harveybirdman

Oh, mighty giant, how I worship from afar. I see a lone, striding tsar. But I may only gape. Oh, fateful spectre, your visage of a love once known, unearthing the wounds I had sewn. How may I end this pain? Now, squinting siren, I climb aloft to reach to you. Now my life shall 'gin anew, and I smile at the thought. And as I jump come close to me you wicked, wicked boy. I am that lovely shattered toy you now hold within your hands.

I like how this outburst fell into a dramatic whisper at the end. Well played.

I am so sorry to hear about the loss of your friend. He was lucky to have you too for the time you shared together.

And dare I ask about that acronym, Luc?

The experience is unforgettable. I get a grin when I remember.

a faltered glance, a look askance but who would stop to guess the chance? blushed cheeks with velvet voice yet no one knew there was a choice a knowing smile, he looks away both know again, again we'll play one lies yearning, try not to kill this delicate bloom by keeping still the other's heart, it is unknown unknown as well is what was sown and so we stage this careful dance leave nothing open nor ope' to chance e'er part as friends though hope we might I say, good sir, a fair good night

I'd build a pyramid and on bowed knee dedicate it to your memory. And if I carved up the moon you would be the first offered a slice. For I hear your plaintive howl on the wind and I answer, with bloodied throat, in kind. Know that when your lonely soul flies the byways of the ether you do not travel alone.

Thank you for your comments. I really appreciate you taking the time. This one feels somehow more deeply autobiographical. Sometimes I wish my inspiration weren't so one-sided but there it is. It wells up on its own or not at all and this seems to nearly always happen in one particular soil (see my profile feed for my blithe explaining away of mixed metaphors) . Exorcism isn't meant to be pretty, I suppose. Of course reading these it looks like this is the only state I am ever in instead of it being the exception.

She hadn't meant to walk in on her father; she'd only wanted a glass of milk before bed. But as the door swung open her ears were greeted with a deafening explosion. Blood and brains painting the walls, a dress, her face. Blood-flecked pigtails quivered, mouth gaping at a landscape in hell. She slowly steps to the side of her slumped hero. Gingerly reaching out to those strong, gentle hands; recoiling at their warmth, now unholy. She bends as if guided by another to retrieve the steel scythe that has already harvested one. Rivulets of her pain roll down and away as she places the barrel just as she was taught.

I am just on day 2 of trying out the Alpha of Grim Dawn. Anyone want to comment on their experience with it or comments or news on the game in general? While barely into this I am still excited about possibilities. But I cannot help but wish more of the bugs could be fixed in Path of Exile as I would gladly jump back there for a long while before fully committing to Grim Dawn.

I loved seeing this. It is comforting to see how far we have come and continue to do so. And their song "Thrift Shop" is fun- your first time watch the video (it makes a difference).

He is the one betting hounds at the Kentucky Derby, speaking a foreign language in a familiar land. He is the one looking for snowstorms in the South, and predicting rain amidst the desert sand. He is... Searching for a niche in alabaster walls, casting no shadow as he roams down the halls. Everyone knows him, a stranger nonetheless, what could possibly ail him is anyone's guess. He is king of a world, and lord over none. Always running the game, but never has won. He's a scholar, a poet, a singer: no rules. He's also a dreamer and dreams are for fools.

this underground, placid ocean of still sadness that has always been at my core usually far below me but standing on the shore is like coming home for a man who dreams of the desert

a tepid sorrow that has lost its fire only to have embers flare into brief life again this haunting melancholy the last hoarse shouts before subsiding into silence extinguished but amid growls

I ask you, gentle reader, would you scorn the violet's death in arctic soil? slave's last exhalation in endless toil? Could you chide or reprimand the Indian's rest after futile fight? the moth's candle respite from his quest for light? Would you then begrudge me my final rest? Would I find a cold, unyielding breast? And if you would that rest but kindly allow, my final breath a kiss of thanks upon your brow.

Thank you very much. I appreciate your comment.

We settle back on leather thrones, glass and ice our sceptres. Candelabra lit, the hounds at rest, two brothers share the night. Tell me, lord, of mountains far, and I shall speak of valleys. Whisper soft of tears aloft, and I will gale with laughter. Boast upon your finest hour, while I but moan defeat. Your nights of black and smiles lack, I will comfort be. And when laughter wanes and tongues grow weary, morning's light shall end our night. We rise but slowly, friendship now holy, and turn to walk away out of sight.

