A new one for everyone... inspiration was a conversation about dreams I was having with someone once. She couldn't remember what the heck she had been looking at and said "maybe it was a hand..." It set me off. Let me know if you like.
maybe it was just a hand
or a secret or a mission or a kiss in an envelope…
a poison inkwell, a letter, a missive, the story of a life unborn or unshared or unknown, it makes no difference...
the direction of the next spring thaw, the flow of a leaf from branch to mud...
spring to fall..
the path love may take as it barrels through the halls of time uncontrollable and dangerous
a handshake, a breath, the last word of the last fairy godmother on the last planet earth
the feather plucked from an angel's wing
the mission of god
the lyrics to the song of youth
the answer to immortality
The last petal to fall from the wilted lily
The tip of an unused crayon
Was it the whisper of a ancient friend lost in time, ages past, lives ago
The secret feeling a children’s novel gives
The satisfaction of a sleeping feline
Curdled cream
The milk gone sour
Pages turning on the hour
A clock to measure the beats of the heart
A device to trap the better mouse
Or the hot air in any given water balloon…
The key, steam, the hot mineral spring
A ribbon on air, the footprint left bare, snow
Falling in cotton silence stuffy and simple
Arrowheads, sandstone, hieroglyphs, dreams long dead
The pavement expands in the sun, cracking to reveal the hidden homes that we have built upon and up and on in order to prove our superiority
The mud: it dries in the sun, the evaporation a last rebellion the wind carries away
The clock ticks its memento, the only thing it remembers, the previous second wiped by the next
A tread, the step, the fall
Ah damn the ignorant thread so graceless and passion free
Even with wings unfurled the angel smokes a Kamel
Wherein lies the loss? The thought? The cab fare home?
The hole in the pocket is only somewhat to blame as the sprinklers fade the brick wall
The fence cracked and burned, the sitters all fled,
On roam, the bats cry sonar in search of sustenance
Who shall teach to read the echo? When will friction kill the snowman?
Perhaps it WAS just the hand, nails sharp and intimate
Maybe it was the nighttime sigh, a dream left hanging from a lampshade
The sheets crumpled to the floor, the trial at an end, the curtains in the breeze
Was it together then? Or was the hand held previously owned?
I’ve left my breath at the last stop, torn loose at the one before
The ticket is unclear and the directions only indicate the color of the car in which I am to sleep.
God help the conductor.
I hear the busboy has a gun.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
I can't decide if I like......An Oil Spill or......Upbringing best.
So I'm just gonna say it's a tie. I haven't seen one I didn't like yet if that helps! Write more!:D
“Life beats down and crushes the soul and art reminds you that you have one.” -Stella Adler
Folks, I'd like to apologize for the Jerry Springeresque posts that have taken place on this thread... I take full responsibility for allowing riff raff like 13pj13 and Chuck Taylor here. Please feel free to do with me as you wish.
Also, leave a note on the desk about the poetry, which is around here somewhere waiting to be read and criticized... lol.
seta
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Originally posted by 13PJ13 jealous much? lol.
i thought i told you i'm a dork, not a geek...
anyway, is that a typo on the last line of "Maybe it Was a Hand"?
"I hear the busboy (H)as a gun"
and chucky, are you following me? there are anti-stalking laws you know...
Honey, there are also these places called mental institutions you know......I'm sure there are plenty close to home, especially since Florida's full of Senile Citizens.
Mr. Marc, you actually expect me to waste my time reading this filth? I have more important tasks to take care of.....Including finding out where 13PJ13 will be at 3:24 PM tomorrow afternoon!
(JK of course, the poetry is great!!)
(I'm not kidding on the stalking thing, though......da da daaaan)
Mike
I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings
Coming down is the hardest thing
Okay, I'm going to post 2 more today... I'm running out of good stuff so I am going to have to pace myself. hee hee, as if anything I've posted here is actually good. Oh what an arrogant bastard I be. This one's called...
TRENDY
I have the R-control in the palm of my hand,
The power of the world at a push of a button,
And they say I had forgotten the old war.
I’m a caffeine junky,
Shaking and red-lined…
I hate talk shows and
“Reality” programming
(it’s an oxymoron).
In the early hours of the evening
Commercials seem nothing
But leftovers;
Soundbites of ignorable
Deplorable
Hyper-exotic induced paraphernalia.
