07-10-2013, 03:25 PM | #41 |
Steel Cut
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No worries, I know we're all busy, just making sure to keep this fresh in our minds.
I posted a handful on the first page, if any of you have time lmk if you guys suggest to drop or change any. |
07-11-2013, 12:44 AM | #42 |
Robin Williams of Fallen Victims
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@oats
Last edited by Pent uP; 07-14-2013 at 02:36 AM. |
07-11-2013, 12:56 AM | #43 |
Steel Cut
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Then spread the word so people buy it! All money will be equally dispersed among contributors. But we have to have a product before we can make any money.
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07-11-2013, 01:43 AM | #44 |
Robin Williams of Fallen Victims
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Cool. Pm me ur email. I wanna talk to u about it then
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07-11-2013, 09:52 AM | #45 | |
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Quote:
NAME AND SHAME PLZ!
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07-14-2013, 05:48 PM | #46 |
Steel Cut
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Lets keep it moving, people.
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07-14-2013, 09:17 PM | #47 |
Robin Williams of Fallen Victims
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One Must Be Kind To Beasts She sat on a bench in the park attending her thoughts her... sweltering, wretching, unsettling faults meddling every dredging need caught between the light of her dwelling with moths - from a locked-stiff closet her memory locked. Eyes closed but sockets popping her retinas off like her love and blood and grudges were condensed to a clot. Cross legged, arms flowing even to her shoulder distances. Body connected the way her whole existence is - a touching at points that leads to remorseful vigilance when meditation melts into over-thinking it. But.. She feels so omnipotent, so ubiquitous, prone and limitless.. while she only sits and thinks. In a park between some dorms and apartments. Surrounded by loudmouths she's courted and got with. Where shes gotten more then retarded doing shots until someone delivered Shawarma or Sonic. She believes reminiscing is boring to logic, so all her past thoughts leave her tornfully haunted. She knows the layouts of various balconies and living rooms - and knows which of her exes has to see her sitting soon. Banking on his wonderment - His tragedy's her ritual so she tries to appear casually conditional... but between all her ghosts it seems this fantasy's habitual. A demon spirit feeding fear itself and blackening the richest souls. They're all drawn to her but above her, in a way. Some look down at her for the apologies shes struggling to make, some do their own thing and some others look away. Others are there as random clutter in her brain that she drowns out like a gutter in the rain. She's stuck between a hangover and a walk, calling it a shame. She's just a college chick - a future worker and parent to some. Passing a moment in her life she was barren amongst. We'll respect her when her ties are barely undone without knowing how she faired from her slums. We'll assume she's felt disparity once and wont relate her to the witch we rarely discuss. "She would only point out the salvation that was latent in his own soul, and in the soul of every man." - E.M. ForsterSh ---------------------------- Agathodaemon's Bus An olive rain coat, black top hat and a briefcase - with a trail of smoke that brandish a dream-scape. To get on his bus he walks through traffic mid-speed chase and to park it he's gotta crash on the freeway. All of his passengers prepaid, and are all city folks; while the bus itself is his mechanical symbiote. An aura surrounds them of blood splatter and rings of smoke that take cues from graphics in videos. They're addicts and cynical about the habits that give them soul, limit them, and stick'em with crass individuals. The average, habitual, drinker is fuel to the engine. - Business is great the bus' movement's relentless There isn't a moment he's not in the mood to be reckless with push bars, spiked wheels and a buku of weapons to make compact car cubes for some tetris. He's on a crash course with assholes who're usually desperate to speed through life from their futile inception. - Is he creating destiny or just choosing the destined? Either you're doomed in the present or you're on fumes with a death wish until your future's a dead end. The losers are let in - It's grueling and pleasant when the bus is fast in turns; Tires screeching before it pumps its wrath and curse, then its full speed ahead so rough the gravel bursts, crushing bastards first -then they go in the flux capacitor. It needs more souls from mortals drunk and lacking verve. It feeds on beating hearts and constant massacres. The driver speeds through the lights without a visa or license - - he's just the entity - the demon inside it. Born from the views that his mystique is so violent; but he's simply out looking for people just like him. He frequents his wine sips - merrymaking the road. The vehicle pilots itself - unfairly taking control - he'd be lucky to down shift, barely saving a