapes of cumulus clouds, yet discernible to a human eye. The neighbourhood seemed peaceful and across the street, all windows of the building were dark to her eyes. She opened the window, only a little, and her ears could perceive almost nothing from outside but occasional wind, the modest sound of which appeared and disappeared in almost no time at all. The scent of the air was pleasant to her and so was the temperature. With her face turned slightly to the right, her vision spread as on hen hetter wings out over the roof of the block next to the one she had just seen, which was a couple of stories lower and so the vision flew across a rather large part of the city. The shapes of the taller buildings were about to merge with the night and the small forest which she knew was a couple of miles from where the city ended all was black to her and the horizon was not as sharp as it would appear to be in daytime. She sighed contentedly as her vision returned its findings to her and after a minute of silent contemplation she closed the window and returned to the sofa in the room with a table on which there was a tasteful and rather small crystal bowl filled with water where three lit candles floated and made the colour of the bowl seem more yellowish than normal. She also had a small bottle of gin on the table and beside it a glass with a drink that she had a sip of as she was seated. The night made her feel at ease. That used to be the case. The buzz and the electric confusion of the city were distant and her spirit knew where it belonged. It was here, in this apartment, quite ample, that was her natural place in the evenings. She had a sip of the drink again and then she let the beverage in the glass be transluced by the candles on the table. The transparent beverage and the crystal of the glass made the yellowish become even more vague, as if it was interwoven with the dim light from the small floor lamp placed nearby. She sighed lightly as the beverage had its effect and all that surrounded her contributed to the peace of mind she felt. She needed it. It was Friday and a whole weekend was ahead of her when she could breathe freely; gather power in order to face what to come; what had to come. The hour was late and she had set an appointment with James after he had been out with friends and colleagues. They were only going to some pub after having had a men's dinner party and it wouldn't take long. He had told her that he would come as soon as possible. But the hour was getting late; a quarter past one. Maybe he would end it by one. She needed him now; more than ever perhaps. The week had been awful; who was she to go through all this alone? She had a sip of the beverage again and watched the lithography on the right of the draped door. A painting by Cezanne was the original. She didn't have any deeper interest in paintings, it was mainly decoration for her but now it seemed to her that the painting began to speak; it had a language. Maybe it was the situation that suggested it; maybe it was something else. The painting seemed alive. It spoke to her in a language adjusted to her and only her. It was her mother that had chosen the painting. It had never really suited her. It was probably because of the motif. Somewhat morbid she might think but now it was her mother's choice that captured her. She had said that it was a typical Cezanne and a kind of still life. The colouring was nice but what never had pleased her was the human face, vaguely skeleton-like, that was discernible, but for her mother's sake she had put it there anyway and it fitted nicely with the rest of the room. She had a taste for the visual without making an affair out of it. Time passed. The spell broke after god knows how long; maybe ten minutes. James was late. By half past one he should have finished the pub and be on his way. She needed him. They had hardly seen each other for the whole week; only talked on the phone. It was high season at his job and he'd had a lot of overtime but tonight they had all night and all weekend together. She could hardly wait but knew that she had to, so she sat down in the sofa; the same sofa she had been sitting in earlier. She watched the soft light play. It played like a holy Ganesh before her eyes. Or maybe like a Roman ''Alladin and the Wonderful Lamp''. Obsolete perhaps, but there for certain. Obsolete like all ancient knowledge. Nevertheless the wheel was invented and the Persians and the democracy and everything seemed to come to her as she tried not to think. Maybe she should return to the painting. Cezanne may perhaps be good for her mind. Her eyes. Not jaded, but still as she wanted them to be. Her whole body was still; just like she wanted it to be. She didn't meditate; she didn't know how to. She tried to think of nothing though and the atmosphere in the room was beneficial for that. But then all of a sudden! James was late. Had something happened? Why this? Oh well, she thought. It was only half an hour. Anything could have happened. Nothing to worry about. At least she tried not to worry. It was just that she needed him. She needed his company. She needed to talk. Her heart couldn't bear much more than this. Only a short talk; that was all she needed. Not much. Just someone James whom she knew and who could relate and maybe give advice. They had all weekend together. She knew that. A great deal of things could be sorted out. At least she hoped so. She hoped so and her hope travelled by the lightwaves of the crystal glass as she had another sip. Why not put on some music to make the whole waiting part completely integrated in some painted cathedral or other? No. That would be too much. She needed the silence, at least until he came. Silence was her medium on a night like this. Silence only interrupted by some distant sounds in the street below now and then. She couldn't help it. She lived where she lived. In her loneliness she returned to the things she enjoyed. The lights of the apartment. She had a sip of gin and made a ceremony with the glass. It filled her with content. The room was as still as she would like her mind to be and she tried to inhale the scent of the room. Was there any scent in the room? There was a flightly scent; inpredicable but enough for her. She didn't have to think about it. There was also the scent that comes with wallpaper, furniture and the like. She enjoyed it and wished. Oh how she wished! No, no! No time to be too emotional. Just keep cool and try not to get carried away, she thought to herself. She knew she could get carried away easily these days. No wonder. The week had been horrible and all she wished for was for it to end. It's funny how the calendar can mean things for people. Almost like a ritual for the Indians. Manifestation. Sharp lines between youth and adulthood. Funny how a new year's eve can mean so much. It wasn't New Year's Eve yet. It was quite some time 'til then. But anyway. Rituals. She supposed there could be public rituals and also private ones and she had just invented a new one for herself; watching the Cezanne painting her mother thought was so fine. Mother. Always goal-oriented; always going someplace; firm but juste. Oh how she missed her! Oh how she longed to be with her! But now it was too late. The distance was too much; too much for her to bear. Electric confusion. It was very distant at night and it didn't disturb her. Not in the least. What disturbed her was thinking about her mother, but she had to, only not now. James would probably be here any minute now. She needed him. There was so much in her hands. She couldn't even focus. She returned to the window with the drink in her hand. The street was as empty as it should be. This was a quiet neighbourhood. It wasn't that she didn't like to be in a crowded place, it was just that she preferred living a little apart from the center and she had been lucky finding this apartment. Her mother had helped her. Her mother had always helped her. And now, the distance. Oh! The clock was ticking. James was a great deal later than he'd said he would be. However, she didn't lose her patience in waiting. She was not that kind. As a matter of fact she felt being by herself for a while did her good. She sat down again and tried not to think. She tried hard not to think and maybe that was her mistake; her mother emanated from memory all the time. Oh James! Where are you? It took a while but eventually the doorbell rang in the discreet way it tended to. Her mother's suggestion; she did have an elaborate taste. She opened and found James standing there, looking apologetic as might be appropriate although she didn't bother much; she wasn't that kind. ''Come in,'' she said. ''How are you? You're a little late.'' ''Yes,'' James said. ''Sorry about that. The evening was longer than expected. I had to go with the others. Work, you know.'' ''I understand. Do take off your coat.'' ''Fine. I hope you don't mind that I'm just a tiny bit drunk.'' She smiled a little. ''Take of your coat.'' They were quiet for a while. There wasn't any need to say much at the moment. Silence is golden, or so they say. James, having taken off his coat and shoes, entered the living room; modestly lit. It was only the lamp by the table and the candles, now which were casting shadows that had been lonely up to this point. ''You look tired,'' James said. ''How are you? Have you eaten?'' She looked away as if she didn't want to answer. James understood. ''I see you have gin on the table. You should get something to eat. Can I make you some sandwiches?'' She hesitated. ''Yeah. That would be nice. Thanks.'' ''Do you have stuff at home? You do have things in the fridge, right?'' She seemed a little distant for a short while, but then she answered. ''Yeah. Sure. You can find what you need in the kitchen. I'm very grateful. Don't have the energy really.'' ''I see,'' James said, looking a little troubled. ''It's my fault. I should have come sooner.'' ''Don't bother about that. It's very nice of you to make sandwiches. I'll have three if that's alright.'' ''Of course. I'll be right back.'' He went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. ''Where's the bread?'' he asked. ''To the right of the fridge,'' she answered, her voice sounding tired as would be natural considering everything. James was right, of course; she hadn't eaten for quite a while. She had only had drinks for the past hours, but she hadn't had much. Did it matter if she was hungry anyway? She didn't feel hungry. Maybe it was the beverage that did that trick. Dangerous perhaps, but did she had to care? She didn't feel like caring about things like that; she had other things to care about. There came a thought. She could hardly keep herself from tears; her eyes became a little wet. She didn't like it; what if James saw her in this state? She closed her eyes and tried to think of nothing whatsoever, but it didn't work very well. As a matter of fact it only made her feel worse. Oh my god, she thought. Why this? Why on earth? Well, James knows me and he is here for a reason so he won't mind, she thought. Then all of a sudden she started sobbing; not loud but anyway. She'd better stop before the sandwiches were ready. She sat down by the table with the crystal bowl. Watching it made her feel a little better; at least she stopped sobbing but her eyes were still wet. She closed them once more. It was a pity that she didn't have any incense or something like that. The candle emitted a faint smell and she inhaled; not without delight. Anything to make her feel better. ''Sandwiches and tea,'' James entered the room. ''For you only.'' ''Aren't you going to have anything?'' she asked. ''I'm still quite full from the gentlemen's dinner and I've had my fair share of beer too so thank you but no thank you. You need this better than I, but I made a pot of tea for two. I'll get another cup.'' James went out in the kitchen again but returned almost instantly with a second teacup. ''You don't look good. Not good at all,'' he said. ''Have you been crying?'' Oh! She didn't want it to show but James was James. ''A little,'' she said in a low, moderated voice. ''You shouldn't be ashamed of that,'' James said. ''Considering everything, you're entitled to. Please excuse the expression.'' She smiled a little. One thing with James was his even mood. He always had a way of turning the worse into something more moderate and easier to handle. ''Thanks,'' she said. ''I needed that comment.'' ''I knew you did.'' ''Yes, well. You're not just anyone,'' she said smiling faintly. They were both sitting at the table and the lights in the crystal bowl turned their faces shady just like if it was late; and indeed it was. ''Do you want me to stay here all weekend?'' James asked. ''I can sleep on the sofa over there. No problem.'' ''Yes, thanks. You're too kind.'' ''Like I said; no problem.'' There was silence for a while. The atmosphere in the room made it natural. The sandwiches did her well. She could feel her mood shifting. In part it was because of him. He was one of her better friends and the only one she could rely on as things were. Of course he didn't hesitate; that wouldn't be him, and she knew not to take advantage of that. They had been friends for many years and were destined to continue, it seemed. Now she needed help and who was in a better position to help her than he? She could think of nobody. And there he was; the same James as always, with an equality of mood that never made him boring, but predictable in an interesting way. One could always say ''Oh, James!'' after he'd dropped one of his so obvious lines in almost any context imaginable. ''I'll go to bed now,'' she said. ''The room is yours until tomorrow. Late tomorrow, I guess.'' ''Well, yes,'' he said. ''It may not be all that late for me. Drinking makes me sleep worse actually.'' ''Really? It's normally the other way around.'' ''Well, so they say, but not for me. Good night.'' ''Good night. Sweet dreams.'' She tried not to sound like some femme fatale. She felt horrible, but was in good hands. ''You too.'' She went out of the room into her bedroom, where she couldn't help but feel a tear from her right eye as she prepared for bed.
Archived comments for Hyperheart
Pennywise on 31-05-2012
Hyperheart
With English not being your native tongue you've done extremely well. Your MCs emotions show through strong. After reading this I'm left wondering what has happened for her to be in this state. Where is her mum? Will she become intimate with James? They seem to have a strong connection. You've left plenty of questions to urge the reader to continue.