Propaganda they call it, at teatime.
Well isn’t everything.
Love my country…
I was BORN a fruit roll-up
Weren’t you?
Take care of your own dreams.
The new cold war is coming.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Okay this one's a little older. Okay, a lot older- with a modern edit. I wrote it in 1996. My mother had kicked me out and I was homeless for a period of time, living on the streets of Littleton (a suburban bum, really, isn't that an oxymoron?), and Denver, usually sleeping at my job, sometimes on the job, or in a concrete piping section on a playground. LOL I'd break into my mom's house about 3 times a week to take a shower. I ended up auditioning to do some spoken word and musical performances with an acting troupe called the New Creatures and dated, for a very short while, the girl who actually auditioned me. Sarah is an amazing talent and she is now in Chicago producing plays and writing theatre like she always wanted and like I always knew she would. I hope she becomes wildly successful because she's damn good and she deserves it. She took me into her home and gave me a place to stay, even when we weren't dating any longer, which is still one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me and I will always be grateful to her for it. After being homeless for awhile, I thought about life a great deal, as you might think one would do. And I have no idea why but, as I stared up into the ceiling, this was what came out of it.
If you folks are ever in the Chicago area, look into the theatre listings. If you see a play by Sarah McGuire... Go see it. I guarantee it'll be worth your while.
This one is strangely named.. I've never come up with a better one...
TEXTURED SANITY/fault
Someone put this glitter
In the paint in my ceiling
Little tiny multi-colored
Drops of light
Suspended by an unknown
Chemical compound
Slaves to destiny
They wink in and out
With the power of a light switch
The picture of interstellar fate
“The stars are all burnt out, mommy”
Because of an alternating current
Provided by “Public Service”
I lie here soaked with envy
Too hot to hold
Too distant to grasp
I would turn to conventional imitation
But
I don’t smoke
My flashlight’s dead
And the matches I buy
Don’t have the will to burn bright enough
Though with a breath
The flame there is gone
With the stars in the ceiling
The smiling eyes overhead
There are days and nights
When I feel that I’ve been out and
Away for too long
Overexposed
I miss my roof-beam quarks
Flickering there like firelight
In the fading glare of the television
And a madness seems to seep in
I cover myself
With paint
Glitter
And fake the naked in my eye
I encircle the artistry of downtown
Until arrested
Happy and breathless
Leaving my sideshow in the gutters
With the oilslicked rainwash
To reflect the nature of dawn that day
The tears in my eyes get swept away
By machinery and construction
Lost in the dust and confusion of progress
And I wander my way
Elsewhere
Home perhaps
The lost clown
Mad in the head and out of touch
To the point of distraction
As if perhaps I wasn’t
As if perhaps I could prove otherwise
And I have to face down my fears
The glitter in the ceiling
And I blame it on the hundred or so faces
That stare back at me
And look remarkably like someone I once knew
I flicker like firelight
In the fading residue of the television
And it’s not my fault.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
Don't you all think that smacks of arrogance? :( I don't mean it that way.
As it is, here is another. Written this summer, though I do not remember the reason why... although i do believe it was written during a chat session with a friend of mine from the synergy board who goes by the name Pennyroyaltea...
NEW PRAYER/for the honor of pennyroyal tea
bring it down.. the house surround...
angels wings the flight around
acoustic tile the heart so loud
the love the push the cry the crowd
debris, the slats of a fence, life rushes by
the arms of greatness the cry of the babe
the king’s plush carpet begins to fade
a dream
make the ethereal way, make your ethereal way
the song is your term
spring explodes and autumn slides by
winter undermines, its own melting tide
the love the push the cry the crowd
the hands, the ground,
dirt the scent the rose the sound
what the sensual takes the tactile will give
the sigh itself will find a way to live
again
the cry the love the push of the crowd
why, the guilty are bled and intensely bound
the rose in bloom
now
the sigh in the ear
the circle has come
and the life is found.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
as is the case on all of the other ones, i love this one too. sorry, i won't pick a favorite. you can't make me. i refuse.
although, i will say, if you were ever to write one inspired by me, then that would be my favorite.
lol.
hugs for the Seta, who's left me hanging yet another evening. tell me people, why do i continue to set myself up for this constant disappointment? this constant letdown? could it be the melodic voice? the witless humor/humorless wit? the knowledge of photo stuffs? the emotional baggage? (;)) the money???