soul. He lives in this mobile morgue where the gate isn't closed; - where he favors the dull and considers it reliant that his biggest uproar consists of drinking himself quiet. The turbo inlet's giant: tripling what the pistons are doing, The exhaust is so loud it muffles the vision of movement, It spits out fumes in a prism of plumage, and runs a molten block under a cooling system of sewage. With tires slipping on lubed slicks - drifting like cruise ships wrecking everything from hoopties to the sickest of new whips The underbelly - dripping wet and reckless, with headlights that leave victims dead and remnants. It's idea of road kill is drunk pet detectives -and a good spread is when five cars spread the exit. So when you're driving drunk, feeling hardly in danger don't forget Agathodaemon is your guardian angel. -------------------------------- Smoking Aegis It's funny how something with such tiny specifics like mindless defenses perched under eyes and our centrics - that fight with a sickness, change our height and dimensions, and how light seems reflected - while defining our essence might be effected by something so blinding and distant. Take the bible for instance; Take a Life we've conditioned; Lend silence and ears and blend science and fiction. Watch green apples in a seaglass goblet apply the conniption... Earth bred humans, but the sky was God's creator - and three hundred cubic miles of water vapor crafted clear in the stratosphere, spread so ominous, and gave the ozone molecules for extra oxygen. - A wedding ring of ice as a canvas above, like a canopy hut that the immaculate hung. Lightened, yet, the sky was red, - refracting the sun until the ice would melt and pander a flood. Earth breeds plants, and the vilest of humans, with them - three hundred cubic miles of pollution. The sky is so blue-ish...during minimal glow, so filter your hope through rings of cigarette smoke. Sprinkle a coat of colors as exhaust manifolds pop. Nuclear neon's and violets are dabbled in blobs. The sky is set with bright effects, blackened by smog, until life'll melt or we bring cancer to God. Brutes weren't the meanest - in tune with the seamless safety between the ozone and Methuselah's aegis. Neighbors like-family acted communal as creatures; Subdued by the frequents of rurality's bliss. - Produce the greenest - an air born UV protectant - Slowing their aging - folks in their 80's look newly developed. People were hundreds of years old when the sex begun and Patriarchs played their parts for close to millenniums. Rapturous workings - looking for bastardized mercy with palms shackling the aegis of pastors and clergy. Cars crashing and burning - cellphones family alerting; Neighbors daft to trailer trashing accident 'turvy's.' Aging cream and tanning lotions keep ladies refined - who intake UV rays until the day that they die. Extremist tricks leaving kids racing to try - and alcoholic dad involvement is wasting some child. No tailored theatrics, their language was tactless. Every word spoken was directly related to actions. One dialect devised and kept - trained to the masses and the world functioned without straining the planet; Families and travelers able to discuss what they want - Then the ring melted and caused a flood for a month. Subtly some sunk - Noah and others drifted apart. Shivers and shock progressed into lisps when they talked; An individual's thoughts, plus affliction and loss shaped the way our brains would shift and evolve. Some simply forgot, some don't know what it means to realize our ancestors had the Utopian dream. We're French Canadians managing amongst friends, We're Indian Brits listening to Japanese Ebonics, We're deaf-mutes with reputes to cry in astonishment, We're a collective voice that sounds like an argument... like mindless defenses perched under eyes and our centrics - that fight with a sickness, change our height and dimensions, and how light seems reflected - while defining our essence might be effected by something so blinding and distant - such as as a star, vapors, timing and minutes. We've changed in every way and written the plight of our legends, but between creation and path there's no final consensus. -------------------------------- Wedding A presentable mess, dignified by the hunch enharbored in a sleek suit that weighted him like tungsten armor. Making a glowing entrance from the sunlit parlor with a pep in his step while the munchkins lauded. He didnt jump for joy, and his frame wasn't rigid. He walked the aisle with his ball and chain like a skip it. Her head orbiting him, navigated by physics as eyes were the counter that rolled...feigning her interest. An ensamble plays without change in a cymbal as he nears rows of people he favors and mimics. The furthest ones back ensure a spaceless exhibit and those in between meet his cantankerous limits. The strength of his muscles beg for forlorn rescue but he's walking trapped in war torn dress shoes. Each step is a relief only when he's pausing slowly as the latch of the ball and chain is causing cold feet. He wasn't a mess before he put that suit on. He thinks the marriage wont drag his foot for too long. With all the light shining on his largest omen... all he had to do was vow past his darkest moments. She walked with a smug smile and the flair