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Poetry Flows From We

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The trio is freshly cut.
The forum is free of rut.
Let's spread our word.
Let's elevate the herd.
Time to say "Now!" not "what? (you nut)."

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this song is a prayer for you
its a hope for something new
despite the old, you grew
and i realise now i see
that you'll be all you can be
its an earth moon love you share with me

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^That's beautiful, vazza

DUBBYA LUVYA?

by Kev Carmody

??George W Bush, ol' Dubya
?He's a good ol'boy ol' Dubya

Smoke 'em out bring 'em to justice?
Crusade, axis of evil?
Not everybody luvs ya Dubya

Hollywood's and the media's reaction invades your brain
?Got George Bush actin' like a born again John Wayne
?Oscar nomination no odds who'll win
?Rather be in Paris Texas than in Palestine?
Not all the world luvs ya Dubya

Colonel Kurtz, now in Iraq and Afghanistan
?Finished his work in Vietnam?
Dubya's security its plane to see?
Forces millions and millions to hide and flee?
As aliens, asylum seekers and refugees?
You got the whole world down on bended knee?
Prayin' for an end to their insecurity

'Smoke 'em out, bring 'em to justice
?Crusade, Axis of Evil'.

He's a good ol' boy 'ol Dubya
?Not everybody luvs ya Dubya......not everybody luvs ya

Devout Muslim, Christian, Jew fightin' those wars for me and you?
Hard for us to go say thanks
?Dodgin' gunships, smart bombs and armoured tanks

Not all the world luvs ya Dubya

"Smoke 'em out, bring 'em to justice
?Crusade, that ol' Axis of Evil'

Not everybody luvs ya Dubya, not everybody luvs ya

We Gentile, Infidel, Heathen Ones
?Caught in the cross fire with worse to come
?Monotheism that comes from the Middle East
?Seem to be based on war......aint based on peace?
Torah, Koran, Bible if ya take a look?
Take their God's Word.....from that ol' Monotheistic Book
?Not everybody.....not everybody....not everybody....LUVS YA

(Repeat)

http://www.kevcarmody.com.au/tracks/mirrors.html#DubbyaLuvya

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this song is a prayer for you


its a hope for something new


despite the old, you grew


and i realise now i see


that you'll be all you can be


its an earth moon love you share with me




that is good, you write that valley?

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tis a song i wrote for a friend a long time ago, and though theres no friendship the words still ring true to me!

i'm not all smackitysmacksmack :( im a big softy at heart :D

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I saw an awesome band called The King Blues at a festival i was at last night. The set was so intense there was no way we were going to let the next band on without an encore first, and eventually the people in charge gave in. The frontman came out and performed a poem whilst the rest of the band recovered and I think you'd appreciate it. I know it still gives me goosebumps.

"5 Bottles of Shampoo"

He begins by describing standing behind a woman in the supermarket check out line and watching her place bread, milk and 5 different bottles of shampoo on the til. It then goes into this...

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thanks for that Simmo, that is wonderful, so nice to hear, Refreshing.
That's what we need, men & women got to stick together as humans and let go of all this shit that divides us and keeps us down. Beauty, really.

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I came across this last week and I quite liked some parts of it. It's a lot to do with everything and nothing, that kind of thing, and nothing at all.

The Scripture of Golden Eternity by Jack Kerouac
http://www.prahlad.org/disciples/scripture_of_the_golden_eternity.htm

Here's a few bits

11



If we were not all the golden eternity we wouldnt be here. Because we are here we cant help being pure. To tell man to be pure on account of the punishing angel that punishes the bad and the rewarding angel that rewards the good would be like telling the water "Be Wet"-Never the less, all things depend on supreme reality, which is already established as the record of Karma earned-fate.



12



God is not outside us but is just us, the living and the dead, the never-lived and never-died. That we should learn it only now, is supreme reality, it was written a long time ago in the archives of universal mind, it is already done, there's no more to do.



13



This is the knowledge that sees the golden eternity in all things, which is us, you, me, and which is no longer us, you, me.