LOL!!
oh yeah, and BUMP! read this stuff people! it's good!
LOL and while I love the original Star Wars flicks, my dear twisted Radar signal, my poetry is not exactly inspired by them . But I'll be damned if you couldn't find a Star Wars reference in Jello.
Which would really be kind of cool.
And YEAH I want conversations about this stuff (other than how neglected my friends feel). As with all symbolist poets, I have a truly low self-esteem and need constant justification for why I do anything. LOL only partially kidding there.
But this is an intimate forum, so why not share that type of stuff? There always was a bit of philosophy in psychiatry, correct? And certainly both of those are present in any bit of written material longer than a three word sentence. Any human being is a poem in their own right. What's yours?
Open forum to discuss what kind of freak I am. I'm used to that LOL.
New poem later.
seta
PS, I promise that I'll be over this color fascination by the next post. I swear.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
LOL I know you all have just been slavering in your baited waiting... so here is my new one. I am, of course, kidding. Yeesh. But it's SHORT. And you all LIKE SHORT! And I realize that I promised to be over the color thing but that line there is typed in a different font on the real version and the only thing I could think of was color. Bold didn't work too well... sorry.
PARA-FLUENT/rarity
IT happens in this life that oddities do occur and that we might live, suffer
or thrive through them as humans, as people, as gods and as monsters...
a feather weight may only hold you still...
it will never hold you down or keep you imprisoned… for long.
These lives that we dare to call our own are prewritten in blood and
stone, in languages only the very young understand.
The ears are open, the sun is strong, and the song rings in the ears with
such force that the rush is akin to a sonic conch shell at dawn. The nuclear
bomb.
the seashell shatters, the wind breathes on, god walks down the beach
leaving the shoreline untouched.
why the seagulls cry after such events I'll never know but I can say this:
the vermillion sounds of their wings... I'll never forget.
I'm stepping in front of the gushing hydrant in a hurricane. I'd like to see the traction I keep.
holy sweet mother of god!i have only read the first one, but is was on the edge of my seat. There was a build up that kept building and building to a climax that never came, just a new day. loved it.i will read the next tomorow, u better at least put these in the pj book.( if it happens)
oh and read my i hope u all like it one and tell me whats wrong with it.
Originally posted by setaside2 OKAY OKAY... it took forever to get the thread posted, longer than I could wait.. here's one you may have seen before, but I like it.
ISLE/future holdings
The rain has stopped and the lightning has chased it's tail for the last time. No thunder to rattle the screens, threatening to be let in. The wind no longer shakes the trees, trembling in humility and bowing in unison to the invisible majesty that is any given storm... even nature must worship it seems. The clouds have slowed their screaming to a low moan and the sidewalks are reasserting their dull, grey, cracked exteriors as if to prove that nothing could faze them, nothing excites them, life is all so boring. The birds settle in, resigned to the chores of tomorrow. The worms resign themselves to almost certain doom come early morn and the babes sigh quietly having been shushed of their rumbling fears, the gods at play, their fates held by their own eyes still searching for something to actually see. Windchimes play their songless tune, the wind needing refinement and education for such a moody instrument so difficult to master in retrospect. Trophies no longer matter. The house is down. The dreams alight and settle on phone wires looking for a home. Water courses down a parking lot vein refreshing hidden cracks we'll never know until next season's dandelion rears its yellow mane and dons its powdered coat. Though the ribbons flutter, the angel never can tell where nor when the motion begins. Confused by the noise that surrounds he trudges homeward, the mud only slowing slightly to allow passage. Molasses is swamplike, he reminds himself. It is dark like chocolate, but it is a falsehood. A syrupy muck that makes way as if it were a moving tide in slow motion. Devious even. Sly. What was it they all got into? The door ajar, the porch light blown, the dog asleep under the rocker. Newspapers scratch the breeze, grabbing for purchase, seeking flight. The print holds down, holds back, never gives of itself, never fades. The stories hidden in between like secrets to be told in a second grade ear. The storm's passage only serves to ruffle and upset their timidity. They share their tragedy in silence, knowing that the rains can only wash away so much and that the city slumbering silent below the eastern horizon will have much to answer for. Transparent is the love, a wisp of steam, a tendril of fog... never touching for long, the fingers grasping yet weak. It basks in the accomplishments of summer and the burnt asphalt that is man's answer to the trailbreak. Sacrifice has never come so easy. There are only so many words to read in the aftermath of a storm, the books yet to be