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Literature
Beloved
We blew the dandelion clock
once twice four times
slipped, skipped pre-abolition and raised
our glasses of second-hand water
to Jimmy Crow.
One hundred years of reconstruction
of sixty million and more. gradual,
but still only partial – rolling back
rolling back of the law
of racism and trauma and slavery and
'historical incidents'.
We are given names without skin, for
obvious reasons. So difficult to represent
except through numbers, this traumatical
event.
We can't understand this (unnatural and inhuman)
act, except through history. Context
is everything.
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 1 23
Literature
The Transaction
INT, DAY.
An excitable moustachioed Man wearing rubber waders enters TOWN HALL.  Elderly female Receptionist sits behind a desk bearing a sign – TOWN HALL RECEPTION.
M: Excuse me...
R: (Looking up from Kerrang!) Yes?
M: I'd like to register a baby.
R: Certainly. (Pause)  What for?
M: (flustered) Um, you get a thingy… certificate, and… the wife said it would all be very straightforward.
R:  Oh, yes, the ballet.  Second floor, through the double doors and on your left.  Ask for Madame peters.
M:  No.  We've just had it you see, and (mutters)…
R: (Seeming to catch on).  Oh, I see.  Boy or girl?
M: Boy.  Rupert, we thought.  His grandfather.
R: Very well, if you give me a photo, I can have him in the paper next week.
M:  A photo? …  Alright then…  (Gets out wallet and produces photo).  There's Hilary, and there's the baby. (Points)
R: Leave a telephone number and an address, and I'll have someone round in a day or so with a cheque.
(M writes on small piece of card, looking thoroughly perpl
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 0 14
Literature
Promotion
At four thirty pm, I removed the floral greetings card from my desk, stowing it safely in my leather holdall with my bits of paperwork.  A couple of my colleagues noticed my preparations to leave.  One of them called out something about having lots of time on my hands.  I resisted, under the circumstances, the temptation to pay one last visit to the filing cabinets, the scene of the crime.  Resisted flicking through the buff cardboard files, following the names changing gradually from A to B like an old What the Butler Saw machine.  I have to confess that before making my way out of the door, I ran the back of a single finger along the top of the row of cabinets nearest the exit, and noted with some satisfaction that a small runnel of dust collected in the knuckle.  I turned and waved once, and there was a muted goodbye, then I left.
You might think, considering the long years of service I've given the department, that my reti
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 0 14
Literature
Train taint constraint conceit
I
a train journey
night, she sits serene
                on the opposite seat,
and her gaze drifts to
skybirds on thermals soaring swooping emotionless joyful.
advancing, the Inspector of Tickets, the Taker of Fares
in his municipal in his green and strident waistcoat authoritarian
stride peaked cap tickets please tickets please tickets
please,
she doesn't have a ticket. money
is alien-tainted hate-polluted isn't worth a damn
to her, let alone railway tickets.
she calls me to the open window – So
                 she jumps as the train starts to slow - So
                 she glides to the ground
and turns to me calling follow.
with her - i don't know, not
with her voice at any rate. hidden now
by a wooded glade still calling
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 125 49
Literature
Neathorpe Nostalgia
Doing the scuffed shoe shuffle
snuffling in the cold of the old dole queue, once more
checking the scores.  Eric Bristow
killed this town. Home
to flat caps and pigeons,
a flutter at the dogs,
-Eh, but what I wouldn't give-
Living reliving that swept-under-the-carpet feeling:
The weathermen we used to have
wore jumpers, and forecast sun with
showers later.  I've spent the giro on
frozen fish fingers, a packet of Drum,
leaky buckets to catch the drips,
let's get our kicks (while we still can).
-Things was different then-
We used to queue at the Liberty, on a Friday
or watch the flicks at the Empire.  Now
Just the dole queue for the prole few;
coo, they even paint the view a new hue
now the revolution isn't likely,
and the smokestacks are for show.
-Aye, the bastards get you down-
Eh love, let us forget our shingles and joints.  
The world is spread before us like a land of dreams
There's Cleethorpes, Blackpool or Skegness.
We've a bit of money in
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 0 18
Mature content
--TBS-- :iconpathetical:pathetical 0 14
Literature
Meadowhall Shopping Centre
The Founding of Meadowhall- And so it came to pass that in those days Margaret, the Thatcherite, did command a vast army.  She did order them to ride out upon their Volvos and Vauxhall Cavaliers unto the North.  And they were mighty afraid, and spake unto her, "verily, that land is populated by fierce barbarian hordes."  But she promised them much riches, and so they rode on to the place that is called Sheffield.  "Behold!" they said unto one another, "Here is a land flowing with coal and money."  When Margaret heard this, she waxed wroth, and ordered them tear down the mines, which at that time were full of dirty, uncouth men.  Then Margaret was much pleased, and did erect a temple to her god, Capitalism, in that place.  
                                