I found the beginning a little slow to get into, but I do like the references about her mother and the painting, those helped to show her emotional state.

Some of the sentence structure could do with a little edit. The main problem I had was the speech, it felt clunky, not natural enough for me.

Yeah this could do with an edit but overall you have a good start to your novel. I wish you well with it.

Rated 6 (5 as average), your piece is a little over average but no doubt when you re-edit that rate will go up much higher.

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 31-05-2012
Hyperheart
Yes, I agree with Penny. You definitely have the basis of a great piece here, just needs a few tweaks here and there.

Author's Reply:


Give me Wine, Give me Water (posted on: 30-04-12)
In the Maya project?

Give me Wine, Give me Water Give me wine, give me water and some bread to feel anew as I eat somebody else's sweat and blood The shoemaker Give me time, give me myrrh to bathe in innocence like some who dwell in sand after the deed is done As the cause is lost let us not be forgotten for we crave for peace and tranquility in a garden wet with summer rain
Archived comments for Give me Wine, Give me Water
franciman on 30-04-2012
Give me Wine, Give me Water
Hi Chant z,

I'm not sure I understand all of this, but I certainly admire its lyrical beauty. It is probably just me being thick! It is so reminiscent of Omar Kyhham's Rubyat. "And you beside me singing in the wilderness" Great Stuff.

Cheers,
Jim

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 30-04-2012
Give me Wine, Give me Water
Wine, water and bread 🙂 Know what Jim means. Nicely done.

Author's Reply:

chant_z on 30-04-2012
Give me Wine, Give me Water
Thank you very much both. I'm very flattered. "The shoemaker" is supposedly a pretty classic Buddhist twist 🙂

Author's Reply:

chant_z on 30-04-2012
Give me Wine, Give me Water
Thank you very much both. I'm very flattered. "The shoemaker" is supposedly a pretty classic Buddhist twist 🙂

Author's Reply:

ChairmanWow on 30-04-2012
Give me Wine, Give me Water
Very lyrical. Agree with jim and Andrea.

