pilot: and coming upon our right is the vast corporate jungle, unconquered by so many and fearlessly trekked by few... we may be fortunate enough to see a corporate merger as it is mating season, or perhaps a hostile overtake in action. A rare and unusual environment in that the landscape is forever changing and at what appears to be ever increasing rates... watch that tech sector as it is plain treachorous.
What's this? Well well well, ladies and gentlemen it is a TREAT that we have arrived at such a fortuitous and momentous occasion as you may see, if you look carefully now, two Co-Conspirators (probaitus-switcheru) just to the edge of the horizon. Conspiracy theorists abound but we never really know exactly what it is that makes them tick or why a given event occurs while they are around. They do spend much of their lives alternately out in the open, notice their superb camouflage, and in the shadows thoroughly unnoticed by those around them. In this manner they are able to affect their natural form of predation, that is by subtle manipulation of both individuals AND the environment around them. In short they live merely by their creativity and utter LACK of moral barometrics! Astounding that we should be so lucky.
Remember, though, that when cornered the co-conspirator will show it's inherent gender changing capabilities as it may go one way or the other in it's chosen physical makeup. Here is one of the truly versatile animals of the corporate jungle, ladies and gentleman, due to its ability to suddenly and without warning jump entire SPECIES boundaries and either turn Scapegoat (totalfubar-kickeditis), aka the PATSY (though this is usually due to the reactions of other Co-Conspirators in the area) OR Stool Pigeon, what we lovingly refer to as the jungle traitor. Remarkable skills, indeed, though once caught the conspirator truly has no ability to survive without continued finger or paw pointing and, while they may very well be excellent deflectors, the truth having come out disintegrates their ability to misdirect and their continued manipulation is halted entirely. Thus a captive conspirator will sooner or later wither away into the urban ethos and join such interesting ethereal aspects such as the famed irancontra and of course the mccarthy list.
to be continued...
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
All nights last longer on paper,
even if given a mere two words.
Time is relative in this modern mind,
the physical sensation an ever changing tide with the seethe swing of mood, health, and breathing.
A word can be pondered for centuries
while a given night is past and past and passed again.
The running boardwalk that ages all.
Does love endure beyond the ink?
Fiction in typeset has sold millions,
who's to say you can't trust the word?
More people trust to fiction daily than hold the truth.
And here, you've gone.
It's a shame these bruises fade else I might have proof that you were here.
As I patch the gashes in the kitchen wall,
clean the blood off the carpet,
replace the light bulbs in the hall and throw these torn and tattered clothes away,
I'm left to ponder a world unclear.
Where love's costs are so dear, and acceptance without fear so near.
I, the battered bride.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
acceptance without fear so near
a place, so safe, to feel at home
seta, there was a boardwalk in your last piece... is there some ocean nearby? i really liked the one before this, the presence of the boardwalk and how the stick got hid under a piece of it... and well, here 'tis again...
pastanazi14 [23:23:42]: my spell checker doesn't like the last poem at ALL
pastanazi14 [23:23:51]: the dumbass...
pastanazi14 [23:23:59]: i need a poet's spellcheck setaside_2 [23:24:07]: LOL you should see mine! LOL man that thing has all but given up. pastanazi14 [23:24:42]: lol... it's like "um, okay this is wrong, and this... and WAIT???? WTF is THIS?!?.... oh... fuck it!" setaside_2 [23:25:21]: it was at first but now it's sitting at it's desk and I'm like: "SO, mister spellzyck, what do you think of this one?" pastanazi14 [23:26:03]: and it's like: SURVEY SAYS!!! ERGGGHN setaside_2 [23:26:59]: and it says: "Let's have a look... well... shit... this one'll do and this one.. well, fuck, I know YOU'RE not going to listen to me, asshole, so we'll leave that. mmhmm mhmm ah, so, I see, okay, hmmmmm.. ah well this one is for real, SO FUCK YOU, consider it changed, what's next, ahhh, okay uh huh, tell you what marc, how 'bout I give you the finger and you leave me the fuck alone so I concentrate on your COMPARATIVELY more normal email skills?"
setaside_2 [23:27:09]: To which I reply: "Word."
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
What? You mean you don't get that little feckin' paperclip fella who jumps up and down and rides his bike and swirls his eyeballs? I love writing lit crit essays with that fecka! You say a word like "foregrounded" and he starts to twitch. You say "dialogic polyglossia"and he starts foaming at the clip. You say "Kristevan semiotic pulsions pluralising phallologocentric signifiers" and he says "You're avvin' a larf, mate!"