comfortable holding so many lives in the one binding philosophy of reach and affect and dreamreachhurtlovedestroy... what affectations must be reached to catch the rain? What emotive? This page turner is far beyond the skill of even the best of us to dissuade from its purpose- time has more enemies than any other- though it carries forward in gentle manner. It no longer treads with strength upon the graves of others, instead weaving its way amongst the headstones with bated breath as if superstition had finally bitten deep enough to withdraw. The grass bends only somewhat under the force of running footsteps and raising up afterward as if to witness the fleeting figure in the mist and darkness of the early hours. The docks beckon. The water calls. The gulls cry and circle their morning ritual, a life begun anew. The water has cleansed enough and their song has changed from the melancholy of well traveled and overflighted birds, to the joy shared by a chick in its first day of winged bliss. Once the sun rises reminiscence itself is but a memory, superstition a faded myth. No markings left of the barking lightning and love is once again allowed corporeal form, to whisper and wind and grace and to eyelash... the town shutters spring open as it gathers its first breath of the morning air, the dawn an oxygenated treat. And as the first of the townspeople, those who understand the day and its callings, make their way onto the cobblestone streets, a glint in the distant suggests that eternity has just winked at its own private jest; one in which, all in all, life and death are much the same. The blooming petal, the falling autumn, the daily balance... time is nothing but the measurement of what we remember. The ocean understands such laughter, the pelicans cry as fast is broken, and the new day has arrived.
especially when you say this is just a story. please god stop.
just call me or i threaten to log off.
i thought THIS WAS A STORY BUT IT IS HAPPEING TO ME IM INTOO DEEP AND ALLTHA CRAPOLA CRAYOLA.
:
Originally posted by setaside2 winded, you are correct.
The entire story of future holdings is filled with doubt. I believe that the storm gives the opportunity for second chance, though i scarcely believe the town has the ability to pull itself from past habits and dark doings. However the cleansing is where it ends because it is the single most fleeting part of the entire charade. No storm cleanses completely, and purity can never be gotten by so violent an act. I don't care WHAT the Bible says.
and as for the usage of ellipses... well... LOL
I can only say that YES I love them and that I also thought their usage in this piece was totally appropriate. The ellipses is all about uncertainty, the imagination wondering "what's next?" or "what's meant by that?." But then, occasionally, very occasionally, the ellipses indicates that which is extravagantly obvious to everyone and fills the need (or lack of need) to finish a sentence.
meanwhile, I only count the use of the ellipses THRICE.
And with the human race, both exist equally, side by side. LOL and there is NOTHING truly certain about the obvious.
However, for some reason, while the story certainly has a dark undercurrent, hoeweverso it be... it leaves me with a sense of contentment. I have no idea why. And as for each sentence beginning a new poem or a new story, well, that's just the way I talk. LOL. I guess that's the only semi decent excuse I have for that one.
Comments
And WHO's the geek?
As for you, Firefairy, my fine young spirited lass, YOU are welcome here any time.
seriously though, thank you.
Do you have a favorite? I have to ask, it is for my own edification. I must know.
maybe it was just a hand
or a secret or a mission or a kiss in an envelope…
a poison inkwell, a letter, a missive, the story of a life unborn or unshared or unknown, it makes no difference...
the direction of the next spring thaw, the flow of a leaf from branch to mud...
spring to fall..
the path love may take as it barrels through the halls of time uncontrollable and dangerous
a handshake, a breath, the last word of the last fairy godmother on the last planet earth
the feather plucked from an angel's wing
the mission of god
the lyrics to the song of youth
the answer to immortality
The last petal to fall from the wilted lily
The tip of an unused crayon
Was it the whisper of a ancient friend lost in time, ages past, lives ago
The secret feeling a children’s novel gives
The satisfaction of a sleeping feline
Curdled cream
The milk gone sour
Pages turning on the hour
A clock to measure the beats of the heart
A device to trap the better mouse
Or the hot air in any given water balloon…
The key, steam, the hot mineral spring
A ribbon on air, the footprint left bare, snow
Falling in cotton silence stuffy and simple
Arrowheads, sandstone, hieroglyphs, dreams long dead
The pavement expands in the sun, cracking to reveal the hidden homes that we have built upon and up and on in order to prove our superiority
The mud: it dries in the sun, the evaporation a last rebellion the wind carries away
The clock ticks its memento, the only thing it remembers, the previous second wiped by the next
A tread, the step, the fall
Ah damn the ignorant thread so graceless and passion free
Even with wings unfurled the angel smokes a Kamel
Wherein lies the loss? The thought? The cab fare home?