Author's Reply:

stormwolf on 02-05-2012
Give me Wine, Give me Water
This is one of these poems that I do not trully understand and yet I do not need to.
Poetry is a strange beast 😉 While not liking some work as obscure, this speaks to me of deep thought. The last lines really appealed to me..........
for we crave for peace
and tranquility
in a garden
wet with summer rain

oh yes!!!
Alison x


Author's Reply:


Daybreak Bloodline (posted on: 27-04-12)
Morning session.

Daybreak Bloodline A bird of prey ascends from a distance The wine is too dark and I lose the bird The drink imposes a fullfilling lourdnesse and the apple of my eye is 7 feet soft in bed - breathing like the wine Lighting a moist candle scented I make us breakfast and a Galette to match the apple still lying there unaware - I smile lightly Days may come and then they go The calendar makes us mortal and mortality will make our becoming ripe The bird of prey suddenly descends fast while my thoughts are among the gem of my life The Himalayas High air wilderness danger if I do it wrong Can there be a noble way to reach the next world? I remember how oxygene made me weak weary The hollow rocks sophisticated stretch it's a matter of boots or an issue of living or not There were times when this dichotomy blurred Where was I? Nowhere I don't exist In my kitchen the lady makes a lovely sound I am suddenly at hand with a western breakfast and Chinese pottery with tea Together we make this day shine like the holy virgin in Kathmandu shines and opens a modest door Infinity in anticipation Nepal - my heart People are very poor and also very humble Living is easy in Nepal and dying - a mere word! We eat and we are breathing like the tide
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A Time Being Liquid (posted on: 20-04-12)
Comeback for me after a break. A while ago i wrote this piece. It's supposed to be a part of my Maya project. Don't let it bring you down 🙂

A Time Being Liquid Memories still An absent gaze Realist paralell worlds The logician laughs at infinity Will we ever know? Modalities of possibilities The only one present is a man in an alley asking for food Handing him a note I know is not reality He is at hand for me Of course I can't deny Maya; Where art thou? Are we chasing rainbows? Are there angels hiding beyond the silver lined clowns Stratic cumulus clowds make up a world I know is within as well as without Someone says they are distinct I look at myself in a mirror and I know that I don't exist There is nothing in me but the thrownness into a world which is also my becoming Am I afraid of death? I struggle with infinity in every single hair on my head my eyebrows I'm groomed and yet displeased because of the infinite number of ways I can appear to be to any stranger passing by in any busy street Metropolis; an encore The daily thread A light catches my attention A scent; a monk His ironic smile when I pose a question The monk is kind and then continues his daily work as we have parted and there seems to be a subtle scent of incense in my clothes Another trick of my mind? Oh Maya - are you the vector raven of my metaphor dreamscape? I light a modest candle only to hear voices of ancient Pharaos Praising not the sun but only the face of it How little did they know? How little do we know of them? My reveries contain a modal pyramid Near mint matemathical precision 1500 years older than my grandfather who ceased to become in my infancy Persia; the Greek cradle we call democracy Woven in cotton Thus protected from the barbaric world I was once a rider in persian lands History cannot easily be erased from our memories but we try from being afraid Cowards we must be in denying our past in our daily being-to-the-world We seek nave shelters while serpents prey in nearby lands and thus we are to blame for our ignorance in denying culture that we once were The riders of Persia An empire in becoming Thus we are responsible and what we must engage in is the quenching of the serpents spreading with the wind like any forest fire would Not too long ago the serpent tarnished raped the modest path I walk peacefully as we must live in peace for transgression is individual disaster A symbol we treasure as it speaks peace among other things was also tarnished and poisoned for the western world to come I cannot wear my treasure here My heart craves for the Himalayas where people are humble and they will understand I am indeed one of them and there is where my story begins Maya; I cannot breathe you here! I must continue in becoming and try to grow in every step I take Serpents all around I do have something before I leave to enter unknown lands In my mind all I see is explosions of a future yet to come And I might be one to make them happen Modalities Possible worlds The one at hand can shift into another The light fades My eyes flicker and I go to rest A German indian By tomorrow the raven flies anew Au reve-oir
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Your Game (posted on: 02-03-12)
Here's a new one. I might be asking for trouble :)...again *lol*. "Moire" anyone?

Call the scope of colours and Agni never fades A muse in a bewildered box A dime to time it trades Two powdered lips a lashed embrace A voice, the sound of lace A sun of mint expression rests one moment on your face A shadow plays in marble yet the game you are to be With dice unthrown I call upon the moire you are to me
Archived comments for Your Game
Andrea on 05-03-2012
Your Game
By Agni, I assume you mean the Indian god and not the ballistic missile 🙂 Love the image that 'moire' conjures up. Very nice indeed.

Author's Reply:
Thank you very much. Yes. Agni is the ancient god :). I'm happy you like Moire. It's a frenchification of Moira (the Greek godess/godesses). I was hesitant about it because I know now that in England French words can be controversial for some and I'm happy you don't seem to see it that way.


Noise in Process Still (posted on: 24-02-12)
I just commented a poem on dream and reality and caught a pleasant illnees called silliness. It produced the following for me 🙂

Noise in process still Asleep and yet awake The line is indeed blurred of memories to shake like water from my hair unfolding peace in dance An interim of moments A static form of trance Juxtaposing imagery is making up your hair Awake I find I'm worrying if I am slightly square
Archived comments for Noise in Process Still
Andrea on 24-02-2012
Noise in Process Still
Hahaha, neat. Odd moments, those between awake and asleep.

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 24-02-2012
Noise in Process Still
fun to read...

comment:

Noise in process still
Asleep and yet awake
The line is indeed blurred
of memories to shake
( I liked the opening lines, clear, smooth, with meaning - I found the awake/shake rhyme a bit too simple. it occurs to me that here 'of memories that snake' might add some complexity)

like water from my hair
unfolding peace in dance
An interim of moments
(rather awkward image - can you have an interim of moments?) )
A static form of trance
(overall fits nicely into progression)

Juxtaposing imagery
('juxtaposing imagery' buggers up (technical term) the rhythm - hard to know how to say it (syllable emphasis))
is making up your hair
Awake I find I'm worrying
if I am slightly square

'square'? again a bit simple. did you mean it in the hippie sense? Bit outmoded, je crois. Also could be taken as a bit comical (the boom-boom ending), and I think the poem deserves a classier ending. 🙂 up to you of course .... JohnG




Author's Reply:

chant_z on 24-02-2012
Noise in Process Still
Thanks all for the comments and the "8" and everything. e-griff: Voulez-vous que j'utilise des mots francais pour le fin ;).My limited understanding of English tells me that would be posh or something so I guess that might be considered classy. (Anarchy in the UK anyone? :)))

Really I was just toying the piece down and now you're getting technical with it 🙂 Interim of moments is really a paradox for you I guess (suits the logical meaning of "paradox" quite well I think.