14



What name shall we give it which hath no name, the common eternal matter of the mind? If we were to call it essence, some might think it meant perfume, or gold, or honey. It is not even mind. It is not even discussible, groupable into words; it is not even endless, in fact it is not even mysterious or inscrutably inexplicable; it is what is; it is that; it is this. We could easily call the golden eternity "This." But "what's in a name?" asked Shakespeare. The golden eternity by another name would be as sweet. A Tathagata, a God, a Buddha by another name, an Allah, a Sri Krishna, a Coyote, a Brahma, a Mazda, a Messiah, an Amida, an Aremedeia, a Maitreya, a Palalakonuh, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 would be as sweet. The golden eternity is X, the golden eternity is A, the golden eternity is /\, the golden eternity is O, the golden eternity is [ ], the golden eternity is t-h-e-g-o-l-d-e-n-e-t-e-r- n-i-t-y. In the beginning was the word; before the beginning, in the beginningless infinite neverendingness, was the essence. Both the word "god" and the essence of the word, are emptiness. The form of emptiness which is emptiness having taken the form of form, is what you see and hear and feel right now, and what you taste and smell and think as you read this. Wait awhile, close your eyes, let your breathing stop three seconds or so, listen to the inside silence in the womb of the world, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, re-recognize the bliss you forgot, the emptiness and essence and ecstasy of ever having been and ever to be the golden eternity. This is the lesson you forgot.



15



The lesson was taught long ago in the other world systems that have naturally changed into the empty and awake, and are here now smiling in our smile and scowling in our scowl. It is only like the golden eternity pretending to be smiling and scowling to itself; like a ripple on the smooth ocean of knowing. The fate of humanity is to vanish into the golden eternity, return pouring into its hands which are not hands. The navel shall receive, invert, and take back what'd issued forth; the ring of flesh shall close; the personalities of long dead heroes are blank dirt.



16



The point is we're waiting, not how comfortable we are while waiting. Paleolithic man waited by caves for the realization of why he was there, and hunted; modern men wait in beautified homes and try to forget death and birth. We're waiting for the realization that this is the golden eternity.



17



It came on time.

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Here are a few poems I got off on today, figuratively speaking. They are both by Dan Albergotti.


Things to Do in the Belly of the Whale

Measure the walls. Count the ribs. Notch the long days.
Look up for blue sky through the spout. Make small fires
with the broken hulls of fishing boats. Practice smoke signals.
Call old friends, and listen for echoes of distant voices.
Organize your calendar. Dream of the beach. Look each way
for the dim glow of light. Work on your reports. Review
each of your life's ten million choices. Endure moments
of self-loathing. Find the evidence of those before you.
Destroy it. Try to be very quiet, and listen for the sound
of gears and moving water. Listen for the sound of your heart.
Be thankful that you are here, swallowed with all hope,
where you can rest and wait. Be nostalgic. Think of all
the things you did and could have done. Remember
treading water in the center of the still night sea, your toes
pointing again and again down, down into the black depths.




The Mystery of the Great Blue Heron



The poet tries to make the heron a god,

but the heron does not care. The heron

wades along the shore, a dark body

absorbing light, patience stopping time.

The poet makes sounds like prayer,

but the heron is merely annoyed, stepping

into the air and pulling with broad wings.

The poet carefully records a sacred text,

but the heron has found a hidden pool

among the small trees and stands there

all day, staring coldly into the water,

far from the songs, from the blood,

from all the voices that beg for mercy.

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The Torture Never Stops

by Frank Zappa, 29 October 1976,

Flies all green and buzzin',
?in this dungeon of despair.?
Prisoners grumble and piss their clothes,
?and scratch their matted hair.
?A tiny light, from a window hole,
?a hundred yards away,?
is all they ever gets to know?
about the regular light in the day.

And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
?and weepin' greenish drops.?
In the room where the giant fire puffer works,
?and the torture never stops.

The torture never stops.