The name Hasimir Fenrig is what got me in the door as I love that character from the Dune series. Fantasy is my main genre for reading and you definitely have my interest after having read the first chapter. The flushed scar giving away the man's excitement- very nice touch. Thank you for sharing this and I will continue with the story.

Those carmel lips that curl so deliciously at the corners on a boy draped in a chair His head falls back to reveal the silky strength of a neck a chest rises and falls as he clenches the air A sharp intake as I sink in his taut belly quivering with the pain Crimson ecstasy flows gently down savannahs of flesh and a whimper escapes from those earnest lips Then white knuckles turn a wanner hue as muscles are laid to rest And a smile plays across my lips as I recall the last words on his

Oh, Annie, sorry child lost from my breast. Where did you step wrong walking among the mortals? Was it me they saw in your eyes when you confessed? Close your weary eyes while I absolve the rest. Oh, Dragon Lady, can you smile now your work is done? The voices you hear these shall ne'er understand. Pity to you, for ours is not the way of the sun. Almost finished now as you gently squeeze the gun. Oh horror, the atrocities and blessings performed in your fight, hobbling those of a lesser god. They burn and destroy us, hide away those with a light. But you know and love your father, you have the sight. Oh, Annie, so confused with realities hurtling past. Who are they to claim the one for all? As the steel touches your temple the die is cast. For you, my darling, my arms will fly so fast.

I remember concert and marching band in high school. This was written back then in honor of and with much gratitude for our high school band director, Jeff Evans. ( a Patient man ) "Shout at the Band" You didn't play the allegretto, your notes are all flat. You say you can't play anymore! You got the sixth grade blues, your music you want to choose. If you want to leave, there's the door. You got your spit valve stuck, you don't give a fuck. And you think I don't give a damn! So put your instruments down and keep clownin' around. If all fails I can: [shout, shout, shout! Shout at the band!] x2 In sectionals you suck, and with any luck, we might just go to state. On the field you screw around and make unmusical sounds. And on my nerves you grate. So you ungrateful wretch, no awards you can fetch. But to me you still bitch and moan! And the damn booster parents who can't understand why I sigh, and groan and: [shout, shout, shout! Shout at the band!] x2

Altered and musing on my reverence for Camels. (from long ago) like a candy box of confections I open it up to sidle my fingers through I choose a carmel beauty and slowly lift it from its shell even dormant it scents the air in the passage to my lips I light; a passionate, smooth dandy mingling his breath with mine

This movie certainly had its moments. I don't usually care for comedy with my horror but that is a personal preference. And Joss Whedon is golden in my book for Firefly and Serenity. I couldn't agree more about how hackneyed the horror genre has been. It's a shame how the genre is cheapened and, on a practical matter, it makes for wading twice as far and twice as deep to find a gem (such as Session 9).

a deep bass rumble from the throat of hell as Demon clears a throat a plot unfolds insidious, threading, dynamic rising and falls the demons approach they creep out from every darkness, every crevice, every corner of every vision they tiptoe in to the scenery long, incisor fingers clatter along amorphous shapes they come fast but surely along your mindscape caressing your mind as you watch sliding their fingers between the sulci was that a grin- no a glare the myriad faces reach out to touch and dance back to peer again they are infiltrating every corner of every dark, blood-matted hall inside of you they become more you than you ever aspired to every clotted breath in and out is passage for the demons swimming over eyeballs writhing within nostrils squirming between muscles I am transported I am witness to fiery revels and orgies of genocide my body undulates in gore and monstrosities of a behemoth evil shambling just outside of my vision to see them naked would send my soul shrieking into insanity I am carried along a path reds, oranges soft fire, sobbing lament, stabbing regret, shrieking pain, their cutting into souls as one would gut a fish- these are the flowers, sun, sky of my world milky rivers of red float through the air, my mind the cutting, stabbing, squeezing are the grass under my feet I wander through the fields of the Lord I witness work, leisure, religion of this land piercing screams, gurgles, snapping, rending- guttural consonants of a feral language at once desperate and resigned splinter my head but none break the silence of the unholy landscape leaking from my eyes

The extreme misery and pain of innocent people is one of the many things going on on the screen and potentially evoked in the viewer's mind. It certainly wasn't the draw or source of enjoyment for me. I can't speak for anyone else or for their motives. Exploring frontiers meaning one is always moving further out to see over that next hill, and then the next...I certainly follow that logic in theory. In reality I find it to be the exception not the rule. But perhaps I am just not made of sterner stuff. And the frontiers lie in all directions; we only speak of one here. Thank you for your comments.