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 14 46
Literature
Seats of Power
Seats of Power
I walk through
institutions of War
which proclaim Peace
in the silver language
that Judas understood.
I sit by the banks
of the slow-dying slug
which worms its way
through the city's rancid heart
in grease clogged arteries
and out to the suburban spew.
All this glory is of god.
And man, the leprous disciple,
prostrates himself before
the Celestial Cock,
and erects a pantheon
of his own invention-
a skyscraper world,
in his master's image.
A grey Babel in duplicate.
These seats
of civilization sway
as the silty sludge
is whipped into waves.
Power corrupts
and absolute power
builds obscene monuments
to its own glory, decaying.
I declare war:
-On unholy temples, shrouding the city
in cast-off darkness, benighting
the benighted.
"Grey hides the dirt".
(and the sun, and the
view of a million phallic smokestacks
pissing into the inverted sky).
-On the sharp-suited sharks
in the Plexiglas castles.
The penthouse pariahs
who play dice for the world;
doodling lines o
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 4 22
Literature
The Big Bang
The Big Bang
Waiting for one more
compassionate mushroom cloud
New Jerusalem of dust
Daily on my radar screen
to come
and set the world to rights
Teasing me with its absence.
Sweet humanity!
I'm all powerful- fucking the world
Orgasming into oblivion.
If only life were this real.
I'm all-powerful- pushing up
aluminum daisies-
making a chain to
tie myself down.
I'm all powerful- no god
but this one
a species neurosis
of which I'm quite proud.
I'm bored of survival. Of
Rotor blades mixing day to night. Of
Dead machine husks winnowing
in the warm sweet air.
"The electric eye will always
be there in the sky watching
over its bastard children."
and the light,
dancing slowly through the smog,
does not give voice to the lie
.
Coruscating toxins weaving
satellite patterns - visible from space
I'm told by those
pouring boiling water from above
and watching ants die.
Ants that immune to pain and death
and life, which is worse

twitchrun in convulsions over
mangle
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 0 5
Literature
Arcadia
Arcadia
The sign was the sole feature for miles along the desert-lined dual carriageway. Although the nondescript sleek black saloon was the only vehicle in view, the road was well kept. The sand had been swept back from the shimmering tarmac and the weeds had been actively discouraged from taking root along its edges. Everywhere, though, the desert was fighting a battle with the winding bitumen snake that had moved in on its territory. Dust scudded across the even, flat surface and piled up at the side of the road behind the unnecessary aluminium barriers. The sun and wind beat down on the tar, heating and cooling it by degrees, melting and cracking the flawless, white-lined surface. The sign hove into view imperceptibly, appearing as first an insect crawling along the horizon with every small turn in the road's path, and later as a natural edifice sandblasted into a twisted, unnatural shape. From a distance of perhaps half a mile, by shielding your eyes from the blinding
:iconpathetical:pathetical
:iconpathetical:pathetical 3 2

