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Dissemination Point


wonkerock

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http://www.gangways.blogspot.com

 

The Gangway is open for interpretation. The gallery will note any defense of, or desire for purity in some original creation is by definition meaningless. The Gangways purpose as a centripetal cultural port is to export artistic artifacts with the intention of surrendering it to interpretation. All exports will be handled without care. Acting only as a dissemination point for these artifacts, The Gangway does not support patrols against the spread or potential contamination of its posted material. This is a non-profit seaport.

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Nekcarb Goes To Sleep

 

Selection from The Nekcarbian Fables

 

There was a lady made of the finest tin, and the most incredible jewels that fished by the bay just every fourth Sunday of the month. In boredom she would often cast her pole beyond the water, for her cast was above the mortal range. Once for every certain Sunday she loosened miles and miles and miles of string over the grand metropolis of New Don Juan. This particular Sunday she had the misfortune of hooking no fish, though the ? if she ever in tented on recreational game makes no absolute difference, for this day she hooked a man patiently scrubbing feet in the shower. “ACK!” If you can imagine fly fisherman casting a trout current, the release is followed with quick recoil. Miss tin lady made a fine show of jerking and wrestling his firm desire on executing just one quick rinse for the road. Someone in the city below must have seen blue skies that day, but in lesser aesthetic unison a naked man hanging out among the birds. One should know flying is no novelty to any person, but the fantastic nature of that experience can be lessened, not withstanding, an individual whose had his feet wet. Naked man you should only imagine had a conflict with the interest, though frankly this would end later when he learned of the tin woman’s real constitution. So when all was reeled, and all was wound, two creatures spoke with glares for the tiring journey had exhausted both. After a minute of getting to know his form the tin woman spoke. At first some language came, mysterious glitters of glass wordfall, a tempting binary wind which tasted upon the lips, more music, and all feeling. Gathering herself, “I’m tossing you back.” The poor-hearted man couldn’t conclude what needed said in return. She was the most beautiful tin he had ever seen. Tin which sparkled and seemed as though dust cleaner should sale in the scent of peaches. “SNORT!” His eyes could deduce nothing from this pure form, but any other might note she was completely imperfect. Keep in mind, what’s practical lost its mind on this experiment. But what of the jewels? “What of the jewels?” he spoke. “This is my beauty. I have worth, but I see you offer me nothing of value. You are the pettiest of fish, and I will lock myself away till my cast proves more capable toward the right.” The naked man half-heartedly confused did not believe the marvelous woman of such metal could know, that he was a petty garbage man! “GAG!” He stood without cloth and to the average thing a tid bit cleaner on the face. How happy he had been with the latest razor technology, six blades, and it cut smooth like a knife through micro waved butter. Alright, let’s not wander… His expression said so much the tin nymph’s expression responded almost in anger. After all this reeling, grief, after casting an entire bay, suburb, and busting my grip over 16 blocks, the man I hook does not see me for my jewels, he does not bear to look at my worth. And I do not see in him, this one desire, he sees something I do not require. The naked man scowled understanding. Tin woman made a passive grin which could have stood for nothing. What would a metal like her need? Inspiration moved the nude man brightly. No tin, not such an industrial nymph could ever wish for life of the assembly line, for she herself is alive without accordance to any historical denomination as of some five minutes. So the man now knew she had lived a life estranged by choice, away from opium society, and that she had a television hiding somewhere, probably among the weeds. This explained the amount of washing her brain had done up till now. Easily commendable, and should earn at least four coin for a free washing at any an all participating existential media outlet laundry mats. All the sudden the tin woman decided to sit down. She made an inviting seat wiping and tossing sparse maple twigs from the drop-zone. “I know what ails you, our likeness should be heard within earshot.” Oh go on Tin Woman! “Then go on, but don’t dare waste time of mine.” The naked man twitched for a gust. Deciding to leave the waters edge, he landed himself next to beauty. So softly he removed a chain of jewel from her neck. The woman of tin locked into Love’s eyes. Her eyes were deep green lily slime, the pupil a cold screw. “I’ve never held a cat before. I’ve never drank cocoa with family at the Christmas tree farm. You see I’ve never left this isle of misery. What makes you forget about what I’m made of,” she bled. Quoth the man, “why should we forget, it’s this imperfection I love.” And with that the tin woman’s stoned gaze broke to pieces. Her body began to clank and crack as limbs, joints, and tin rained down, oh it rained from a low place. After much dust cleared one only deciphered the torso and bonkered head of beauty. The nude man knelt before her spare parts, and reaching past the Earth he withdrew a hammer and nail. He went away rapping the nail through her tin form, and time again releasing the nail back out. “SUCK!” Finely refined beams of white let loose through every hole she did allow. The hammer strike varied from passionate and the sadistically violent. Naked man gripped the light and screamed “I’m the Garbage man born of sweat and blood, the concert of the Cosmos unplugged!” Damn, sing it kid! “I’m the garbage man born of sweat and blood, the concert of the Cosmos unplugged!” Every release tolled on his arms, meddling with that ultimate energy. The pile of tin spoke, “what do you see, what’s this inside of me?” Naked Adam having driven nails upon a concentration of the surface, so as to weaken a circular fix, took a large heave with no nail intent on projection. And it gave way, a spyglass into the woman’s shell. Dropping the instruments he peered through her. “What do you see!?” She yelled, she wanted to know. Adam smiled with a lick, never fleeing the hole. “This is the most beautiful tin I’ve ever seen.” Her tin face blushed a crimson crayola. The voice echoed cool whispers that made her rattle. “Will you rebuild me garbage man?” She expelled calm as tides answer the moon, “Yes, under this one condition. I’ll never like to see the scrap yards again.” The tin woman smiled. Finally both our expressions shown amends.

 

Shit Nekcarb, get that loogie out son, your ruining the whole story.

ACK! SPIT. Thank you.

 

:confused2:

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I just inserted it into the

 

Dada Poetry Generator

 

Dada Poetry Generator

 

Poetry which denies all sense and reason. The word "dada" originates in French meaning 'hobbyhorse', a word selected at random from the dictionary.

 

To create your Dada poem, type or paste a paragraph into the text area then click 'Create Poem'.

 

Hint: Insert a paragraph from an online article or newspaper for best results.

 

Poem:

a knife at and drank

frankly this other could the

the she Easily sing a

an of from You of

would the over the sadistically

reeled, from that And with

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Throughout history artistic movements have the tendency to gather and grow in specific areas, the village in nyc being one, Buenos Aires in the early 1900's, Prague at one point. I think theoretically we can have such a place on the interent, somewhere accustomed to contemporary cultural discourses... thats why I bring up contamination and dissemination (spreading like seeds) of artistic information. Look how music such as Diplo, or Girl Talk pieces apart original works and derives something relevant and enjoyable from it. Why can't this site fufill the role of an artistic community, with work coming from around the globe daily. You think of the power photoshop has in reforming, either insidiously like cellulite in porn, or others times it can take an idea and begin remixing a vision... most of these artistic reforms seem to stay on the net anyway, why not begin a dialgue between them. I tell ya it's a goldmine, only this will be non-profit.

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