Absolutes Within Theories

WickedJeremy

You know, I’ve tried to start small email groups with friends where we just kind of free-write abstract realities back and forth in a relevant manner. Damn, that was a hard sentence. It never seems to work out, no one ever really replies. Then I approached my rooftop with a foot-long wiener and cried out to the heavens for an epiphany quiet sponge like. And then it hit me like an i]insert prolific metaphor of your choice here[/i and I fell to slumber upon my shingles. When I awoke covered with butterflies and clouds, a warm peace fell over me as the leaves on the trees spoke to me in chorus: “With great sincerity, open your browser and submit a new post and there you will find minds of a similar, fleshy vegetation. I wrote some things on my garage wall over the past few years.

If you stop setting aside words to be dirty there will be no dirty words.

Every time I start to change my mind someone comes along and proves me right.

Tomorrow is a debt I can’t pay.

Don’t let your reply be influenced by the one asking.

We are the sea corralled to a quiet stream.

Once youth has passed, everything degrades save wisdom.
Once youth has passed everything degrades. Save wisdom!

WickedJeremy

She has daffodils growing out of the flower pot buried in her corn
cob pillbox hat, but I wouldn't trust her any further than deep sink
the needles in her strawberry burned skin. Most times I wonder when
her knodding will return unslept. She shaves her legs while staring
at the yellowed wallpaper behind the picture frame cracking off the
kneecaps of her big black backdoor man. She never actually fell from
grace, but he saw opportunity when she let her hair down. So he
picked for her flowers of addiction during his climb up to her ember-
like invitation. His dismemberment tickled against her candle
flicker grin as she turned another blind eye to her buried
predilections. I guess it really is like they say: you can peel a
witch from the fire in her bones, but you can't shake the carbon from
a dead pencil. Then comes the williwah. The only cost is that she
rolls for him, but she has new life inside, a starting block. But
she has cold cobwebs tingling against the wet side of her forehead as
he ties her arm. Always the arm, never the knot. Tomorrow will hold
a new Sookie Sue for him to take a ride on. She always did like the
darker side of the raindrops.

DopeBeastie

hey... these are pretty interesting, eh?


cool :):)

Kevin Wilson

Poor planning on yor part does not constitute an emergency on my part!

WickedJeremy

spiderman2812 wrote:

Poor planning on yor part does not constitute an emergency on my part!

It does if I was planning on saving your life!

Kevin Wilson

WickedJeremy wrote:

It does if I was planning on saving your life!

Good one!!!

Being Enlightened

WickedJeremy wrote:

She has daffodils growing out of the flower pot buried in her corn
cob pillbox hat, but I wouldn't trust her any further than deep sink
the needles in her strawberry burned skin. Most times I wonder when
her knodding will return unslept. She shaves her legs while staring
at the yellowed wallpaper behind the picture frame cracking off the
kneecaps of her big black backdoor man. She never actually fell from
grace, but he saw opportunity when she let her hair down. So he
picked for her flowers of addiction during his climb up to her ember-
like invitation. His dismemberment tickled against her candle
flicker grin as she turned another blind eye to her buried
predilections. I guess it really is like they say: you can peel a
witch from the fire in her bones, but you can't shake the carbon from
a dead pencil. Then comes the williwah. The only cost is that she
rolls for him, but she has new life inside, a starting block. But
she has cold cobwebs tingling against the wet side of her forehead as
he ties her arm. Always the arm, never the knot. Tomorrow will hold
a new Sookie Sue for him to take a ride on. She always did like the
darker side of the raindrops.

This is WickedJeremy! Truly!

WickedJeremy

Being Enlightened wrote:

This is WickedJeremy! Truly!

HaHa...nice pun. It is riddled with Wickedness.

Ali

You Got It.you Are Def A Poet!

Great Work,
Loved The First One The Best,very Abstarct In Format.
But Everything You Do Is Great!:)



Ali
Allison

WickedJeremy

Ali wrote:

You Got It.you Are Def A Poet!

Great Work,
Loved The First One The Best,very Abstarct In Format.
But Everything You Do Is Great!:)



Ali
Allison

Thanks Ali, what I'm hoping for in this thread is to get a topic going where we can just throw it around in an odd manner. I don't, see what happens. I'll throw something in here sometime and see who chews on it. Or someone can just puke something out.

WickedJeremy

Ali wrote:

You Got It.you Are Def A Poet!

Great Work,
Loved The First One The Best,very Abstarct In Format.
But Everything You Do Is Great!:)



Ali
Allison

Thanks Ali, what I'm hoping for in this thread is to get a topic going where we can just throw it around in an odd manner. I don't, see what happens. I'll throw something in here sometime and see who chews on it. Or someone can just puke something out.

WickedJeremy

I'm doing it again; letting the colors saturate my mind.
Disregarding the smelly running discharge you typically refer to
as "feelings". You know, as a child, I don't recall `feeling'
anything. I do have vivid memories that drip with undying colors.
I can still remember the color that shined inside the walls of my
mind. I remember throwing dirt clods at the side of the barn with
my dad. I remember first noticing the word "clod". Clod sounds
odd. I remember watching how the clods would leave a sideways
volcano on the side of the barn. I remember having to take several
steps closer than my dad for my throw to reach. I remember my dad
enjoying that. I wish I remembered my dad enjoying more things.
But I don't.

Sometimes I feel proud of those colors I would see. Well, not
pride. I suppose it is relief. I suppose I feel relieved that I
saw colors instead of feeling "feelings". I remember walking into
my parent's room in the middle of the night and them not being
there. I remember running to the front door. I remember the door
wouldn't open more than a few inches due to the chain. I remember
yelling across the drive for my grandma. I remember my mom coming
up behind me and wondering why I was doing this. To this day I feel
that I know I walked into their bedroom and found an empty bed.
They were apparently there because all was suddenly yellow again.
It hated it when it was brown. I remember the empty rooms being
brown.

Now, today, I revert with no intention. I am four years old
again; laying on the bathroom floor at midnight; refusing to go to
my bed because of the spiders. I knew they weren't there. But my
fleshy vegetation didn't. It is the same today.

It is the same today. I know my eternal daydream is a fantasy
of reality in the mind of God. But it seems unreal in this color.
I can tickle your shined divine fancy when the colors are right. I
can blossom a blood stain when the vessel is swelled. But now,
today…?

Ms. Haiku

So, back when I was four, and we lived in Florida, no choice of mine, because it doesn't snow there, and how would Santa pull his sleigh along the swimming pools, I realized that maybe my mom and dad, who I saw wrapping presents through my glass door that led onto the porch where they were working at a table, were in fact Santa and Mrs. Clause. That just ruined my childhood right there because they were not old and cuddly, and we drove around in a black and blue car. That is because all of us couldn't fit in the love bug, which I find out latter is a piece-of-shit car anyway, and why we had it in the first place is beyond me.

Ms. Haiku

And now I have to either work or work on my sestina. . .

WickedJeremy

Is it bad taste to bump your own thread? I only ask because if it is, then I don't want to do it.

justam

WickedJeremy wrote:

Is it bad taste to bump your own thread? I only ask because if it is, then I don't want to do it.

No, it's perfectly okay to bump it.