Favourites

Journal
Prompt 14: The Beginning!
:new: Just one day left to send us your slice of weirdness! I'm working on my desperate and pathetically last-minute entry--how about you?
Just under one week left to get those entries in! We've only had two so far, so all you people who favourited and shared and rhapsodized about how goddamn awesome it was we were back, get your arses into gear!
Yes, it's us again. We reincarnate more often than Kenny.
This time is going to be different, though. And you can trust me on that, because it's not me who'll be ensuring it. fyoot, a long-time contributor and judge for transliterations and someone whom I'm sure you all know if only by reputation, is stepping into the breach and making sure this dead horse keeps getting whipped. The one major change you should be aware of is that prompts will now go up on the 15th of each month and end on the 10th. Of course, this ending date is purely arbitrary and only influences who gets into the news feature; you can continue
:iconzebrazebrazebra:zebrazebrazebra
:iconzebrazebrazebra:zebrazebrazebra 63 88
Journal
Who Cares About the Literature Community?
A few days ago we had a chat to discuss community issues and solutions (see the original journal for details). Huge thanks to everyone who came and raised awesome points!
It took 45 minutes for the volume of talk to max out Sta.sh Writer's character limit and this chat went for two more hours, so I'm just going to summarize the key discussion points, starting with big actionables for CRLiterature and for the community.
I've put the chat stuff lower down as it's denser: the outside bullet is the issue, and the inside bullet is possible solutions (not necessarily in order, each point is really a response to the original issue). There is a lot to think about in there, but feel free to pick and choose the issues you care most about. :)
Sorry for leaving a lot of stuff out, but I hope you guys are too busy figuring out how best to act on what we discussed to pay too much attentio
:iconneurotype:neurotype
:iconneurotype:neurotype 71 381
Journal
I Am Outraged About Something!
... while all the drama is going on (rightly or wrongly) I thought I'd throw this out there:
Visual Artists Read And Write, Too.
Well duh, Sal, you may say (and some smartarse will, now I've said it) - but the fact is, they do.
So why is there this imaginary line drawn between the art and literature galleries? Argue away that there isn't one - but there darned well is, and I find it annoying. You might even say - outrageous!
There's tens of thousands of multi-talented people on this site. And I'd really like to see more folks who are usually identified as visual artists:
:bulletred:  have a go at writing, and post a link here.
or
:bulletred: put their hands up as multi-talented artists here by linking a piece of their literature if they already do write.
This issue came to my attention during Flash-Fic-Month, when a bunch of folks who signed up and participated said things like, "I am a visual artist, I've never posted my written work here before Flash Fiction Mo
:iconsalshep:salshep
:iconsalshep:salshep 123 383
Literature
Marigold-Glow
marigold-glow
i heard a call
the wet plucking of footsteps in mud
April with ratted hair and coarse-sacking clad
begging at my door
i offered her scraps of toast
and the last third of the pot of coffee
she gulped
dry lips smacking like leaves in the wind
her winter-worn teeth tearing
a colour rose to her cheeks
marigold-glow
she thanked me
by burying herself in the garden
and erupting several weeks later
all ebony-rose and chaos
on the lawn
:iconastera:astera
:iconastera:astera 2 8
Mature content
Home :iconcatharticmike:catharticmike 3 12
Literature
The Desperado and His Band...
Abort the motion, though, we like
the view. We like to look,
the wiser

