- Collective Writing -

Quick question anyone care to play a game with me i just conceptualized it

place one word in a post and i say we collectively try to make a story or poem or song all by using one word per post

 

beautiful

 

A lost hazy swamp, far away
In between ancient oak and willow trees
Lying on grass, not yet bent beneath man’s foot.
A boat of times and places past,
Made by unseen hands.
This boat where beauty was beheld
And adventures lived
Is now forgotten on this misty shore
Never to explore again, evermore.
Gliding through the water
Making it’s wake,
A boat of trees in distant lands
Mighty trees, high and broad,
Whose now humble stumps seat nymphs with
Hair of auburn and gold
A boat of a man
Long dead and forgotten.
Where might his dusty bones be?
Perhaps at his Golgotha, perhaps in the blue,
Or maybe lying in the tall grass,
As his boat doth do.​

 

Adventitious Feed Overload​

Slowly making my way down the shoreline, my footsteps are never perfectly straight. The sand has a shifting quality when it is walked on. My bare feet squish the soaked, grey sand down, leaving temporary footprints that at best might last for two minutes. Undulating waves lap at the bottom of my jeans, immediately turning them into denim cold compresses. Sometimes I lose track of whether I was walking in water, or liquid nitrogen. Leaving the saturated sand of the shoreline towards the dry sand of the beach, random gust of wind irritate the sands’ slumber, whipping them around and around concentric circles of energy. Millions of grains of sand whirling around in such a small speck of the universe, a lonely shoreline in January. One must wonder what makes those grains different from atoms in a test tube, what makes them different from universes in their own regards. Size is only relative. So how many beaches, within how many planets, within how many universes are being walked, all within a handful of dust? The icy tides of January freeze me to the bone, but the feeling of being so alive is well worth it. Benches of very weathered wood sit in front of the sandy arcs of the dunes, appearing to be reminiscing about times long gone. Climbing up the steps of the pier, its easy to truly reflect on the scale of the world. Age and size. To the left, gently rolling dunes, perfectly curved. To the right, endless blue, reaching out seemingly forever. Birds swoop and squawk in the air against a backdrop of fluffy white clouds, playing or talking or telling stories, while a few others float on the water’s surface, drifting along like some sort of spectacle in buoyancy.

Even this vast and colossal sight of miles and miles of ever expanding ocean scape only begins to hint at something immensely more. The wood of the pier seems to want to tell a thousand stories. Stories of cloudy nights, with nothing but the rolling tide for company. More often than not, the harsh gales of winter winds drive off even the joggers and dog walkers. At any rate, people are few and far between. And this is how it goes, day after day of me playing guitar next to the sea, sometimes alone, sometimes not. Watching the foam spray up into the air from the waves is almost like some form of meditation. People sometimes stop by to talk to me or listen to me play. It's refreshing, to have a set of ears other than your own hear your creation. Maybe that is how God feels too. Idle chatting with so many strangers passing by only serve to further the mysterious nature of existence, and of it’s endless possibilities. Sometimes there are boats, way out on the horizon, fishing or looking for ancient treasure for all I know. The really nice days are when you can see a storm brewing way out over the water. Rain that would pass by but never get here. Whenever I home, I will have to clean my guitar of all the sand. This ritual is nice, in a metaphorical sort of way. I can never totally get all of it out though. I bring home a piece of what the beach offers, physically, spiritually, and mentally.

There is much to behold during the day, but night offers a whole new perspective. The dark does not diminish your sight, but rather enhances it, showing a totally new side of things. With the absence of light, comes a black canvas on which the mind can paint it’s many thoughts. The birds of the day are replaced the scuttling crabs of the night. They are literally everywhere, running along, doing their chores, living out there lives. Bars and pubs behind the dunes began to become more active with the passing of day, and random bouts of laughter and shouting can be heard over the steady backdrop of a jukebox. What exactly, is the real difference between the crab and the bar fly? Cloudless nights are ideal, with a luminous moon that seems too close to be real, surrounded by her little companions, the stars. The night air feels so much different than it’s day counterpart. It is almost as if it has a magical quality to it. When the moon rises, I know that I am not the only one dreaming anymore. It's so easy to just stand there and stare, to the point where you forget which moon was real, the one in the sky or the one in the water. Is that just a reflection of the moon, or what it some magical light left on the ocean floor by an ancient civilization long ago? Nature is one of the biggest ego-smashers, in my opinion. It is a breathtaking thing to realize you are beholding the same sight people thousands of years ago did. Hearing the same crash of waves, crunching the same sand between your toes, smelling the same sea salt. When I die, all of this will still be here, and nothing will change at all. So it is, so it’s always been.

There aren’t many constants in life. However, this small insignificant stretch of sand and muddled ocean water has always been there for me. I can’t even count all the days that I skipped class, just to drive all the way out to the beach. All that hassle and all that driving, just to sit in the freezing cold, bundled up on one of those old wooden swing benches, staring out at the horizon. Anything can be found out there, if you want it. So many thoughts and dreams, so much time. If everything we think we know is all just one big illusion, then let us be thankful that it is at least so beautiful. But I have a feeling, illusion or not, that no matter where I go or what Im doing, I will always have a little bit of sand left in that guitar.