of a princess. Each layer of her gown could air out her business. If only her corset could spare the constriction so she could breathe before vowing bare to the witness. She wore her ball and chain to her marriage indifferent - a fashionable dress belt you'd compare with a vixens. It was thicker than usual - with daring ambition to help hide the bulge where she was bearing her children. Broken values alongside karma that faltered as she walked perched against the arm of her father. Approaching the terrifying, yet, marvelous alter while thinking thoughts to harmful to maunder. She relishes each second lived in this damn dress but anticipates the moment her spirits transgress - Throwing the bouquet of balls and chains from her mound to strike like a midevil mace at the crowd. She's ready to be swept into the night any moment but first she passes off this rite of emotion. She's getting ready to be much more lady like - with thoughts that could make her unborn baby cry. They sat as the masses - swooned, or born to act. All dressed similarly - but less uniform than fad. Mannequin smiles stretched when a mood of normal passed and toasts were replied to with a group of formal laughs. They had all gone through this motion of passage - Their personal dichotomies were open to fashion. Some women wore earrings that were rolls of their black whips, while scars held the dress up for those in a strapless. Most had wedding bands but no dote in their actions - a tungsten and diamond wonder twin controlling the masses. Those who had kids kept a grain of salt employed as chains were leashes for their balls of joy. The men had problems raising their glasses to toast - in contract tight cuff links and a mannequin pose. The strap on their throat was for pain to subside when hanging their head by the ball and chain as their tie. A Kansas City Shuffle for certain individuals bordering between a circus and a ritual. Laughter and applause are perchant in their visuals, in the manner that everyone's working for their victuals. Even bride and groom aren't partial to the antics - respectively imaginable - the garter and the dancing. Black suits and white collars in this heritage setting entrapped as a charade for the American wedding. --------------- Hair of the Dog [s0ize=1]"Just because everything is different doesn't mean anything has changed."- Irene Peter[/size] Everything was red - like when you're awake but your numb and your eyes are closed but you're facing the sun. You lie there with your head aching a ton while managing the confined space in your lungs. Your tastebuds are pushing up daisies and rum, but you cant get rid of the flavor it sprung. Your eyelids slowly stop hugging themselves and the sun greets your temple with a bludgeon to help. Focus is pulled to become a drumskin that's stretched as hollow hearts evolve beyond a "bumping effect." Summer is met as the sky's blues are magnified while pupils half their size from hues that stagger eyes. A dizzyness comes from the woozy-patterened sky like things lightly reflected are dually sacrificed. Movement might happen like you're flinching through systems and rolling in graves to get into the sitting position. A lawn exposed with torture methods strange and passe - your head pounded the same direction and way the grass sways. The green color palpitates against your face in vast rays and its existence alone elates the drab pain. The weight just cascades pushing the earth and your sleep of mud muddled from tears rubbing the dirt on your cheeks. A proverbial groan that sounds like it merged with a squeel is let out between a muttered prayer and a courteous plea. Eyes searching the field find the sun shimmering against your open handle beside your unfinished drink. That one glistening thing makes you wince at the sky; forcing a reverse vertigo feeling of drifting inside. The light blue comforts while bridging the sight with tear sockets too dirt clogged and hindered to cry. There's grit in your eye, and a timely memory blurring a vision of future with myraid effigies. What's you're reaction to this climate, mentally? - Wet behind the ears no matter how dry the weather feels. Breezes that free skin but can dampen your gasps. Chain tight vein lines along hands in a path that lead to fatigue while you stand in the grass. Mundane sun rays thats force you to grab for that glass. Shattered, relaxed, irked and swept with fear... the warm drink becomes a working grenadier. You slowly examine the dirt you slept on here to see one outstanding German Shepard ear. A glance at what you began the night prior, as a gust thrusts your innards and expands your eyes wider. - Expierencing a best friend being buried to rot - both your sense of control and clarity lost... Liquid courage rises as your lips cherish the sauce. You'll end and start this the same way - hair of the dog. Last edited by Pent uP; 07-17-2013 at 10:05 PM. |
07-14-2013, 09:47 PM | #48 | |
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The Reapers