Lily
de-livered
her meal as prescribed
by the prancing paediatrician (who also dabbled in explosives).
And in the right corner!
On the chrono-
graphic latency of
the date for the spacing
out of the king of beastly depths,
The desperado and his band of tiddlywinks
lead the lower tenants that complained about the smell
of the bacon, brought home under the skin
of sliver companies.
Needless,
to say that. Something
went wrong.
:iconshackell:shackell
:iconshackell:shackell 3 12
Literature
Tips For the Novice
Tips For The Novice
It's an all-too common occurrence on my periodic forays into the world of internet poetry - writing weakened by a lack of fundamental knowledge concerning the essence of poetry writing. There are no rules set in stone about creative writing. The writer that strikes new trails can make a lasting impact on the world of poetry, but the chances of a writer stumbling upon golden words without a solid knowledge base are slim to none. The following tips for novice writers are intended to help shore up those fundamentals, to help the young writer breathe the essence of life into their poems, and to better share that essence with the reader.
The most important element you can inject into your poetry is imagery.  Imagery is made up of sense data: color, sound, smell, temperature, the feeling of physical contact.  When we remember anything with any vividness, we remember in images.  When we fantasize or hallucinate, it is i
:iconsuture:suture
:iconsuture:suture 371 195
Literature
NORMANSCRISMUS
hawlee
misoltow
treas
presants
famlee
peese
luv
presants
charetie
presants
presants
am i mising sumthing?
how did this awl begin
wat duz this holedae
meen?
never mined look at all tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
a seeson of desepshon
of plesent lys
so cute wen we fule children
wat hapens wen thay find owt tha truth?
wat is tha truth?
never mined look at all tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
look at tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
stand in aw of tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
its all abowt tha presants
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
you no its sumthing deaper
pretend you no wat it meens
or just enjoy yur presents
presants
preasents
presenz
pretends
and eet turkey or ham
watever you eet evry yeer this tym
and i well call you nayber
and ride yur slay
wen the nite is silent a baby is born
that duznt cry wen thare ar lowd sownds
and sheperds bring presants too
becawse He is speshal
who pepol well always argyoo abowt
and
:iconnorman2:norman2
:iconnorman2:norman2 43 363
Literature
Wireless Manifesto
Frond-licked dactyls dance - stut
tering sideways - glance against tuner
and SHIFT waves out of focus.
Unilateral static streams (twitch reflex impulses)
career on static-clear, solder seams. Circuit and cochlea
screech in unison; drifting fuzz; the buzz of another
warcry ascension, exuded through a three Kelvin radiation skin.
Transcend voiceless vaccuum ennui with finite bursts
of political agenda; then the fundamentalist
enmity tension calms while Chopin flautists flounce
lambently. Vibratos, concertos, nü metal thrashes
and lashes of concupiscent crashes -- symbolic
embolisms. Retired mechanical engineers
compose treatise on post-industrial
grunge with just a hint of techno
funk, the prospects are limitless -
frequency or amplitude modulated. Plug in
your all weather personal portable, sportable;
                 jive and bounce to the jumbled waves.
:iconpsychodrive:psychodrive
:iconpsychodrive:psychodrive 3 35
Literature
catalogued
_________________________
your sense of melancholy
is broad and sweeping like
a rollercoaster of feathers
from the dead pigeons
you used to collect
in the shoe box with edges worn,
soft from all the times
you hugged it and cried.
remember it, for once.
you have packed it away
deep in the card catalogue
of your life, somewhere
between \"boys loved\" and
\"alcoholic beverages consumed.\"
you have left it, spinning
on a sill the way steam does
when you open the bathroom window.
remember it, for once.
_________________________
:icongustoboy:gustoboy
:icongustoboy:gustoboy 15 40
Literature
Pass The Parcel - edit
Already his hairline seems a little high
and a particular tooth is showing signs
of setting itself apart from the rest.
His skin, overly sensitive, rashes easily
as temperamental as his disposition,
quick to inflame and difficult to placate.
For now at least he has his mother's eyes,
perfectly shaped, and yet paternally brown
but without the languor that shows up on photos.
He is, on the whole, his father's son,
a single defect gene his by inheritance
an unwanted bequest more unfortunate
than a worthless antique, and in this case
he gets to carry the guilt when he passes it on.
It's the gift that just keeps on giving.
:iconflamemc:flamemc
:iconflamemc:flamemc 1 22
Literature
something about a rainforest
It was almost December when he told me about the rainforest. There's this plant, he said, It only grows in the rainforests of Queensland, in Australia. That night I stayed up listening to him talk about everything from Marxist philosophy to distortion pedals to the construction of clocks. I didn't care. I liked his words.
It has these huge leaves, he continued, That are covered in tiny microscopic silicone tubes that help the tree get water. The thing is, if you touch the leaves, they come off on you. They're like needles and they're so small but they hurt like shit. They stay under your skin for months until you regenerate every place it touched. And anytime you get water on them, it goes through the tubes and you have all this water below the surface. Supposed to be one of the most painful things possible.
He stopped and looked at me and for a second I tried to imagine filling up with water right beneath my skin. He was right, it hurt.
I said Yes some people can do that too. You touc
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft
:iconyourotherleft:yourotherleft 13 15
Mature content
Fantasy :iconchaian:chaian 5 27
Literature
Dreaming Of Wang's Carpets
Risen;
Genteel, thrumming sines,
skyward, oscillate.
Myself,
a dreary haze, afloat;
razed by cubist seas
                       e   e
                       a   a
                       seas.
Lo!
Among those hollow, plastic cubes,
An other one; one other me:
  "A me! A me!
  Is it thee?
  No, not I;
  it is a she."
'Lo she.
By her, irradiant Asian-made,
on Irish panpipe-voice, were played:
You know, I look around at the faces I know;
I fall in love with the people in the front row
                
