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Everything posted by dik.n.ur.ear

  1. it is funny how just as fast as okae entered houston, half the city decided that his style was now theirs.
  2. Argue...discuss, debate, dispute, kick around, review, ventilate, expostulate, object, protest, bicker, quibble, squabble, quarrel, disaccord, disagree, bandy words, have it out, attest, talk about... it is all the same....i am a suburban white kid who thinks it is all about having fun and getting a hard on...not music.
  3. Yeah....real Graffiti is done by mexicans who argue about hip hop on the internet...word son.
  4. wow...those are some strange memories.
  5. rest in peace http://legacyrecordings.com/johnnycash/images/photos/couch.jpg'> At my door the leaves are falling A cold wild wind has come Sweethearts walk by together And I still miss someone I go out on a party And look for a little fun But I find a darkened corner because I still miss someone Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes I see them every where I miss those arms that held me When all the love was there I wonder if she's sorry For leavin' what we'd begun There's someone for me somewhere And I still miss someone
  6. go buy the "versions of the beast" dvd...@ 14.99, it is real worth it...
  7. that didnt make any sense to me
  8. i doubt the majority of you internet brawlers give a fuck about poetry, but please contribute and prove me wrong....
  9. "Be Drunk" You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it--it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk. But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk. And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."
  10. "Afternoon Song" Though your wicked eyebrows call Your nature into question (Unangelic's their suggestion, Witch whose eyes enthrall)> I adore you still - O foolish terrible emotion - Kneeling in devotion As a priest to his idol will. Your undone braids conceal Desert, forest scents: In your exotic countenance Lie secrets unrevealed. Over your flesh perfume drifts Like incense 'round a censor: Tantalizing dispenser Of evening's ardent gifts. No Philtres could compete With your potent idleness: You've mastered the caress That raises dead me to their feet. Your hips themselves are romanced By your back and by your breasts: By your languid dalliance. Now and then, your appetite's Uncontrolled, unassuaged: Mysteriously enraged, You kiss me and you bite. Dark one, I am torn By your savage ways, Then, soft as the moon, your gaze Sees my tortured heart reborn. Beneath your satin shoe, Beneath your charming silken foot. My greatest joy I put My genius and destiny, too. You bring my spirit back, Bringer of the light. Exploding color in the night Of my Siberia so black.
  11. "EVEN WHEN SHE WALKS. . ." Even when she walks she seems to dance! Her garments writhe and glisten like long snakes obedient to the rhythm of the wands by which a fakir wakens them to grace. Like both the desert and the desert sky insensible to human suffering, and like the ocean's endless labyrinth she shows her body with indifference. Precious minerals are her polished eyes, and in her strange symbolic nature angel and sphinx unite, where diamonds, gold, and steel dissolve into one light, shining forever, useless as a star, the sterile woman's icy majesty.
  12. "To The Reader" Stupidity, delusion, selfishness and lust torment our bodies and possess our minds, and we sustain our affable remorse the way a beggar nourishes his lice Our sins are stubborn, our contrition lame; we want our scruples to be worth our while- how cheerfully we crawl back to the mire: with few cheap tears washing our stains away! Satan Trismegistus subtly rocks our ravished spirits on his wicked bed until the precious metal of our will is leached out by this cunning alchemist: the Devil's's hand directs our every move- the things we loathed become the things we love: day by day we drop though stinking shades quite undeterred on our descent to Hell! Like a poor profligate who sucks and bites the withered breasts of some well-seasoned trull, we snatch in passing at clandestine joys and squeeze the oldest orange harder yet. Wriggling in our brains like a million worms, a demon demos holds its revels there, and when we breathe, the Lethe in our lungs trickles sighing on its secret course. If rape and arson, poison and the knife have not yet stitched their ludicrous designs onto the banal buckram of our fates, it is because our souls lack enterprise! But here among the scorpions and the hounds, the jackals, apes and vultures, snakes and wolves, monsters that howl and growl and squeal and crawl, in all the squalid zoo of vices, one is even uglier and fouler than the rest, althoug the least flamboyant of the lot; this beast would gladly undermine the earth.
  13. http://www.veinotte.com/baudelaire/baudeneyt.jpg'> Charles Baudelaire was a 19th century French poet, translator, and literary and art critic whose reputation rests primarily on Les Fleurs du mal; (1857;The Flowers of Evil) which was perhaps the most important and influential poetry collection published in Europe in the 19th century. Similarly, his Petits poèmes en prose (1868; "Little Prose Poems") was the most successful and innovative early experiment in prose poetry of the time. Known for his highly contraversial, and often dark poetry, as well as his translation of the tales of Edgar Allan Poe, Baudelaire's life was filled with drama and strife, from financial disaster to being prosecuted for obscenity and blasphemy. Long after his death many look upon his name as representing depravity and vice: Others see him as being the poet of modern civilization, seeming to speak directly to the 20th century.
  14. http://www.puregraffiti.com/forum/upload/attachment.php?s=&postid=164620'>
  15. because you touch yourself at night:huh2: :tongue:
  16. i dont know, but for some reason i kinda like that poison the well band....some of the songs are alright.
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