The hole in the pocket is only somewhat to blame as the sprinklers fade the brick wall
The fence cracked and burned, the sitters all fled,
On roam, the bats cry sonar in search of sustenance
Who shall teach to read the echo? When will friction kill the snowman?
Perhaps it WAS just the hand, nails sharp and intimate
Maybe it was the nighttime sigh, a dream left hanging from a lampshade
The sheets crumpled to the floor, the trial at an end, the curtains in the breeze
Was it together then? Or was the hand held previously owned?
I’ve left my breath at the last stop, torn loose at the one before
The ticket is unclear and the directions only indicate the color of the car in which I am to sleep.
God help the conductor.
I hear the busboy has a gun.
L M F A O
I loves ya anyway. you know that right?
right?
So I'm just gonna say it's a tie. I haven't seen one I didn't like yet if that helps! Write more!:D
jealous much? lol.
i thought i told you i'm a dork, not a geek...
anyway, is that a typo on the last line of "Maybe it Was a Hand"?
"I hear the busboy (H)as a gun"
and chucky, are you following me?
and can't you recognize a written cockney accent? 'has' requires no H because it would never be spoken!
Oh who am I kidding?
blah blah blah
it's edited, ya mug.
now go away, ya bother me...
ha! you can't even convince yourself of that
Also, leave a note on the desk about the poetry, which is around here somewhere waiting to be read and criticized... lol.
seta
Honey, there are also these places called mental institutions you know......I'm sure there are plenty close to home, especially since Florida's full of Senile Citizens.
Mr. Marc, you actually expect me to waste my time reading this filth? I have more important tasks to take care of.....Including finding out where 13PJ13 will be at 3:24 PM tomorrow afternoon!
(JK of course, the poetry is great!!)
(I'm not kidding on the stalking thing, though......da da daaaan)
I'm learning to fly, but I ain't got wings
Coming down is the hardest thing
TRENDY
I have the R-control in the palm of my hand,
The power of the world at a push of a button,
And they say I had forgotten the old war.
I’m a caffeine junky,
Shaking and red-lined…
I hate talk shows and
“Reality” programming
(it’s an oxymoron).
In the early hours of the evening
Commercials seem nothing
But leftovers;
Soundbites of ignorable
Deplorable
Hyper-exotic induced paraphernalia.
Propaganda they call it, at teatime.
Well isn’t everything.
Love my country…
I was BORN a fruit roll-up
Weren’t you?
Take care of your own dreams.
The new cold war is coming.
If you folks are ever in the Chicago area, look into the theatre listings. If you see a play by Sarah McGuire... Go see it. I guarantee it'll be worth your while.
This one is strangely named.. I've never come up with a better one...
TEXTURED SANITY/fault
Someone put this glitter
In the paint in my ceiling
Little tiny multi-colored
Drops of light
Suspended by an unknown
Chemical compound
Slaves to destiny
They wink in and out
With the power of a light switch
The picture of interstellar fate
“The stars are all burnt out, mommy”
Because of an alternating current
Provided by “Public Service”
I lie here soaked with envy
Too hot to hold
Too distant to grasp
I would turn to conventional imitation
But
I don’t smoke
My flashlight’s dead
And the matches I buy
Don’t have the will to burn bright enough
Though with a breath
The flame there is gone
With the stars in the ceiling
The smiling eyes overhead
There are days and nights
When I feel that I’ve been out and
Away for too long
Overexposed
I miss my roof-beam quarks
Flickering there like firelight
In the fading glare of the television
And a madness seems to seep in
I cover myself
With paint
Glitter
And fake the naked in my eye
I encircle the artistry of downtown
Until arrested
Happy and breathless
Leaving my sideshow in the gutters
With the oilslicked rainwash
To reflect the nature of dawn that day
The tears in my eyes get swept away
By machinery and construction
Lost in the dust and confusion of progress
And I wander my way
Elsewhere
Home perhaps
The lost clown
Mad in the head and out of touch
To the point of distraction
As if perhaps I wasn’t
As if perhaps I could prove otherwise
And I have to face down my fears
The glitter in the ceiling
And I blame it on the hundred or so faces
That stare back at me
And look remarkably like someone I once knew
I flicker like firelight
In the fading residue of the television
And it’s not my fault.