A slight remake of the original "play piece" down here. I took the line "of memories that snake"; very fine I think. I kept the "juxtaposing" section because the first line goes pretty well (syllablewise) with the third line to me ("Awake I find I'm worrying"). Might need more work I guess.

Noise in process still
Asleep and yet awake
The line is indeed blurred
of memories that snake


Like water from my hair
unfolding peace in dance
An interim of moments
A static form of trance

Juxtaposing imagery
is making up your hair
Awake I find I'm worrying
if I was ever there

Awake I asked a Moiran box
for guidance from the dread
Miora got the best of me
she laughed and said "you're dead".

Couldn't say I'm dreaming
I wouln't say we're through
Could it be momentous blue
that forms a déja-vu?

I added 8 extra lines in order to get a French worded ending and it became déja-vu. The first 4 is hopefully a good substitute for the word "square" in the original :). In case anyone wonders if I'm nuts then I'm having a splendid déja-vu at the moment in a very non-semantic sense. The name of the wine is "red", classy or not I don't know :). Over and out...

Author's Reply:

e-griff on 25-02-2012
Noise in Process Still
Bravo!! Looks like the wine is working ...:-)

ps if you post your reply under the comment rather than a new comment, it sends the commenter an email with your reply. I missed this reply until now.


Author's Reply:

ChairmanWow on 26-02-2012
Noise in Process Still
I like this piece quit a bit but feel it is not really silly, maybe a playful musing on the nature of reality.

Ralph

Author's Reply:


Coptic Aurore (posted on: 20-02-12)
New poem written yesterday. Not sure if I got it right.

Coptic Aurore Thy art the high air a desert of forests I breathe The blame for thee my shame is me on island storms I walk alas my fears subside in vain the shame is all I am to blame confuse me not with absent wine thou art my muse a shallow time and years will go in mutenesss still my breath is there a broken will I had to go a separate thread to lose my way in fear of dread the curse, your name in arian fright to coptic lands I aim to fight my wisdom in a tranquil jar will end this bitter chalk of tar A voice within I am my name 'til dawn appears and rests my shame Aurora whispers names I trust to coptic valley tears I must
Archived comments for Coptic Aurore
Romany on 21-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Well for starters, imo this is very good:

"confuse me not
with absent wine
thou art my muse
a shallow time
and years will go
in mutenesss still
my breath is there
a broken will"

I admit that at first the thees and thys were offputting, and I wonder if that's why you don't have many comments yet? If so that is a shame, because on reading on I now appreciate that they are entirely in keeping with the tone of the poem and are not over the top or too flowery.

I think you lost the rhythm with the longer lines, which I am sure could be pared down to maintain your flow. Other than that, I thought this was very good, rather deep and I enjoyed it.

Romany.



Author's Reply:

chant_z on 22-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Thank you very much for your comment. There was very much substance indeed for me to dwell on. I don't know if the spelling in the title even put people off :).

Your point on rhytm is important of course. I did have a problem with the first 2 lines but I didn't change but I will do that and also keep the other long ones in mind.

As for the "archaic" English words I have received critisism in American forums but somehow I imagined that it would be a little easier for English, but then again I'm not native in English so I need to practise. Thus I'm very pleased that you liked the end result of that experiment of mine; coherency is important and I take that one's a very fine compliment.

Fredrik
SE

Author's Reply:

ChairmanWow on 22-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Interesting piece. The two lines that intrigue me are "in arian fright" and the next line "to coptic lands." Coptic refers to ancient Egypt to me. Did you intend to write "flight" instead of "fright?"

Author's Reply:

sunken on 22-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Welcome to Uka, chant of z fame. Look forward to reading more of your work. A strong start and no mistake. Good work fella.

s
u
n
k
e
n

and finally I'd like to thank Pete for supplying the bacofoil

Author's Reply:

orangedream on 22-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Hi there, Chant. I enjoyed this, but I too wondered about 'coptic' and the poem's link to Egypt.

You have a pleasing style, and I agree with Romany in that the rather archaic language suits the poem well. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't, but here, it does;-) In my opinion, anyway.

Tina

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 22-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Yes, I must say I thought it was lovely. Things like:

'my wisdom in a tranquil jar
will end this bitter chalk of tar'

and

'confuse me not
with absent wine
thou art my muse
a shallow time'

are little gems. Especially impressive as English isn't your mother tongue.


Author's Reply:

chant_z on 22-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Thank you very much all of you. This is all very flattering to me. As far as "arian" is concerned and "coptic" also I am indeed referring to Egypt and the Coptic church there - arian then would be Arius in Swedish (English too I hope :)). Arius escaped to Egypt after the arian fight or so that ended with the establishment of the trinity at a church "convention" in Nicaea (325 AC). I guess I'm referring to him fleeing to Egypt in a way (if I'm not mistaken he had to in order to stay alive)

ChairmanWow: i hesitated between writing arian flight and arian fright. I guess they both work but in slightly different ways 🙂

Author's Reply:

orangedream on 22-02-2012
Coptic Aurore
Thanks, so much for explaining, chant z. I need all the help I can get as far as history is concerned, and I have learned a lot;-)

Looking forward to reading more of your work, and hopefully, learning a bit more.

Tina

Author's Reply:


The Schizofrenic Moment (posted on: 17-02-12)
This is a (poor) translation from my original version in Swedish. In English it's significantly longer and alot is lost in translation. Any feedback is very welcome. My apologies for the lack of paragraph distinctions. A copy/paste error.

