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<entry>
<itemid>151373</itemid>
<eventtime>2013-02-04 23:36:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2013-02-05 04:36:29</logtime>
<subject>
Love and Lovers in a Violent Dark and Terrible Universe
</subject>
<event>
by Emmit Other Two roads stood in a wood Both walked down One less so than the other Down the less traveled road Lay the buried skeletons of half a dozen jilted lovers Discarded as the unchecked passions of their companion Forced them to bury a pick axe in their beloved's forehead Cannibalism was only exercised in one instance. The road more traveled Ran to a hospital Filled with ulcers, gall stones and broken hearts The trauma caused by a thousand cuts of paper Instead of one good solid blow Or perhaps forty three whacks. But before you judge either of these destinations too harshly Consider the well run toll road running parallel to either It is as efficient as it is empty Designed by the spidery ghouls who take a tiny portion of time For every living thing that passes therein It is a road that leads to nowhere It exists only for itself Looking around and in the city Like so much mistletoe choking an Oak There is no love in that road before or beside the other two What is the best path then? Well a lack of path isn't the solution by itself Wandering souls Lost in the woods Bouncing from tree to tree Blind to the forest around them The solution is to fly of course Soar above it all On the easy sky way of true love. This is not so easy Since it is difficult to do alone Hand in hand Joined in fairy dust faith Straight on towards that second star Can't let go Or you'll become Tree Shishkabob Together, with someone else You can rise above it all And transcend so many otherwise dead paths But even then Love is a violent thing It is primal It is course It is hated It is heated But it is worth it There is a way out Even if it is not a way we can always find. There must be violence in this love Both for the pounding of the blood Suspending the doubting mind Enough to allow one to believe in flight But also the need for heat vision To nix the thousand little piss ant idiots shooting heat seeking missiles at you Because you have what they don't. There is no end to metaphor When one is speaking of truth And there is nothing more true than love. It is illusion in the entropic eye of a cold universe But our subjective realities are the only thing that matter to us in the end anyway. Some scientists now say that our conscious mind is an illusion I say that the illusion that is me has more meaning than all the cold rocks floating up in the stars in the heavens. Without my appreciation Or that of someone else's What does the besplendor matter? Context is king In that which transcends the world at large. But this is not the end to the violence of our flying lovers Soaring over that wood of two roads Do you truly comprehend the violence of plants? Their time scale is beyond our own They move in days to our seconds But their struggle is far more brutal than most Fleshy breathers can possibly comprehend We are blurs to them Mere flecks in an eternal struggle for sunlight Leave and root and branch crushing and pushing the competition away Not all worlds are wide open fields And a forest is the bloodiest battlefield of all Where a tiny seedling is oft crushed not by animal's hunger But by the coldness of dark Where no light ever shines upon it at all They are one this wood And love They are one And the same For love is risk And it is fear It is a leap of faith Across the canyon of entropy An attempt to find a union of souls So often crushed by the darkness of the universe Before it ever even has a chance to bloom And yet somehow it succeeds Despite all the odds of everything against it Somehow there is flight Somehow there are those that do fly on till morning Till the nature of entropy bursts their hearts Leaving one of the two of them alone forever Until their heart too bursts Sending them into the trees below. Indeed, from the clearer perspective All choices are blood and death and despair But if you ask those two Soaring to the heavens At the speed of hope Far slower than 200 thousand miles per second But still mightier than anything else we can look around And hope to ken or understand It is the best choice Among a series of bloody endings And who knows? Maybe the skeptics are wrong Maybe after their corpses have fallen to the trees below Our loves escape the violence of mortality Where no thing lives without eating another thing Or crushing it if it must Maybe they soar on And maybe, Just maybe They reach that star And bathe and dance in flame.
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<entry>
<itemid>151656</itemid>
<eventtime>2013-02-18 00:37:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2013-02-18 05:38:16</logtime>
<subject>The Bell of Inevitability</subject>
<event>
The Bell of Inevitability by Emmit Other I found myself in a square A minute behind the rest of reality A place of greater vibrance than most Vitality of yesteryear Glory of Echoes Past Rather Than Crumbling Dust No Langolier Supermarket This Place The Colors Brighter The Buildings Sharper Everything Better For Nearly Everyone Involved For It Is the Way Things Were Not as They Actually Were But The Way We Feel Them To Be With Building Blocks of Solid Gold Nostalgia And A Bell In the Platonic Clock Tower Tolls And I Realize That All Is Not Well In Denmark Against My Will I Take My Quill And Put Blood of Ink To Page Not As Prophet But As Witness Of What Has Come On The Paths I have Tread Paths Have Folded And Paths Have Gone UnWatched But Never Unknown Until Now And The Buildings Crumble And The Illusion Is Shattered Not Banished Am I From The Glory of Yesteryear A Place Like Any Other I can Move To In My Mind With The Slightest Flick of Wrist Or Candle Flutter Unbarred, Unbent, Unyielding But The Price of This Is Witness And Comprehension Of The Contrast Of The Eternal Now In the Minds Eye It is not of Pathos That these Unechoed Footsteps Linger In My Mind But An Endless Parade of Mundanity The Entropy of Time Itself The Single Understanding of Decays Yet To Come From Bright Tomorrows Undiscovered Dancing Too Much In the Gloried Sunsets So Close To the Present It is not a Spider that Strings Its Webs But the Inevitable Price From Miasma Spent in Drunken Besotted Stupor The Illusion of the Past Becomes the Chains of the Present Yet For This Reason I do not reach out and shatter the concepts Forced by the unblinking vision before me The rain barrel showing one glory and one gray symphony Each drop after the next Because in avoiding the absolutes of hate's chemistry And sticking to simply accepting what is In its golden possibilities I can break free As I have so many times before The reward of wings of imagination Soaring over the landscapes of the mind As Fast as the beam of thought can carry me Having been there before But I cannot show What I cannot share And I cannot share Where I am not welcome. The bell has tolled now Not in the absolute silence of the grave But the muffled echoes of a somber warning That a turning has passed And that yesterday was a today That brought enlightenment What is what is And no more doors shall be unlocked When you take the key away from yourself Grease slipped into the bucket Tipped over Spilt milk of refractory pensivity Gone, gone, gone away into gutter. Nothing is written in stone But I hold dear and close to my heart The whispered promise of a better tomorrow That bitter fleeting drug Shall no balm bring on the sunrise Moments shall be shared And have been Of this I am sure And shall be glad for it But the stifling giant hand of air over the bell tower Tightens its grip And the things you thought you did Step sideways into Umbral pathways of lizard tongues and deserts illusions Which illusion you say? Not as specific as you think Mastery in the back alleyways Are not as rigid Not as clean Not as isolated or sacrosanct as you hope Scattering over the rooftops For who built the city and the sun? Metaphor in metaphor Keys hidden Keys lost The sun is at zenith now And the bell has tolled. We step now into the next tomorrow The next moment The next fragment Grey and bright at the same time But neither a reflection of yesteryear Nor the Polaroid of dire black and white of meladrama's hope It is warm, and golden and well received But it is not Glory And is unlikely to ever be such again The last drop of memory Has slipped into the sewer grate But at least the alligator enjoyed his lunch. Adieu.