:iconpsychodrive:psychodrive
:iconpsychodrive:psychodrive 3 34

Wishlist

Frozen in Time - visualriddle by visualriddle Frozen in Time - visualriddle :iconvisualriddle:visualriddle 79 22

Activity


deviantID

pathetical
is not a poet
Artist
United Kingdom
Current Residence: |Doncaster|Sheffield|Eastbourne|UK|
Favourite genre of music: |FolkRock|Punk|Jazz|Britpop|Electronic|
Operating System: |Windows XP|
MP3 player of choice: |Winamp|
Interests
I have unstored my deviations on this account.  I shall be working on a couple of them.

Nonetheless, I will not post anything new here.

Go see :iconfyoot: for that.

God, I do have a penchant for awful animated avatars, don't I?

Comments


Add a Comment:
 
:iconmode-de-vie:
mode-de-vie Featured By Owner Jul 22, 2010  Student Writer
Congratulations on your Daily Deviation! :) I've placed a link to it in the sidebar of my journal page.
Reply
:iconastrophel:
Astrophel Featured By Owner Mar 18, 2005
and besides, you're probably holding hands with some pretty skinny girl that likes to talk about bands. All I want to do is ride bikes with you
Reply
:iconfyoot:
fyoot Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2005   Writer
Sometimes you really perplex me.
Reply
:iconastrophel:
Astrophel Featured By Owner Mar 21, 2005
that's entirely reasonable.
Reply
:iconjesusbite:
jesusbite Featured By Owner Jan 29, 2005
This LotN really isn't a link at all. Every once in a while, I like to post some poetry from some of my favorite writers — and this would be one of those times. This is due to me digging them up and/or watching them perform these certain pieces, and the fact that in my peruzing of the DA poetry tiers, THERE HAS BEEN NO GOOD POETRY, ARRRRRG.

Anywho.

Have fun, enjoy, see you later.





Convenience Stores
by Buddy Wakefield

We both know the smell of a convenience store at 4 am like the backs of a lotta hands.
She sells me trucker crack (Mini-Thins[like Vivarin]). Doesn’t make me feel awkward about it.
She can tell it’s been a long drive, and it’s only gonna get longer.
Offers me a free cup of coffee, but I never touch the stuff.
Besides, I’m gonna need more speed than that.