That paper clip fecka is the most annoying fecka ever....I don't know how many times i have told finsbury how annoying it is...
He gives you tips on how to improve things...But each idea either makes my work worse or make my computer crash....he's an evil lil bastard!
I don't live today.....Maybe tomorrow?-Jimi Hendrix
what's with all this feckin fackin fuckin holy mother hell?!?!?
LORD people! RISE UP! ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT paperclip omniscience.
Get a MAC, it is quite comfortable with the fact that it is smarter than you but it doesn't assume superiority, it only shares when it is asked to share, like any good friend would. Also, she never crashes.
LOL
<mumbles to self> man.. created a monster on this topic. fucking paperclip. <end mumble>
a reminder: LOL there is a pome about spousal abuse up there somewheres...
I will have to come up with a paperclip abuse poem some time soon.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Seta, my friend, I hope you don't mind
an explosion of squiggles and quinks.
I'm trying out firing posts from behind
While invisible through the links.
I rather enjoy the enigma one has
When browsers don't know I am there
and suddenly there's a new post of my verse
And everyone wonders from where!
My paperclip man doesn't like the word "pome." I've disabled the fecka. Twisted his aluminium bits off and sent him to recyclable obscurity. There shall be pomes abounding, yis! Yis!
Hi... My name is OfficeAssistant and I'm addicted to annoying writers.
Hi OfficeAssistant
let's all join points for serenity prayer...
BillGates, grant us the serentiy to accept the grammar they will not change, The courage to suggest where a change is needed (as defined by your most ridgid and wise programming), and the wisdom to know the difference.
...
THE NOTHINGS WHISPERED BY THE STATIC LINE MY ROMANTIC LENGUA AND DREAMATIC SWAY,
THESE DAYS GATHERED IN A DARKER CORNER AWAITING NOTICE.
SOMEHOW THE FUTURE YOU SEETH REMAINS THAT ONE STEP AHEAD AND THAT ONE CORNER TURNED.
I SEE THE GUTTERTRASH SWIRL IN YOUR WAKE,
YOUR WHIRLPOOLS AND EDDIES, YOUR MOTIVE FINGERPRINT IN THE BREEZE... I KNOW WHERE YOU'VE BEEN YOU SON OF A BITCH AND I HAVE GROWN QUITE BORED WITH THE FEELING OF TREADING WATER;
WAITING FOR THAT ONE THING TO OCCUR THAT IS SUPPOSED TO CHANGE MY LIFE FOREVER, SUPPOSED TO VERIFY MY NAME, MAKE ME WHOLE, MAKE ME REAL.
...
MAN, YOU TALK ABOUT YOUR SIGNAL TO NOISE AND I'LL TELL YOU TO SHUT YOUR MOUTH.
...
i hope you enjoy this silence so molasses.
now, i don't know firsthand,
but it seems somewhere amidst the crap my memory's collected
that there is a truth regarding low pressures,
a truth in fronts leaving no room for words...
it is the jaw dropped to the tile floor just before the exclaimed "om holy fg, you did not!!!"
which we all know is promptly followed by the "well, that's cool"
signal to noise
signal to noise
hmmm
<forefingers chin>
the seals press against the frames right before they're ripped to uselessness
Now, I don't know how many times a carroted stick has led the poor and unsuspecting horse into the desert and presumably to its doom. Who can say what may go through its confused and clouded mind at the last? As it stares at the prize ever sought, diligently so, tirelessly so, drying and wasting away in the sand, its great and noble head resting upon the dune, what memories of its life as a foal free from shackle emerge?
You tell me the story of the lost palomino. I'll tell you of its rider.
There are endless waves upon waves of pavement and parchment before us all, a dream the water, the love a carrot, and youth the cool and starlit night that allows us to travel further than we had prepared for; each blatant blot of indigo tempered ink considered a footstep, a means to the end, to the edge of a page. The continuing story of man.
but today, his mind is cracking. it's shards are slipping to the floor as subtle snowflakes. Powdered and misted, and not for the barefooted, they continue to drift in ever increasing crystal depth as the dreams become ever worn.
Because the jail at night confines me, this dark and iron mask, i have cared more for this dream viewed for my window and these angelic notes sung than for any retribution earned for the stealing of the sun, it's been wholly tainted.
and the tincture has soured. the mind is sifting, silting, like the sands of a broken hourglass.
i see the last few drops of the christblood in what became the grail of holies... precious, priceless and drying in the desert wind. The only beings able to absorb such richness the first signs of silicon gritting the bottom like teeth in a sonic boom. And when the hail hailed vibration has absconded with the last of the soul driven huzzahs (the glass of the many shattered and fractaled window driven to gravel and fractured beads), these crushed seashells that pave our way shall show their lime in the rain and pothole crater after axle cracking crater.