The Schizophrenic moment The moment when the text was born into an embryo of explosive life is dedicated to none as the colours it concerns can not be captured because they were not, however, a reader will encounter this hopefully written text.If you do not understand so far it's in order; books can be read about. If you understand then you are perhaps in the epicenter of the action (I do not promise that it will happen).Ecce moment! Ce moments perdu. Mon amour! Je suis hereux un instant pour ta mmoire! Henceforth I will try to stick to the text and be as objective one can never be in non-somatics; does anyone seriously think that the Greeks had accepted this language? The integralisation of Mathematics can simulate a continuum of moments, but it serves not because Jesus wanted that ten would be one and such a free radical bites no math nor chemistry. Full respect for the Ecce Homo and please do excuse that a simple man like the author avails a Latin paraphrase of biblical dimensions, but every moment becomes a unison if Ecce Moment is mentioned at least once, and my scrubby French is thus illuminated by the more original.This text is not about anything other than the weather on a summer evening and there was no Monica that summer, therefore, no sensuality. The love for a moment that is implied can not be non-forgotten if the possibility would be rigorous perfection, the world would be all that is the case as is the case of Eden. I have just been witty and I'm now so self-righteous that I tell you so, we all have faults.My shortcomings come short of rigorous perfection. This is, in other words, no academic treatise, but only a prayer that the toothbrush to the right of me makes my teeth less ugly a number of electric lunar month from the context unimportant moments we so un-Greek and softly call now (let there be cool gate). Nothing in the rain dance footsteps of neurons could achieve the sophistication a simple oboe can achieve in a Mauritanian Symphony Orchestra Robert Broberg to defy. Ecce Moment are in a battle for the Trinity that should be given. Ecce moment once again to the life of Jesus that becomes one with his brother's bread; daily.I can babble at speed as a Rabby can shave sharp given that I write for a few moments so that mathematics does not disappoint itself. One moment is strangely anomalie like an irrational number, this the most precise instrument of Matematics - the accuracy and whims of the irrational. Let there be passing fancies! The time is seven to religion as the most rabid supporters. There will be seven religions with seven prophets and seven creations. Only one has a bar with wine for religious reason. There were not many right on the V75 - it's called Christianity. The drinks are apparently healthy - damn!There is much misery in this world said the uncle before he threw himself into the wall for a mere teenager's sake. An age of doubt, make a certain moment certain. This moment. I benefit nothing by taking advantage of Latin.The weather was the issue or matter that this is all about, one aspect of the weather, like a number in Mathematics, it's irrational and completely fresh and true. One moment that really does not belong here yet defunct, like a fairy on a flat vegetable shining like a foot of any bald material from which Milan is Milan with all the non-existent kingdom of Italy, is it when my mind's eye crossed a thought in a flash forming saying that each person knowing their pastor Berkeley knows that I have delivered a Christian "I refute it thus" (it says so in empirical contexts). Jeez! I have only written for a moment on a moment and have already delivered in four languages. Four languages are more than three elephants, it'll all that seven dwarves know. If anyone is wondering, it's Swedish, which is the mother tongue all Danish poetry of defiance. Let there be Strunge, forever young in the crushing rigidity in midsummer - a summer.When I was about to turn the page, I realised a mistake - I thought of a isokaeder while I saw something else: a Platonic body has nothing to do with my personal life since I have a toothbrush that does the heavy lifting while I portray something as perfect as irrational numbers, a moment of perceived weather, such as whipping the shit out of the Italian league. Thank you for the entertainment! A true Arya has a message of peace and this is one aspect of the weather as fresh as a summer breeze can explode in nearly Romanian national team colours. Talk about deficiencies in other words - it's serious boys and girls. I'm writing life and the breeze I recorded stiffened rapidly and became a fairy for children's rights in Leningrad; welcome into the greenery.It's summer in Rnneholm and the sun is below while writing even if the season for the gospel can be set off. It is the experience that counts and no drugs or other things are needed if you follow me to the point. This is written for I suffer for art, but the publishing company I so to speak, is on (even at night) is no less hungry for money, easily consumed if the text is purchased by only one person. Please buy two and pay for seven seven times twice. It is de facto modern times and, unfortunately, the economy is invented. I may be cheeky, but for the story's sake, I ask about the economy, for a publisher for a while; philosophy is clinically accurate and I do my - I appeal. So!The story has now received new business and I'm back from the somewhat metaphysical morass of the appeal. I utilise a wink a moment to bring myself to approach the story or the penning's object that it behooves every seemingly mad scientist's honour. A moment of sun without food below; a sober moment a drunken summer in winter to entice one to contemplate on the current season when it is read. Here and now and for all human future in the modern language figures usually four seasons, like a pizza; please select your weapons. I deliver at a distance. A moment's colour hidden in the blackness like ink on paper. This is the adopted antagonist or obstacle I wait and then it's easily realised that the colours of the moment are insipid in each transmission in writing. This is also transmitted in writing intended to sell because of agreement with a colourless publisher. Everything is relative except Einstein, he is out of the picture. These are modern times, les tempes modernes, the sixties are perhaps equally inside the fifties which is nice but we are on the abuse seriously here and ponder soberly on the weather and think of the weather colour. Do you see the point, dear reader? If yes, please continue. If not do as it pleases, and I pray for mercy for the future. My words are not enough. It's common sense that apply. A moment is all that is the case and Monica is not. Without Monica but summer is the summer and dance around the Christmas tree makes Christmas to some extent non-commercial for a grateful pope - we hope for better times with a German pope, he had the guts, he wrote constructive recent history and beat the world with positive amazement. It should be a German pope to make a positive story.This is another story which is all about magic, a moment. It is a sad fact that a concept borrowed from classical Greek was misinterpreted and misunderstood from the beginning. Every ancient Greek would have detested us because today it is a conceptual inflation that erodes all significance in a language which was deeply serious for the Greeks: they loved their language and their view of truth is rubbished in everyday life. A concept is necessarily removed and this piece of writing does not deserve its name, its title. A concept has been raped and I have it as a central position in a title; that would be the first and last time I mention it in writing - an omen, and the plague is with us all. Anyone can be there, a sudden smile is enough. All spontaneity is prohibited by non-somatics because all spontaneity is something sick. Everyone can be there and a few have been diagnosed. In healthcare, the problems of recruiting of all must be cared for. The whole of Sweden can be ill with this, and in health care, one must be healthy. This applies to exempt one who wants to work with the rest of the population. The fact is it's that arbitrary.It's hard to write about this moment without colour explosion becoming very flat and the text therefore very short. A parable of a drive is enough and a sudden bird shit on a forward journey of a car window captures a key moment in the moment. It's a good analogy for the moment I portray, but it lacks the richness and another, the parable with bird feces does not do it justice. I have been evocative and less curious people have probably stopped reading. I continue with appetite whetted for those who have the taste for continuing. Unfortunately I have to accept the medium's limitations and therefore make a superfluous sentence, that sentence. Alas the medium is further limited, and it serves no moment why the medium, ie a word processing program, may not appreciate my way to be pleased with what to me is nice and beautiful.Perhaps I do it no justice, what do I know?There is a lot of moments in life's continuum reformed to mathematics, but this one frozen moment one summer was so distinct and marked that no mathematical formula could induce to catch it. We talk a precision that chaotic features perhaps have if they freeze in the winter.A crescendo of silence. So, the moment can perhaps be described.Is it to be more precise or calculable perhaps the irrational numbers may serve, but in everyday speech it becomes difficult; normal usage does of course bear the appearance of being rational.The standard will be unique in any unit of a continuum of finite possibilities. Entropy walk in the city streets to avenge the Mayan calendar's apparent death. Astronomy of great stature and a natural pause: this was written before the current winter. The winter after Hollywood has a new toy to supply; discussed here are other things. No film could capture the moment, the writing is more elusive and interesting. Scripture is more interesting, and yet there is nothing left about five thousand years of cyberspace, the space that is and also non-is, that will drain the written word. It is a question of which modality is chosen for the present, that is the way in which what is indeed is. The written word should have a place, a given place, in history because religious texts are not obvious on the web these veiled days.A moment of trembling snow, whose compound materials crack like frisky angels dancing in numb crushing. There is a picture, a perverse image, of a moment, but more than a little movement.It requires movement to get at the moment that seems so beautiful as it was and is for me; it requires movement and fever and a park of unknown age. Let me explain the fever in a piece of chronology.It was a cover up in the air out of the ordinary which led the moment. It was no ordinary storm. The first came in the afternoon without warning. I was in the company of many and it was nice outside, when it suddenly was not fun anymore. The usual stratocumulus clouds were suddenly different and the thunder was a fact. It was not pleasant, but an omen for more. More was to come. The turmoil was considerable. I felt uncomfortable and the company was not in a good mood, there was thunder without rain, but thunder was