We notice each other’s smiles immediately.
It’s our favorite thing for people to notice – our smiles.
It’s all either one of us has to offer.
You can see it in the way our cheeks stretch out like arms
wanting nothing more than to say “You, are welcome here.”
She -
shows brittle nicotine teeth with spaces between each one.
Her fingers are bony. No rings. And she’d love to get’er nails done someday.
One time she had'er hair fixed.
They took out the grease, made it real big on top, and feathered it.
She likes it like that.
She will never be fully informed on some things just like I will never understand who really buys
Moon Pies, or those rolling, wrinkled, dried-up sausages, but then again, she’s been here a lot
longer than me. She's seen everything from men who grow dread locks out of their top lips to
children who look like cigarettes.
I give’er my money. I wait for my change. But I feel like there’s something more happening here.
I feel -
like a warm mop bucket and dingy tiles that’ll never come clean.
I feel like these freezers cannot be re-stocked often enough.
I feel like trash cans of candy wrappers with soda pop dripping down the wrong side of the plastic.
I feel like everything just got computerized.
I feel like she was raised to say a LOT of stupid things about a color.
And I feel like if I were to identify myself as gay –
This conversation would STOP.

It’s what I do
I feel.
I get scared sometimes.
And I drive.

…But in 1 minute and 48 seconds I’m gonna walk outta here with a full tank of gas, a bottle of Mini-Thins, and a pint of milk while there’s a woman trapped behind a formican counter somewhere in North Dakota who wants nothing more than to hear my whole story. All 92,775 miles of it.
I can tell, though, she’s heard more opinions and trucker small talk than Santa Claus has made kids happy, so I only find the nerve to tell'er the good parts; that she’s the kindest thing to happen since Burlington, VT and I wanna leave it at that... ...Because men - who are not smart - have taken it farther; have cradled her up like a nutcracker and made’er feel as warm as a high school education on the dusty backroad, or a beer… in a coozy. I feel like she’s been waiting here a long time for the one who’ll come 2-steppin’ through that door on 18 wheels without makin’er feel like it’s her job to sweep up the nutshells alone when she’s done been cracked again. A man who won’t tempt her to suck the wedding ring off his dick, but will show her - simply - Love. She doesn’t need me or any other man, but she doesn’t know that either, and I’m just hopin’ like crazy she doesn’t think I’m the one because the only time I’ll ever see North Dakota again is in a Van Morrison song late (LATE) at night. I Promise.
Y’all, I feel like she’s 37 years old wearing 51 (badly), dying inside (like certain kinds of dances around fires) to speak through you, a forest, if you weren't so taken with sparks.
But she wasn't given those words. She has not been told that she can definitely change the world. She knows some folks do, but not in convenience stores and NOT with lottery tickets.
So I finally ask’er what I been feelin’ the entire time I’ve been standin’ there still getting’ scared like I do sometimes, really (REALLY) ready to drive, I ask…
“Is this it for you? Is this all you’ll ever do?”
Her smile
collapsed.
That tightly strapped-in pasty skin
went loose.
Her heart
fell crooked.
She said,
(not knowing my real name)
“I can tell, buddy, by the Mini Thins and the way ya drive,
That we’re both taken with novelty.
We’ve both believed in mean gods.
We both spend our money on things that break too easily like… people.
And I can tell that ya think you’ve had it rough,
So especially you should know:

It’s what I do -
I dream
I get high sometimes.
And I’m gonna roll outta here one day.
I just might not get to drive.