 

shit

 

As I melt into the grass
And ponder problems of the past
As I sink underground below myself
And decompose into everything else

Starry nights they spin around
Galactic discoveries so profound
Gotta climb all the way to the top
And perch myself in that special spot​

 

great thread!

 

Blink

blink​

note

note​

Giant Tree
The source of life
How will your withering
Guide us through the night?

Running through
These fields of green
Teeming with life
And things unseen
Claustrophobia you’re
Impossible here
isn’t it nice,
Having nothing to fear?

Waves of emotion
the glory of sound
Cymatic vibrations;
Are you lost or found?
Is there a difference?
I’m not sure
The
Allure
That such an answer
Seeks to provide
Is nothing but fantasy
Of the most bounded kind.

Bullshit
all of this is
we write and scribe
for unending bliss

 

sucked in by perceptions
blinded by sight
deaf people dream in sign language
so who cares that you can sense
and hear
distractions render you useless
adventitious "reality" will only leave
those invested, ever begging for more
this extent cannot be explained with your numbers
that you dont understand anyways
the deceived walk a loopy path
marching on slowly
and with misplaced cause
you've passed that signpost before don't you remember?

 

Falling deeper, without an end
Upon me came a gleam of hope
Reviving me, saving me, becoming myself
Transcending all, I came to find
That i am still human
The stars will always be above my head

I'm not much of a writer lol, but how is that?

 

first, a single stiff finger,​

then, an entire multiplying fist (!) ​

rips their way out of a​

carousel​

of swollen lark cunts​

so deep underground,​

all those holes that the hooded souls on the surface of Earth never found.​

"Freeze it!"​

and the symphony of meat-tearing is silenced.​

Still.​

"Observe the eleventh spawn . . "​

We hear​

pinny metal​

footsteps​

 

hehehe heres a bit of nonsense from the ol noggin.

i was in an ol barn
in a furn got gully
in rain and fun like a gat goot tully
and fisin strings ran fishin strung
and everywhere a voice
a dishish dun
wherevermore or whereeverbe
another tale another tree
another gook another look
between the sand or between the book
when myes take ryes and ol sense go stride
then bell and whistles bay blow thy tide

 

I hate sleeping alone.

still on my back with eyes unblinking in the dark, the rise and fall of my chest a silent, rhythmic thing, I wait for it to take me. it's supposed to be a thick, creeping, smothering thing -- a blanket of the driest dust with no room for light to pass. it's supposed to be instantaneous, silent. it's supposed to come like a trained, eyeless assassin.

instead, the cold place around my waist where I'm meant to be held begins to sparkle and sting with memory. my heart can't quite keep up with the rush of blood that comes with the thought of the tangled way we fit together. the quietest movement of air fills the room with its surprise as goosebumps prick where I remember the trail of your lips.

so it's another night of vivid dreams, cast in the forgiving glow of a long memory, shining light on places I want to hide, illuminating things inside me I was too weak to cut out.

I do these things to myself.

---------

this came the night after I came back from tulsa.
something is weird about my heart.
or first love doesn't ever quite fade.

 

Quiet night
Holy night
Black night; the likeness of a canvas that
minds will paint, souls will paint
walk the thin stage
that sits
betwixt
conscious lucidity
and
restful wakefulness

wood panels filled with grain
build a bridge with
your cousins in and of creation
neon atoms
exploding
popping
multiply and die.
Remember that time?

(Remember)
(that)
(time we)
time we went crazy?
time went crazy?

crazy?​

Timbre Tones
That’s how I knew.
That’s how I broke through.

If they ever learn,
it won’t be from me from
me
from me be
wont be me
wont wont

be be

from from

me
​

(It’s creepy -
controlling death with alertness.
the sweet relief
is a must)

 

My eyes
pop out my head
(laughter)

I stare when
nothings there

From the air
comes forth
the rise of the molecules
gaze upon their glory
their mighty glory
bugles sound off
and violins produce
tearful waves of
cascading
specks of hues
floating through
this plane
this plane’s glory

don’t mind us
we’re just passing on through

put one foot forward
leave the other one back
where you are going
where you came from
It Is The Same Thing.

awww, tilt your chin up kid
it aint so bad
these guys are just here
to make ya
mad = glad = sad

or point over there
over there, where nothing is
there
stare where
nothing is ever there.

 

Flarin' up again
must have caught the mad cow
we always runnin from the
dirty drunk man
the dirty drunk man

 

If you want to catch the rabbit,
that frightened creature wishing just to live,
the creature scared from violance, pain and polution,
you can't just chase and force him to die.
You must learn to be still, harmless,
you must learn to whistle like the cabbage,
and it will come to feed from your leaves of love.

 

dead

 

everyone I meet throughout the day get's woven.
It takes dreams to shake them off,
and some just sew themselves deeper into possibility
from Memory; my tangled matrix; a leaf on a white willow,
neighbors with a black widow, who's cymatic web I gaze;
an oracle,
like the internet, except Sanctuary.

A new Element has been Discovered:
Aquarium,
all encompassing
over old bridges
in the wind ​

 

man, you write such good poetry dude :cheers2:

I love this