This light; it's the only thing that keeps him breathing On a boat getting thrashed by the deep blue Demons They eat through seamen - foot-long katana pearly whites Eyes filled with sin; as the bitter wind tangles the whirling night The burning light that he uses to turn and fight the leviathans They're necks entwining, he'll only survive by divinest whim This Hydra-thing takes every blow; the dragon persists And it's tail whips back and forth and it rattles the ship Blackening fists, wracking his grip; the writhing wreath of neck That towers over; scented with the sour meat of death He keeps his chest sturdy in the wake of crewmates rogue limbs Battling monsters with the light; against the blue grave his souls in It's a crude fate, we're old kids fighting to rhyme and reason In the night we define the treason in a dreamscape for our dream's sake we strive for ceilings.. Our tiny light, our burning ship in the ink black sea of monsters Fighting for air, against a world we just need to conquer The sable robes, the hooded guises - crimson red, crooked eyelids Blackened features, bastard creatures, the living dead, they look in silence Or reverence for the eminence permeating evilly, strongly The herd's breathing is haunted, by ghosts of the past The reapers shepherd them forth - showing the flow of the path A pale symposium grasped by the clutches of grim shadows Moving to the drum of the reapers; like bunches of sick cattle Their fists rattle as they wave them to a field of desolate graves The pale horde can't recall memories or remember their names Only feel a center of pain - ushered forth like goats entering barns These poor folk.. alive.. but dead in the heart But not him! No he's escaped the treacherous ocean waves And progresses along the road he paves, slowly escaping A closing grave - on the island where he pursues a treasure Armed with his light; a might that only few can measure Truly weathered; slip and be left for dead in seconds Using his light; he equips his second weapon.. ..A deadly blessing; he draws a pad and parchment For which he exchanged his classic armor As he leaves the shore and enters the island's forest He meets the wrath of archers! A suprising chorus of violent forces He battles harder, than ever, despite a forever of fighting Trying to fulfill a dream that must be measured in lightning! Quick hot flashes in long battles, he wars with the enemy Fighting with his light and his pen; supporting his destiny The reapers watch and laugh as the hobbled cast proceeds Afraid and unalive, shells of flesh with a lack of dreams Tragic schemes of fates fallen short, afraid to leap That sweat in the killing fields, under the blazing heat But he is not afraid to chase what is his, what is calling his name He fights through the soldiers, although he is crawling with pain Impossible strains, as he fights through the wooded paths Out of breath - hearing sounds of stress in each crooked gasp But look, at last, he has reached his mountain peak And he is validated by the knee-jerk sound he speaks.. "Finally" - He begins climbing and climbing His hope's silently rising - his heart is beating what fate is designing The reapers twitch and instantly, all eight turn eastward A visible rage, shown by their shaking features The angry creatures fly off, sensing something painful to see Some rebel living his life, and chasing his dreams He's reached the top of the mountain, his passion rewarded Creativity forging against the violent path he was touring He feels he's actually soaring, through the cloudless skies Nothing but sun until he collides with a shrouded guise He feels under the gun - his drowning cries grow weaker His spirit fleeting, caught in the undertow of the reapers he can hear them whisper... Embrace the scythe - relax and leave this painful life Escape the strife and fade to night - let the reapers take you Even the grateful types need not even speak a thank you After all, Destiny calls, lie down beneath the hopeless sky Let your open mind heal, seal, and relax your broken spine Close your eyes and hear the gentle crackle of your last gasp And sport a smile while your soul shatters to a laugh track . . . . He sees the reasons to fail - a haggard man strapped for cash Beggin for change from the regular slaves in plastic masks He sees his parents shaking their heads, a woman laughing and leaving He hears an audience ***kle.. he feels lumps trapped in his breathing . . ...no. . . . He draws his light, his way of knowing this is what's right A blazing beacon that acts like a gun in the night Like a motherly sprite, it guides him to his quill and paper As he pens words, excerpts return the thrill he savors He grips his saber, a blade constituted of art and passion A martyr acting against the eight Necropolis kings Reaching for his third weapon, unleashing whats bottled within He draws his final weapon... ...unaware of what it could be Until Now! He takes a peek through the looking glass and sees all of earth's population looking back Everything he's ever done, is under the scrutiny As he trips and bumbles and stumbles beautifully Through poems of mistakes and paintings of failings He feels a heart beating, that aches for prevailing He knows now - billions of eyes couldn't possibly matter As the wind whips and kicks up, like God calling for rapture The Reapers are ripped away into the bluest sky As he finally begins chasing his dream.. truly alive The False Cartographers He had a name - not that he could recall the meaning Not under the pressure of these falling ceilings Not while he's lost in a cosmic reeling - among the city's