My GOD, they cry. When has the wind carried the bloodlust of passion so far? Shall we follow the trail of tears, the collective pattern and shell shock of people staring at the other’s backs while the shirttails we grasp tear at an ever quickening pace? And if cut loose what then? To lose the focus? To quit the flow? Wherefore the carrot?
this obsidian in the sand, these blackstone mirrors that fluoresce as stars in the negative, why they merely lie... as dead and restless as the shearing desert. Useless pieces of igneous gem.
Pick one up as you walk by. Pocket that. Wonder why. Settle back.
Sooner or later my valley, your sea, his mountain, her "me,"
all these ephemeral and ethereal intangibilities nobody owns, a piece of personal glass having hence imprisoned the light by which we live, perhaps the road is all that is left to give...
struck by indecision, the backhanded blow of the unfinished thought staggers and brushes aside, a nest of whipporwills disturbed into flight whisper, voice and scream into the air. Watch them cry their love of all things grey and brown and thistle thrushed… say that your bottle of wine, 1869, is thrown glistening end to end, time to time, lancing the cherrywood brush, crushed; the marooned and reddening aftermath seemingly quickens the oncoming dusk.
And as our nightingales read the eddies and currents above, a life shall be self taken; the horse shall fall, the mind dissolved, the glass beads reverted. Who will dare to carry this burden to the end? To pick up and carry this equestrian bodice whose legs have failed so near, whose will has faltered and whose lips cry the fabled neigh to the dawn... The faithless master and his gun, his dreams spread across the white, shall wither in the drying age and become the atoms that travel the world, the seeds upon which clouds are formed.
all these things so much greater than he was, so much further apart.
remember his thoughts as they are, all now upon the thermal rise.
Whither goest the wind, goeth the mind, goeth the we, goeth I.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
i especially like this:
"There are endless waves upon waves of pavement and parchment before us all, a dream the water, the love a carrot, and youth the cool and starlit night that allows us to travel further than we had prepared for; each blatant blot of indigo tempered ink considered a footstep, a means to the end, to the edge of a page. The continuing story of man."
and:
"this obsidian in the sand, these blackstone mirrors that fluoresce as stars in the negative, why they merely lie... as dead and restless as the shearing desert. Useless pieces of igneous gem.
Pick one up as you walk by. Pocket that. Wonder why. Settle back.
Sooner or later my valley, your sea, his mountain, her "me,"
all these ephemeral and ethereal intangibilities nobody owns, a piece of personal glass having hence imprisoned the light by which we live, perhaps the road is all that is left to give..."
there's more, of course, the faithless owner, and that...
seems a deeply pensive piece of reflection in personal glass, but personally I've no doubt the sands will shift for you again.
Comments
I LOVE YOU SETA!!!!!!!!!!
damn good poetry i might add there you dgsa.keep up the good writing.
What's this? Well well well, ladies and gentlemen it is a TREAT that we have arrived at such a fortuitous and momentous occasion as you may see, if you look carefully now, two Co-Conspirators (probaitus-switcheru) just to the edge of the horizon. Conspiracy theorists abound but we never really know exactly what it is that makes them tick or why a given event occurs while they are around. They do spend much of their lives alternately out in the open, notice their superb camouflage, and in the shadows thoroughly unnoticed by those around them. In this manner they are able to affect their natural form of predation, that is by subtle manipulation of both individuals AND the environment around them. In short they live merely by their creativity and utter LACK of moral barometrics! Astounding that we should be so lucky.
Remember, though, that when cornered the co-conspirator will show it's inherent gender changing capabilities as it may go one way or the other in it's chosen physical makeup. Here is one of the truly versatile animals of the corporate jungle, ladies and gentleman, due to its ability to suddenly and without warning jump entire SPECIES boundaries and either turn Scapegoat (totalfubar-kickeditis), aka the PATSY (though this is usually due to the reactions of other Co-Conspirators in the area) OR Stool Pigeon, what we lovingly refer to as the jungle traitor. Remarkable skills, indeed, though once caught the conspirator truly has no ability to survive without continued finger or paw pointing and, while they may very well be excellent deflectors, the truth having come out disintegrates their ability to misdirect and their continued manipulation is halted entirely. Thus a captive conspirator will sooner or later wither away into the urban ethos and join such interesting ethereal aspects such as the famed irancontra and of course the mccarthy list.
to be continued...