near, no doubt, but verging on being predestined close. It trembled like aspen leaves in the air when the lightning flew and rumble came immediately; one succeeded the other. It was all over after a very short time and thunderstorm colours didn't forewarn about the moment that this writing is all about. It was summer and a healthy sun hid hastily hide behind a sick cloud; there was a sudden thunderstorm. I was taken by surprise and very small a great moment when the weather gods brilliance in dance in the summer sky made us all small, me least of all. I felt the respect in me solid and I finished talking, everyone was taken by events and I had a run of fever, the weather had had a fever within me that was easily visible - visible to everyone if it hadn't been for a long-term turmoil around me for mothers and fathers called their children. The children called their mothers and fathers and all found each other and no one was injured by lightning, only I was struck by fever, mild fever.An eternal verdure one summer was as nothing to this approach to the fever which unknowingly pointed toward the moment this is all about. I am choosing my words in a way that Nietzsche would probably have applauded because everyone tells a story to come to grips for itself. Some are such that they must endure themselves with their respective histories. These are not noble, but with the ugly faces of their nature. A homeless person can have pathos. Let us not forget that. A homeless can have rank, high rank. Let's not develop us into political complications without recovering the history we are here in the text to read about, and I am the exception when I am the special case that both reads and writes.The above paragraphs were serious in nature and there were good reasons to have them because there was no need to attempt to humour the mood in the focused condition. I deliver a piece of text to depict a moment, and the age of doubt the above-recorded suggests is important to obtain as full emphasis I can make possible with these words of mine to give a momentary magic mirror effect such a good embedding as possible. This is an aspect of the weather and some prior knowledge will benefit the reader - thus my words above. Below is a damned beautiful sun on a summer evening below the sun's drunk rays that were completely discernible and an important ingredient of the prerequisites for a moment of quality. I try to approach the moment with the phenomenological focus and has released a piece of chronology to give an overall picture as accurately as possible. There is no reason to be phenomenological, although I do not do it justice, I am not competent enough, but stumbles on the words which bubbles of injustice like that everyone knows who spent ten years in vain in the therapy of someone in Psychodynamics. Freud's disciples live well on other people's growing misery. My great reward is the approach to the art I try me on when I know that my language is poor compared to others. My faults shine through gaps in my ego, which in everyday life do not exist. Je suis un tre-au-monde avec tout le monde. L'tranger noir.There was no time to not remember; I had fever in the body. I know it now even though I barely noticed it after the spectacular thunderstorm that had provoked, and which I described earlier.Summer in the outside world stood in silent relief to autumn in my heart. It was autumn in my heart and the season's colour was a rusty red, like a beautiful autumn leaf. The beauty that the moment wore is not describable; all examples seem paltry and full text can only give an idea of its concreteness. One of the main presuppositions for this my beloved moment, my inner autumn the summer time and the onset of fever, whose birth coincided with a brief thunderstorm.A crescendo of silence. A fever was in motion in my body. A seed had been sown, a mustard seed was born in Dijon. It was summer and a crumbling angel dance was approaching. Such was the setting and little did I know the moment of indescribable joy my approach to fever should lead me to; the moment of birth and dumb conspiracy inside of me, oh what joy. The fever would reach a loud cry of frisky union and then it was an exhausted happiness that paved the way for bedtime; happiness without non-enjoyment. Good luck in its purest form without utilitarian trouble. Good luck plain and simple.To understand a moment is not an issue because little can be understood. It is more relevant to present an as adequate interpretation as possible and in my interpretation which the fragment of this paper is, the concept of "access" is as highly relevant as is an asset, it is in my life and I will not disregard this fact of the moment with the sun in below one summer. How weird can it get? An experienced disease is an experience that can be an asset. Thus it is of course not to say that a disease is worth to covet but to see it as an experience and an asset can be and has for me been an important part of the recovery process regardless of the illness' stupid name which is a rape of a language which is one of the older we know of. To think that you know nothing beyond empathy's framework without having had the disease itself is self-deception, all doctors should know this because those who have had or have the disease are extremely few and far between. Self deception is not pleasant, nice is not the thunderstorm I have described as a chronological point in the story that tries to depict the most beautiful in my living memory - the moment. It is hardly to be nice that I healthily nail down my attempts to get close to the written arts with the help of this, my beautiful oh so beautiful memory of a moment just so strange that this text can never be on this side of eternity. Limitations inherent in the text and a piece of bird excrement does not sound much to the parable matter how apt it is. That sentence may be met right.Like the sky. It was clear blue, what else? The sky to the extent that the synthesis was of course the moment where the sky was the fund for a fact.Somewhat darkening blue sky was what it was like moments before the moment because it was so that the sun was below and that it was outdoors is obvious to everyone thus far. It was outdoors and the sun was below a summer in Sweden, so the time was pretty much because it was light when the sun was below; the sky was darkish blue. Like the sky is a viable line of text; it is usually something that will return just as the sky or just like heaven or comme le ciel. I lose myself easily in a change of language, I apologise for that.Light blue to almost a white lie. The moment is hard and tangible and it may seem nave to approach it in this text, but I'm nave or at least in my more blessed moments and try therefore to attempt the impossible; to create art with an elusive moment as theme.Why should certain things be so difficult to comprehend? In healthcare one devotes oneself to juggling with abstract concepts which often lacks ontological status, that is, they are not or they do not exist or they exist, that got right, no. Concepts that do not correspond to any of the facts can of course be used to cage a human being because he or she is politically inconvenient in a society where the fact that one indicates conformity is of paramount importance. A dissenting opinion may be the victim of a censorship or, if it continues, the person with the view is detained and referred to a longer stay in care for the simple reason that, unfortunately, there are papers with a disease classification in an abstract field. So you can handle things, I'm not saying it is so for then this text will never be published. Let us prevaricate.I'm constantly hovering outside the target when it comes to the moment and it's fate for the moment does not lend itself to be described either way. It is a task that Odysseus had dreaded facing. The Greeks and the irrational was not unanimous but there were Dionysus rites of women, closely supervised in everyday life, so there should have been some understanding. No understanding had existed if the Greeks had experienced our time wretched abuse of Greek concepts. Not all who understand certain things and doctors and others should shut up and change conceptual apparatus to something more prison-sounding, one might think. We want so badly to live in the belief that we live in a democracy and psychiatry only wish well; perhaps it is sometimes true and sometimes not. It is in the current situation perfectly legitimate to write in the newspaper, on the cultural pages, of things with strong racist overtones without being told off, only one is an immigrant oneself, it is legitimate. This is just one example of how conformity bursts of coherence.An inverted Aladdin's lamp, it may be an apt description of the climate in the conformity of Sweden. I float on the goal here, looking for a better picture. It says I delivered a little so I agree there. Back to the point - the moment.More chronology might be in place and it was certainly more than a thunderstorm that preceded the moment and which collectively represent a story that leads to the goal. A description of these thunderstorms is a mighty task too difficult for me but let me draw attention to a thunderstorm as it took a while to realise that there was one. Fever tarnished flame flowers lay on a bed of rice and I remember one trip in a tunnel of darkness that led me to a crescendo of silence that made the thunderstorm obvious. It was later and it was not so much people around me. I can not answer for what people saw and experienced, even if I knew what they were saying and therefore can approach myself to their opinion, but I stick to the tunnel and the thunder as revealed.Another storm is described briefly. This storm came after what was described first, and of course all storms portrayed came before the moment depicted. The exact number of thunderstorms remains in the dark mist, but note that it probably was a starry night when I was exhausted, slept the night after the moment, I fell asleep full of momentary beauty and happily exhausted after a day of electrical noise like thunder, and more. It should be mentioned that the fever born blossomed in the second of the two depicted thunderstorms that after a while tightened again. However, I was not unmoved and the fever was very well marked. The fever took a new approach in a storm I experienced indoors and in company. We were all quiet as it had become known and established to us but the fever was throbbing like a newborn star in the cosmos.How many stars are in the cosmos? There exists none but there are many, very many. There are maybe stars like this planet that we jointly destroy every day. One moment we are glimmering in the cosmos and the next moment we are gone again. The moment I depict here is a moment in more ordinary times, but still just as elusive as the cosmos.I have mentioned three thunderstorms. Let's stay there. It is not necessary for anymore thunderstorms to bring the account to where we want it to lead us; I hope not. It was summer and the sun was below one month in summer one year different from other because it was a special and distinctive year, it was a year of hesitation and a moment: it was a year of fear and trembling before the thunder, it was a year of fever that pulsed clear and distinct, like a newborn in