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<entry>
<itemid>152030</itemid>
<eventtime>2013-02-18 09:55:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2013-02-18 14:55:37</logtime>
<subject>
A Collection of Artistes - Emphasis on the Ending in E
</subject>
<event>
by Redwin Tursor The board was deadly serious in its meeting A decision had been made. It was neither new, nor was it unexpected But it was exceptionally important to the integrity of their work. The final vote was nigh When there was a knock on the door of the Sublet basement where the collective held their periodic votes. "Yes, Mrs. Fritz?" "I thought you might like some brownies." Ayes had it. Mrs. Fritz's brownies Truly were a little slice of heaven. Once the nuptials were received Mrs Fritz had the temerity to ask "So what are you up to?" How to explain? "We are receiving applications" "Oh. That's nice. What for?" "Our most recent genre piece." Mrs Fritz's blank look Was exactly the sort of question they had feared. But she was nice So they tried to explain. "We are a collective of artistes Our art forms are many But today we are contemplating A mini flash mob of genre specific improv" Mrs Fritz still looked confused "We reenact movies In the public square With greek togas In ancient verse." Mrs. Fritz nodded, "Oh. That's nice." Everyone relaxed until she asked... "How's that going for you?" There was darkness And dire demeanor in the room A palor on the mood That not even the brownies could life. "Fine." The muttered. Mrs. Fritz looked worried. They sighed again And tried to explain "It's about Timmy." "Oh. I like Timmy. Isn't he a friend of yours." They coughed and patiently sighed. "Yes. Of course. We all love Timmy. Timmy is a friend of ours. He plays the bagpipes to make you weep. I'd give Timmy my spleen Kind to animals Sort of Handsome But you must understand Mrs Fritz Timmy...Timmy has a blight upon his soul." Mrs Fritz wept a little And put her hand to her throat "Oh dear. Does it hurt him?" The board sighed Patiently Brownies... And the rent were at stake "No Mrs Fritz, not like that Creatively, Timmy... Timmy does not fit in. Take our current piece It is the Avengers. Timmy... Timmy's applicaiton... Is unacceptable. Timmy wants Robocop. Robobop with a shoulder mounted cannon The one from predator Now understand Mrs Fritz A cyborg we could accept There are many cyborgs in Marvel canon. Behold, with my sweeping arm As I gesture to our accepted members thus far Luke Cage, Iron Fist A classic incarnation of blacksplotation That has risen beyond its original constraints And become something more A symbol of the very exploited And Swamp Thing Yes, he's technically DC Continuity But there have been many DC/Marvel Cross Overs And besides Swamp Thing is Grant Morrison And Grant Morrison is Cool Blink from Age of Apocalypse Note-Not Blink from Exiles We don't like that one And find her pretentious But Age of Apocalypse is Dire Black Widow walks in their number To balance the gender of our protagonists Timmy has a problem Mrs Fritz This is not the first time This offense has occured. When we emulated a movie about trench warfare in WWI He wanted a Samauri with a Shotgun Now technically Technically Japan was part of the allied nations And yes chronologically some samurai were still alive But the trope was insane Never mind the timely use of the holy water buck shot against the vampires of vindalo And when we did the fantasy movie Imagine A thief...with a code against stealing And the ogre... Don't even talk to us about the ogre Or the telekinetic piano playing musicician Floating around on his giant piano Or the starship trooper in the pulp game The point Mrs Fritz Is we like Timmy We Really Do But Timmy Is Unacceptable In His Violation of Trope and Genre He Takes Our Willing Suspension of Disbelief And tramples it under his feet Did Davinci Photobomb the Mona Lisa in His Last Supper? Did Sam Play It Again With a Kazoo in CasaBlanca? Did Citizen Kane Stop Over For a McDonald's Hamburger Before He Said Rosebud? I think Not Mrs. Fritz Good Day, I say Unto You Good Day." Mrs Fritz Nodded and Headed up. The Board Waved and then said "Oh. And thanks for the brownies." She smiled sweetly Winked And Went Back To Watching The Price Is Right.
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