All nights last longer on paper,
even if given a mere two words.
Time is relative in this modern mind,
the physical sensation an ever changing tide with the seethe swing of mood, health, and breathing.
A word can be pondered for centuries
while a given night is past and past and passed again.
The running boardwalk that ages all.
Does love endure beyond the ink?
Fiction in typeset has sold millions,
who's to say you can't trust the word?
More people trust to fiction daily than hold the truth.
And here, you've gone.
It's a shame these bruises fade else I might have proof that you were here.
As I patch the gashes in the kitchen wall,
clean the blood off the carpet,
replace the light bulbs in the hall and throw these torn and tattered clothes away,
I'm left to ponder a world unclear.
Where love's costs are so dear, and acceptance without fear so near.
I, the battered bride.
a place, so safe, to feel at home
seta, there was a boardwalk in your last piece... is there some ocean nearby? i really liked the one before this, the presence of the boardwalk and how the stick got hid under a piece of it... and well, here 'tis again...
what say you of boardwalks, my dear?
(oh, and btw - this one ROCKS, imo...
pastanazi14 [23:23:51]: the dumbass...
pastanazi14 [23:23:59]: i need a poet's spellcheck
setaside_2 [23:24:07]: LOL you should see mine! LOL man that thing has all but given up.
pastanazi14 [23:24:42]: lol... it's like "um, okay this is wrong, and this... and WAIT???? WTF is THIS?!?.... oh... fuck it!"
setaside_2 [23:25:21]: it was at first but now it's sitting at it's desk and I'm like: "SO, mister spellzyck, what do you think of this one?"
pastanazi14 [23:26:03]: and it's like: SURVEY SAYS!!! ERGGGHN
setaside_2 [23:26:59]: and it says: "Let's have a look... well... shit... this one'll do and this one.. well, fuck, I know YOU'RE not going to listen to me, asshole, so we'll leave that. mmhmm mhmm ah, so, I see, okay, hmmmmm.. ah well this one is for real, SO FUCK YOU, consider it changed, what's next, ahhh, okay uh huh, tell you what marc, how 'bout I give you the finger and you leave me the fuck alone so I concentrate on your COMPARATIVELY more normal email skills?"
setaside_2 [23:27:09]: To which I reply: "Word."
*twitch*..... lol
I am nearly religious with joy everytime I realize that I don' t have to see him again.
He gives you tips on how to improve things...But each idea either makes my work worse or make my computer crash....he's an evil lil bastard!
*TINK TINK TINK* *SWOOOSH*
"Would you
a: like help with this letter
or
b: continue without help"
LinguiniThief: Ummm do I LOOK like I need help, you little son of a bitch? Get the FUCK out of here!
(I suppose cussing at a paper clip might indicate latent anger... I'll make an appointment with Mr. Gates to discuss...
disable immediately
LORD people! RISE UP! ONLY YOU CAN PREVENT paperclip omniscience.
Get a MAC, it is quite comfortable with the fact that it is smarter than you but it doesn't assume superiority, it only shares when it is asked to share, like any good friend would. Also, she never crashes.
LOL
<mumbles to self> man.. created a monster on this topic. fucking paperclip. <end mumble>
a reminder: LOL there is a pome about spousal abuse up there somewheres...
I will have to come up with a paperclip abuse poem some time soon.
ya gunna answer???
huh?
aren't we feisty?
but I am late for work.
bye!
boo!!!
:P
~don't work too hard~
forgive zee crowbar, i shall put it away with the rest of my tools
be well, seta
suffice to say I have my themes and that I am always worried that they may get old.
however there is no doubt that I continuously move towards the seaside effectual.
We will explore this on Setamind: Why the what and the what the why... next. On the Discovery Channel.
I, the battered mind.
an explosion of squiggles and quinks.
I'm trying out firing posts from behind
While invisible through the links.
I rather enjoy the enigma one has
When browsers don't know I am there
and suddenly there's a new post of my verse
And everyone wonders from where!
My paperclip man doesn't like the word "pome." I've disabled the fecka. Twisted his aluminium bits off and sent him to recyclable obscurity. There shall be pomes abounding, yis! Yis!
he gave me a look to say...
"oh alright you self-inflated, word-crafting bitch.... I'll go..."
He's at paperclips anonymous now, linking grips in a circle and seeking Windows closure....
Hi OfficeAssistant
let's all join points for serenity prayer...
BillGates, grant us the serentiy to accept the grammar they will not change, The courage to suggest where a change is needed (as defined by your most ridgid and wise programming), and the wisdom to know the difference.