(boy you best pray that i bleed real soon)
<:3 )~~~~~ Rats are ppl too !!!
TRUST me. If I can do this. So can you.
But I'll take that compliment and run, thanks.
I'm morbidly curious. That's all.
Be nice though. or not.
As it is, here is another. Written this summer, though I do not remember the reason why... although i do believe it was written during a chat session with a friend of mine from the synergy board who goes by the name Pennyroyaltea...
NEW PRAYER/for the honor of pennyroyal tea
bring it down.. the house surround...
angels wings the flight around
acoustic tile the heart so loud
the love the push the cry the crowd
debris, the slats of a fence, life rushes by
the arms of greatness the cry of the babe
the king’s plush carpet begins to fade
a dream
make the ethereal way, make your ethereal way
the song is your term
spring explodes and autumn slides by
winter undermines, its own melting tide
the love the push the cry the crowd
the hands, the ground,
dirt the scent the rose the sound
what the sensual takes the tactile will give
the sigh itself will find a way to live
again
the cry the love the push of the crowd
why, the guilty are bled and intensely bound
the rose in bloom
now
the sigh in the ear
the circle has come
and the life is found.
although, i will say, if you were ever to write one inspired by me, then that would be my favorite.
lol.
hugs for the Seta, who's left me hanging yet another evening. tell me people, why do i continue to set myself up for this constant disappointment? this constant letdown? could it be the melodic voice? the witless humor/humorless wit? the knowledge of photo stuffs? the emotional baggage? (;)) the money???
LOL!!
oh yeah, and BUMP! read this stuff people! it's good!
Never, I say.
LOL and while I love the original Star Wars flicks, my dear twisted Radar signal, my poetry is not exactly inspired by them
Which would really be kind of cool.
And YEAH I want conversations about this stuff (other than how neglected my friends feel). As with all symbolist poets, I have a truly low self-esteem and need constant justification for why I do anything. LOL
But this is an intimate forum, so why not share that type of stuff? There always was a bit of philosophy in psychiatry, correct? And certainly both of those are present in any bit of written material longer than a three word sentence. Any human being is a poem in their own right. What's yours?
Open forum to discuss what kind of freak I am.
New poem later.
seta
PS, I promise that I'll be over this color fascination by the next post. I swear.
PARA-FLUENT/rarity
IT happens in this life that oddities do occur and that we might live, suffer
or thrive through them as humans, as people, as gods and as monsters...
a feather weight may only hold you still...
it will never hold you down or keep you imprisoned… for long.
These lives that we dare to call our own are prewritten in blood and
stone, in languages only the very young understand.
The ears are open, the sun is strong, and the song rings in the ears with
such force that the rush is akin to a sonic conch shell at dawn. The nuclear
bomb.
the seashell shatters, the wind breathes on, god walks down the beach
leaving the shoreline untouched.
why the seagulls cry after such events I'll never know but I can say this:
the vermillion sounds of their wings... I'll never forget.
oh and read my i hope u all like it one and tell me whats wrong with it.
http://www.myspace.com/alotalotbetweenus
this is all so clever.
listen. i love this and i am tired of doing it on the board.
i am going to bust!
we can delete this and i will keep going later ok?
pleeeeeesssssseee answer me all you peopole
no on eis taking to ME IT IS ALL ABOUT ME YOU GOMERS
bioluminescence
and i really don't know much about the aeoroerieaof yet?
i have to go pea now. pea pee pee
just call me or i threaten to log off.
i thought THIS WAS A STORY BUT IT IS HAPPEING TO ME IM INTOO DEEP AND ALLTHA CRAPOLA CRAYOLA.
:
I can't tell if I've offended you, or if you like the stuff, or if you are just a little left of center.
Why are you doing all this? I don't understand what it is you are trying to accomplish. I'm here. Talk to me. PM me, or something.
What can I do?
and if this is all sarcastic, please take it elsewhere because I really posted all of this in a well meaning manner.
seta
left of center indeed...