Love Like
by Shihan

I want a love like me, thinking of you, thinking of me,
thinking of you type love
or, me telling my friends more than I've ever admitted to
myself about how I feel about you type love
or, hating how jealous you are, but loving how much you
want me all to your self type love,
or seeing how your first name just sounds so good next to my last name,
and shit, I wanted to see how far I could get without
calling you, and I barely made it out of my garage.
See, I want a love that makes me wait until she falls
asleep then wonder if she dreaming about us being in love
type love,
or who loves the other more,
or what she's doing at this exact moment,
or slow dancing in the middle of our apartment to the music of our hearts, closing my eyes and imagining how a love so good could just hurt so much when she's not there.
Shit, I love not knowing where this love is headed type love.
And check this, I want to place those little post-it notes
all around the house so she never forgets how much I love her type love then not have enough ink in my pen to write
all there is to love about her type love.
Hope that I make her feel as good as she makes me feel, like believing that her being in my life makes me a better person type love or I want her to distract me form whatever I'm doing type love
and I want to deal with my friends making fun of me the
way I made fun of them when they went through the same kind of love type love.
Only difference is this is one of those real love type loves.
and just like in high school, I want to spend hours on the phone with her not saying shit,
then fall asleep then wake up with HER right next to me,
and smell her all up in my covers type love
I want to try to counting the ways I love her, and then
lose count in the middle just so that I have to start all
over again type love
I want to celebrate one of those month anniversaries even
though they ain't really anniversaries, but doin' it just
cause it makes her happy type love.
And I want to break down the time we spend together into seconds just so it sounds like we spend more time together type love
And check this, I want fall in love with the melody the
phone plays when her number is dialed into it type loves
and then talk to her until I lose my breath, she leaves me breathless, but with the expanding of my lungs I inhale all of her back into me
I want a love that makes me need to change my cell phone calling plan to something that allows me to talk to her longer
because, in all honesty, I want to avoid one of them high cell phone bill type loves.
I want a love that makes me regret how small my hands are
I mean the lines on my palms don't give me enough time to love her as long as I'd like to type loves,
and I want a love that makes me st-st-st-st-stutter just thinking
about how strong this love is type love.
I want a love that makes me want to cut off all my hair
Well, maybe not all of the hair
maybe just cut the split ends and trim my mustache, but
it will still be a symbol of how strong my love is for her.
And check this, I kinda feel comfortable now, so I can tell y'all this I even be fantasizing about walking out on a green light just dying to get hit by a car just so I could lose my memory
get transported to some third world country just to get treated then somehow meet up again with you so that I could fall in love with you in a different language to see if it still feels the same
I want a love that's as unexplainable as she is, but I'm married, so she is going to be the one that I share this love with.
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:iconjesusbite:
jesusbite Featured By Owner Jan 23, 2005
Due to me getting involved in a bunch of shit, and being a lazy twat, there is no more "nightly" thing going for the LotN. I should call it "Link of the WheneverJesusbiteGetsOffHisAss" as it would be more truthful.

I've been delving into prose as of lately, as I'm getting back into the habit of reading and writing. These two caught my eye and I need to pimp them.

Vodkagina - [link] - by
"Once..." - [link] - by

And, of course, send feedback to because he likes it when people do that. And he's horny, too.


(PS: I plan on trying to get back on the ball with this, at least as a bi-weekly habit from now own, if not weekly. If you're not on the list (read: didn't get this message) and want to, please note me and request to be put on the list. I'll get right on it.)
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:iconmascaraboy:
mascaraboy Featured By Owner Jan 11, 2005
i'm confused. did i used to be watching you.? do you use that old profile for any other reason than to confuse (or possibly leave behind ahaaa! the truth oh it hurts like immac...sorry veet.)

or do you just have more profiles than hindu goddesses have faces?

alrigh lady? whats oop?

talk yorksuh t' me lass.

bisoux

j
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:iconfyoot:
fyoot Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2005   Writer
eh oop,

I'm now me. I was ~pathetical, and owing to reasons of nostalgia and/or curiousity, I occasionally log back into ~pathetical to check my messages etc.

I don't think you watched ~pathetical. I think you met me when I was already me, although I could be wrong.
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:iconmascaraboy:
mascaraboy Featured By Owner Jan 12, 2005
oh the exisentialist (sp?) nightmare that is the internet! a face for every mood.

thank you for clearing that up, i have bene unable to do little more than claw the keyboard and shriek until it was sorted out.

bisoux

j
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:iconmaky:
maky Featured By Owner Sep 13, 2004  Hobbyist General Artist
Used your stock here [link]
thank you very much!
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