this cosmos - our microcosm, and every pregnant woman is carrying it.A unique impression is a peculiar impression but as well becomes less strange if one wants to be keen to make it more peculiar by clownery and therefore makes the peculiar less peculiar. The moment is peculiar, and this modest approach allows no mistakes because then it becomes peculiar individuality not alone in the cosmos (as if it was there but it's a little thought provoking). The moment had no spatial extent, despite its spatial extent, it is a mental phenomenon that seemed mundane and therefore objectively discernible even though I knew deep down that which I also now know: it was merely a product of me. The moment was huge concrete and its massive impact on me was and is no mistaking what mentally it may have been. The language does not allow easy but clumsy metaphors when talking about mental objects or phenomena, let us stick with the feet on the ground, a seed is resting in the cosmos.A seed in the cosmos is resting, and this deserves a new paragraph. The moment had colour but we can not say that, strictly speaking, if it had any form and extent. A colour is perhaps the form or extent, but this is not a scientific treatise on philosophy so let's keep it simple - it was one hell of a spectacle!Well. I remember it like yesterday and it was not November and not September when the autumn months are purely lexical, though I do not want to sabotage everything by referring to the moment itself. It roared through a thought that was born in me. The idea was born probably due to a word I used in the previous paragraph - the word "philosophical science". Like all or many scientifically trilled individuals know there is physical noise and organic noise. Noise in biological context is essential to close thoughts. If we extend this to include physical noise then thought would be a bit all over the timespace. A fascinating thought that bears the closest religious implications - I think most of Hinduism.I unfold myself in contradictions? Not here in this piece, and certainly not unconsciously. Like the idea! It is difficult to be completely contradictional when one relies on metaphorical language. We talk in metaphors - hence the word "metaphor" that has been established to distinguish what we know from what we do not think about, we do not know better. As far as I know, I know what I know I should know better because I do not know better, because I have formed me a little. A little education is good in order to form an educated opinion, otherwise the idea is not formed but either uneducated, abandoned or otherwise. We use this moment because it gives us the opportunity to re-approach the moment.I would not work the next day. It was perhaps a significant reason why I slept so good that night that summer. With that said, I said it was an earlier summer than the year this is written. Course or not, the obvious sometimes need to be said. What is not obvious need now and then also be said and that is what this text lives on; a moment was not obvious. It is perhaps self-evident that it is not the case that it is the case that it is definitely impossibly the case that it may be the case that there might not be the case that it is fallen from the sky that the case is the case at hand; the case at hand is the moment and where it is the case I do not know. The moment must be formed or carved out of the bitter bark without base deficiencies and this form is the wedding dress I give my bride, white as the snow that had not appeared in May. For at hand is colour, Romanian national football team, perhaps, and all else than black art. At hand is a park without a metal in an undeniable crescendo of attacking summer. It was hot that August day in 1913. I've never had the properties! Then I should be an apostrofic trickster of first canonical dimensions.This text stands on its own set parked on the sidewalk in order to use a word borrowed. I have just been temporarily locked out but has come in again thanks to my cool shoes. I was on a sidewalk in a park that was coming towards me. Such was the instant when the moment took place. It was my mind playing tricks on me, a beautiful mind if nurtured by noise, meaningful noise, neuronal noise. Neuron noise is all that is the case, and from heaven there was not a sound for no one knows where heaven is, definitely not Paul, Paul may think he did. I breathe, therefore, there is breathing.I can try to approach the moment without going near either of depicting its beauty or meaning or thunderstorms' weight and correct emphasis. They are included in the narrative because they are relevant and the omens they represented were erased in the moment - hence a fraction of its strange beauty. The crying children never cried in the first thunderstorm for they were in safe hands not far away from their mothers and fathers. The focus was however on the scary moments of thunder after thunder that preceded my bride, white as a mature lily of the valley. What's the difference between a long-haired woman and a tall, hairy woman? Two blondes in half an hour at Wall mart please! Moments of six, seven partial moments to sell more when there is more than neuron noise in this world, there are cockroaches and bearded ladies, too.Let us take courage and take a moment to make a moment conceivable. It is a difficult thought that requires a lot so my project is not simple, simply. A difficult thought requires publication - Let there be ink! Momentary position is absurd from a human perspective. It is better to speak of the nearest ATM. It is blue. The moment was lighter blue with Romania infiltration. Long live Romania! A metal of unknown age. A doubt of Sturm und Drang. The East German national anthem was hypostased in a very short moment. It's what you eat. Lady Gaga could have had a big hit, she's got potential. With the right producer, she can get a hit, an anthem once when I was four years. The moment exploded in warm colour, clicked in the middle of my field of vision focus where cognition outward met the outside world. There is the location of the scenario and all was of course a trick of my own inner me. A park attacked and I was in the solid outside the time that summer. This is given with adequate but not apodiktic, certainty. A metal of unknown amazement in a storming silent moment. The moment was tinged with deep turbulent seriousity and this text is seriously meant as well, I understand it's easy to misunderstand that humour.The mood that might befit an eventuality of any size and intended mass production a possible putative season other than the one specifically positioned summer, pointed to in time the place was Sweden, might already be the case the case that the case concerns may not be the case for the moment because it was intended though it was the case that the case since it was concluded that the case would be publishing would not publish it ought to be one of becoming for a given moment of central importance, it would be strange otherwise. End of sentence. We continue with a more systematic approach slogan: it was one hell of a moment that caught me that night. What did not belong to the moment did not belong to the moment.It was silent. There was no sound or allegro. The allegro I want is a metaphysical such but it should be there. I'm healthy today. I can see through the moment, I can play with it as I want because it's mine. It is a fresh approach to depict something magical and strange that this text carries forward. Had I been sick then I should write about something else, because I have been healthy for long. The moment is older than that. How can something so sick be so beautiful, so beautiful, so wonderful? How many rainbows hiding the elusive sky after a warm rain? A dark shadow falls like the dew that followed me to bed that night. I was exhausted on the most electric ways imaginable. There was no spring in Paris with all that brings with it like some elusive love dance. It was summer in Sweden but it is not too bad either. When it rains, it is beautiful, the moment was extremely nice, extremely nice. The moment was that moment, our moment after spring a summer.It was a great beauty, a frisky dance, a paradise of flattened sand in the harbour to stop briefly. Our moments - I call it that. I call it so for the reader hung there from the beginning until now is the moment something mediated and perhaps tangible. What to do at the moment to a conceivable one is chores this text relates. To disdain the moment is reluctant. It is perhaps done if you gave up reading after four pages, otherwise, it is now. The reader who still lingers in the text should hopefully have found it worth his or her while, oh what hardship to describe as the abstract is made concrete in abstraction formidability.The moment was instantaneous and could not be discerned in advance - it could only appear as an unexpected crescendo which rounded off a vulnerable day and made it last a night. The only thing it could do made it a vulnerable pleasure one day wounded on a godforsaken summer. It was summer, but Monica; summer without beach and sandals of rice.The approaching sweet times and winds blow away the sweat of my brow as I write. It requires her husband to depict beautiful, beautiful, loving perfection I forever carry within me because memory has been solidified fragments that only I can put in motion. The motion I am and is undergoing took me to the moment and brought me from it again like a tidal wave which, however, is doomed never to return.While truth's hiding became dawn's mantle I slept like a happy child, the rest I do not remember. Fever helped me in that fever was completed in the moment and it was the absence of fever happiness within myself it rode on before it was time for bed. Is fever sad or depressed because I did not deliberately miss it? The fever may have thought so. What do I know? I am who I am with the wings of thornseeds spread for the wind in two directions at the same time as they grow absent-minded in a world of thorns. At this break forming my mind a clumsy metaphor is glued. It has a Latin name; homunculus. Forgive us for we do not seem to know better! It's called cognitive psychology and is associated with a catastrophic mistake. The little homunculus sitting in my head and watching the movie I watch in the moment had one hell of an imagination. Thus, there can be no homunculus. What was the moment did not come from the outside world as neither steam nor conventional computers with input and stuff are good enough as a metaphor to describe us.Ink blacks have long been dry, and a candle has burned down in the soft night that surrounds me when I recorded this. Aurora visible from a distance and it is time to harvest birds. I want no more: I have said enough, and am fully satisfied. Thank you for your attention and I wish the noble reader a nice continuation.Remember that brand. There are minorities everywhere and the man on the street in the big city noise may be noble by birth, it appears, perhaps not. The paragraph that follows this is the last moment, peace be unto all beings.
Archived comments for The Schizofrenic Moment
e-griff on 17-02-2012
The Schizofrenic Moment
this is well-nigh impossible to read on the screen. I suggest you edit the para breaks in (ie for screen: para/para (ie one blank line included).

