This XML file does not appear to have any style information associated with it. The document tree is shown below.
<livejournal>
<entry>
<itemid>146790</itemid>
<eventtime>2012-07-12 02:23:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2012-07-12 06:23:24</logtime>
<subject>Cafe Déjà Vu</subject>
<event>
by Emmit Other We've been here before Under the Godwin's Shadow A burgeoning sea of Bohemian Firecrackers Flickering sparks of enlightenment In an island midst a sea of Yokelality. We are Paris in the 1920's And all the cool kids are hanging out here Hemingway and Stein Are having a conversation about the Lost Generation Beneath the smattering driblets of God's Mighty Spittoon. There is no reason to believe Of course, that the residual greatness Boiling, Churning, Yearning, Enduring Deep within the Bowels of Terminus Resplendent Will march off to their doom in a proxy war of echoed tyranny. The internet changes the rules One would like to think. The future is more banana Republics And permanent house guests with six fingers named "Ruckus" of all things Than gas masks and machine guns and mustard gas. And yet...and yet...the crazy. I see how it burns The thundering echoes and laughter Of dancing puppet men in hooded white sheets Dancing beneath their sleeping fathers founding Waiting, baiting, berating, obliterating Move on they say, move on. Will the children of tomorrow The rejecting squatters of titanic voyeurism of the mind Overcome the cycle of history Through cabarets and cigarettes and snarky snarky sarcasm? One can hope the might. One can hope they might indeed.
</event>
<security>public</security>
<allowmask>0</allowmask>
<current_music/>
<current_mood/>
</entry>
<entry>
<itemid>147097</itemid>
<eventtime>2012-07-15 01:29:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2012-07-15 05:28:59</logtime>
<subject>I, Ranger</subject>
<event>
by Emmit Other I the ranger Roam where I will A blended shape in shadow In venue of moxie and mirth Shifting as the requirement merits. A hunter with a full larder Content in the observations Of comings, goings and the sundry miscibilities Of a delightfully mercurial humanity. Every light a story A thousand stories float by Lost and sometimes found in the night. I witness And sometimes record I am content in my humanity.
</event>
<security>public</security>
<allowmask>0</allowmask>
<current_music/>
<current_mood/>
</entry>
<entry>
<itemid>147225</itemid>
<eventtime>2012-07-21 04:38:00</eventtime>
<logtime>2012-07-21 08:38:52</logtime>
<subject>You're Going To Be Forgotten</subject>
<event>
by Redwin Tursor They will forget you You psychotic bastard Your deed will be remembered You slithering sniveling toad But your name will be consigned To the dustbin of history Not even woken among the dead. Remember Columbine? I do. Do I remember the names Of the two vainglorious fucktards Who performed the deed? Nope. But here is what I bet you don't know. You've given birth to real heroes this day. Friends helping friends. Volunteers helping the victims. Firefighters, paramedics and police Picking up the pieces Of what you smashed You fucking pathetic weasel. May your name May your fate Be the opposite Of what it is you sought Not 'XYZ' Jack the Ripper Ye Shall Not Be But One Loser In a Never Ending Parade of Losers That Kill Because They Can That We Forget. Those helped Won't forget the heroes But time heals all wounds And be assured fucktard God's Graceful Hand Antiseptic Cleanser of Memory Shall Wipe Thy Stain From the Collective Unconscious Though we will never forget the dead They shall forget you And move on to something better In the hearts And echoes of their loved ones. No one will visit your grave. No one will care that you are gone. No one shall weep at your passing. Maybe some smattering of family And bizarrely loyal friends. But most of them In ten years time Will be embarrassed to admit having met you. There will be echoes from this. You have fucked with the American Mythology Staining heroes and escape Glorious escape and mighty deeds With the blood of pedantic fucking demogogary Of the most pathetic kind. It will be addressed in the legends And legends never die But it will be a credit to the artists And the brave ones And the folks who pick up and move on. Be assured Mr. Trains On Time Not one whit Not one jot Not one tilde Nothing ne'er even a whisp Nor dust in cosmic scale Shall the just credit thee For the healing balm The just shall sew And the meek shall reap From thy unbelievable cowardice. Rot in the dustbin of history coward. No one will go looking there. Count on it.
</event>
<security>public</security>
<allowmask>0</allowmask>
<current_music/>
<current_mood/>
</entry>
</livejournal>
No comments:
Post a Comment