aether Searching for his name in the dismal weather - turning locks On vaults of feeling - grooming verdant thoughts, hes rocking, kneeling Thought - What has purpose brought but a riddle measured as fickle treasure? A bird with wrinkled feathers - caught in the galloping thunder A day dreamer battling slumber - alone in the vicious rain Beneath the overpass freeway; A screenplay of grave theater/trappings of wonder what is his name? Flying through different frames of the metropolis maze Trying to convince himself he's honestly sane Caught in a haze of alchemy experts - tying off beneath balcony networks Where the clothes of the poor hang ragged with wet dirt Their chests hurt; scarlet burden - should he don that armor? Searching for that song he harbors; his heart is certain He's the wrongful martyr behind this cosmic curtain Desperate for his name, to break away from the city pavement Catching different wavelengths from the Gospel's ripping pages this misty matrix - won't grant passage from the binds of fate Lost in the violent traits behind the slums iron gate This is the final place as his gait stalls and dies With no chance of escaping these walls, divine. She had a face, but couldn't understand the curves Nor help but feel like she's falling off of Planet Earth This has been the plan since birth - a damning curse Her candle burns, but won't illuminate the desert skies She follows tracks that span the dirt - that mesmerize and tell her lies of better lives past this granite turf ... A head full of ghosts, and blackened faith She grapples rage facing the battle blades of a lesser fate Trapped in the weathered plains of the nether's waste A fettered face - she can't escape who she is On this desert byway - things are better my way A useless wish to Heaven's highways & the Truth, it hits; like a group of brick, or another vocation She'll watch the desert stars shine down on another location His name is spelled out in plainest letters beneath the rainy weather And the thunder's shaking tremors - between the looming monoliths Crude and ominous - steel towers spell doom for a ruined populace Caught dead in the middle on confusions continent His head is a little - airy, like his fading heart But he shrinks into the shadows, and plays his part Her face is ugly as demons unleashed from the bowels The ones beseeching this queen with their screams and their howls Feed for the final - stay out on the desert plains Living in the carcass of a vulture's wrecked remains Her present grave.. no matter her dreams The passage, it seems - is sealed by the wasteland & this maid's hand can't shatter the screens Quote:
but there's no escaping what's been made for us |
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07-15-2013, 02:34 AM | #49 |
Steel Cut
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Ok we got myself, Lars, soul, and pent. @dead man should be adding his part shortly. @Seyance are you planning on contributing verses? Also, what's the word on the design and whatnot?
I'm thinking everyone should have a little "about the author" bit on themselves as a preface for their section of the book. No need to post that at this point, but start thinking/writing it up people. I have breaks from teaching in August and November, so I'd like to be able to wrap the project by then if possible. Hit me with your guys thoughts and input, too. |
07-15-2013, 09:43 AM | #50 |
Robin Williams of Fallen Victims
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Im gonna change one out actually. Give me a day
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07-15-2013, 10:47 AM | #51 |
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dopesauce!
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07-15-2013, 03:10 PM | #52 |
native system
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ill search for some more pieces but i think i have my best up for the mostpart
yall should go vote on the league finals its finally up |
07-17-2013, 10:53 AM | #53 |
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i honestly don't have the interest in reading them i once did
noone writes from the heart any more and has fun with it they all read like the same story rinsed and repeated, zero emotional worth and far too mechanical i miss the old days when i hadnt learned so much and everything was new to me sadface.jpg
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07-17-2013, 10:05 PM | #54 |
Robin Williams of Fallen Victims
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updated
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07-25-2013, 08:03 AM | #56 |
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where we at with this now?
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07-29-2013, 06:36 AM | #58 |
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YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE
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07-29-2013, 03:15 PM | #59 |
Robin Williams of Fallen Victims
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Oats I still gotta email u that # my bad dont let me forget..at work tho cant do it now
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"take the reigns", sey low mid tier at best, seyance was nvr good |
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