just go to the 'edit' button at the bottom of your submission and edit in the 'text' window at the bottom. 🙂

JohnG

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 17-02-2012
The Schizofrenic Moment
Also (I know John will think otherwise), imo you should chop it into at least 3 pieces (about 2000 words each) and post separately. Apart from the para breaks (or lack of, I should say :)), it's a bit long for most people's reading-on-screen attention span and many might be put off from even opening due to the high wordcount. Also, it's easier to critique in shorter pieces.

Author's Reply:


Maya in Motion (posted on: 17-02-12)
I'm supposed to write yet another poetry book and I have to do it my best. Guess what? Any critique most welcome 🙂

Maya in Motion Hesitating at the gate of it all I saw a woman weaving a seed Fragments of oblivion helped the poor lady of Shallot into the severed garden where the soil is rich with spicy flavour and the plant that fed us in the first place weaves a pattern yet to be discerned Oh Maya; where art thou? The world in its prime The oyster is austere in its rich taste the disgrace of which is solemn muteness birds whispering an anthem Oh Anastasia I scream for thee like the river knows to be certain I do believe in you for yet a shallow moment
Archived comments for Maya in Motion
orangedream on 17-02-2012
Maya in Motion
Really liked this, chant z. Evocative in mood, with a hint of melancholia.

Tina;-)

Author's Reply:

Andrea on 17-02-2012
Maya in Motion
Yes - loved the imagery and particularly liked this:

The oyster is austere
in its rich taste
the disgrace of which
is solemn
muteness


And welcome to UKA!

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ChairmanWow on 17-02-2012
Maya in Motion
This poem is has a rich texture to it. Using the archaic "thee" is interesting and gives the piece a certain dignity. The names here, and I may have this completely wrong as to your intent, but they seem to be contrasting personae. "Maya" has the connotation of a third world agrarian existence while "Anastasia" has the feel of tragic aristocracy.

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Bradene on 17-02-2012
Maya in Motion
A lovely atmospheric piece very well written. Valx

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