Hi Seta. I wonder if this message may grab your attention, for I have failed in all other ways.
I MISS YOU!
the things you do when you are desperate
You're such a trash can
I love trash
!
....
cherry koolaid kisses
now, i don't know firsthand,
but it seems somewhere amidst the crap my memory's collected
that there is a truth regarding low pressures,
a truth in fronts leaving no room for words...
it is the jaw dropped to the tile floor just before the exclaimed "om holy fg, you did not!!!"
which we all know is promptly followed by the "well, that's cool"
signal to noise
signal to noise
hmmm
<forefingers chin>
the seals press against the frames right before they're ripped to uselessness
write on, seta
You tell me the story of the lost palomino. I'll tell you of its rider.
There are endless waves upon waves of pavement and parchment before us all, a dream the water, the love a carrot, and youth the cool and starlit night that allows us to travel further than we had prepared for; each blatant blot of indigo tempered ink considered a footstep, a means to the end, to the edge of a page. The continuing story of man.
but today, his mind is cracking. it's shards are slipping to the floor as subtle snowflakes. Powdered and misted, and not for the barefooted, they continue to drift in ever increasing crystal depth as the dreams become ever worn.
Because the jail at night confines me, this dark and iron mask, i have cared more for this dream viewed for my window and these angelic notes sung than for any retribution earned for the stealing of the sun, it's been wholly tainted.
and the tincture has soured. the mind is sifting, silting, like the sands of a broken hourglass.
i see the last few drops of the christblood in what became the grail of holies... precious, priceless and drying in the desert wind. The only beings able to absorb such richness the first signs of silicon gritting the bottom like teeth in a sonic boom. And when the hail hailed vibration has absconded with the last of the soul driven huzzahs (the glass of the many shattered and fractaled window driven to gravel and fractured beads), these crushed seashells that pave our way shall show their lime in the rain and pothole crater after axle cracking crater.
My GOD, they cry. When has the wind carried the bloodlust of passion so far? Shall we follow the trail of tears, the collective pattern and shell shock of people staring at the other’s backs while the shirttails we grasp tear at an ever quickening pace? And if cut loose what then? To lose the focus? To quit the flow? Wherefore the carrot?
this obsidian in the sand, these blackstone mirrors that fluoresce as stars in the negative, why they merely lie... as dead and restless as the shearing desert. Useless pieces of igneous gem.
Pick one up as you walk by. Pocket that. Wonder why. Settle back.
Sooner or later my valley, your sea, his mountain, her "me,"
all these ephemeral and ethereal intangibilities nobody owns, a piece of personal glass having hence imprisoned the light by which we live, perhaps the road is all that is left to give...
struck by indecision, the backhanded blow of the unfinished thought staggers and brushes aside, a nest of whipporwills disturbed into flight whisper, voice and scream into the air. Watch them cry their love of all things grey and brown and thistle thrushed… say that your bottle of wine, 1869, is thrown glistening end to end, time to time, lancing the cherrywood brush, crushed; the marooned and reddening aftermath seemingly quickens the oncoming dusk.
And as our nightingales read the eddies and currents above, a life shall be self taken; the horse shall fall, the mind dissolved, the glass beads reverted. Who will dare to carry this burden to the end? To pick up and carry this equestrian bodice whose legs have failed so near, whose will has faltered and whose lips cry the fabled neigh to the dawn... The faithless master and his gun, his dreams spread across the white, shall wither in the drying age and become the atoms that travel the world, the seeds upon which clouds are formed.
all these things so much greater than he was, so much further apart.
remember his thoughts as they are, all now upon the thermal rise.
Whither goest the wind, goeth the mind, goeth the we, goeth I.
i especially like this:
"There are endless waves upon waves of pavement and parchment before us all, a dream the water, the love a carrot, and youth the cool and starlit night that allows us to travel further than we had prepared for; each blatant blot of indigo tempered ink considered a footstep, a means to the end, to the edge of a page. The continuing story of man."
and:
"this obsidian in the sand, these blackstone mirrors that fluoresce as stars in the negative, why they merely lie... as dead and restless as the shearing desert. Useless pieces of igneous gem.
Pick one up as you walk by. Pocket that. Wonder why. Settle back.
Sooner or later my valley, your sea, his mountain, her "me,"
all these ephemeral and ethereal intangibilities nobody owns, a piece of personal glass having hence imprisoned the light by which we live, perhaps the road is all that is left to give..."
there's more, of course, the faithless owner, and that...
seems a deeply pensive piece of reflection in personal glass, but personally I've no doubt the sands will shift for you again.