Slime and rot, rats and snot
,?and vomit on the floor.?
Fifty yoogly soldiers, man,
?holdin' spears by the iron door.?
Knives and spikes, and guns and the likes
?of every tool of pain.?
And a sinister midget, with a bucket and a mop,?
where the blood goes down the drain.
And it stinks so bad, the stones been chokin',
?and weepin' greenish drops.
?In the room where the giant fire puffer works,?
and the torture never stops.

The torture never stops.?
The torture.. the torture..?
The torture never stops.

Flies all green and buzzin',
?in this dungeon of despair.
?An evil prince eats a steaming pig,
?in a chamber right near there.?
He eats the snouts and the trotters first.?
The loins and the groins is soon dispersed.
?His carvin' style is well rehearsed.
?He stands and shouts:

All men be cursed!
?All men be cursed!
?All men be cursed!?
All men be cursed!

And disagree??
Well, no one durst.

He's the best, of course, of all the worst.
?Some wrong been done, he done it first.

And it stinks so bad, his bones been chokin',
?and weepin' greenish drops.?
In the night of the iron sausage,
?where the torture never stops.

The torture never stops.?
The torture.. the torture..?.
The torture never stops.

Flies all green and buzzin',
?in this dungeon of despair.?
Who are all those people,
?that he's locked away down there?
?Are they crazy??
Are they sainted??
Are they zeroes,?
someone painted?

And it's never been explained,
?since first it was created.?
But a dungeon, like a sin,?
requires naught but lockin' in,
?of everything that's ever been.?
Look at her.?
Look at him.

That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
?That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.?
That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.
?That's what's the deal we're dealin' in.

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from The Hunting of the Snark

by Lewis Carroll

Fit the Sixth

THE BARRISTER

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Here's one that I hope will be a song, once I get my head around how I want it to sound.

"Is This Art?"

My friends are more depressed than you and yours could ever be
Existential competitions see who can be more free
When Blue becomes a language
And when Red consumes my heart
I just need you to tell me, is this art?

When you turn out all the lights and watch expressionism breed
Do you never feel as empty as the soul i need to feed?
When passion is an option
And it's left out from the start
Can you look me in the eyes and tell me this is art?

Well I wish that I could walk this land with my life on my back
Maybe sit atop a mountain or dive into the Black
As it is, my day-to-day is lived only in part
But now I'm ripping through this canvas, am I art?

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( ::<(:))>:: Very cool Simmo, love it ::<(^_^)>::)

That which we call a rose

by Michael Dransfield

Black greyed into white a nightmare of bicycling
?over childhood roads harried peaceless?
tomorrow came a mirage packed in hypodermic
?the city we lived in then was not of your making
?it was built by sculptors in the narcotic rooms of Stanley
?

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? Inside
by Sting

Inside the doors are sealed to love
Inside my heart is sleeping
Inside the fingers of my glove
Inside the bones of my right hand
Inside it's colder than the stars
Inside the dogs are weeping
Inside the circus of the wind
Inside the clocks are filled with sand
Inside she'll never hurt me
Inside the winter's creeping
Inside the compass of the night
Inside the folding of the land

Outside the stars are turning
Outside the world's still burning

Inside my head's a box of stars I never dared to open
Inside the wounded hide their scars, inside
this lonesome sparrow's fall
Inside the songs of our defeat, they sing of treaties broken
Inside this army's in retreat, we hide
beneath the thunder's call

Outside the rain keeps falling
Outside the drums are calling
Outside the flood won't wait
Outside they're hammering down the gate

Love is the child of an endless war
Love is an open wound still raw
Love is a shameless banner unfurled
Love's an explosion,
Love is the fire of the world
Love is a violent star
A tide of destruction
Love is an angry scar
A violation, a mutilation, capitulation, love is annihilation.

Inside the failures of the light, the
night is wrapped around me
Inside my eyes deny their sight, you'd
never find me in this place
Inside we're hidden from the moonlight,
we shift between the shadows
Inside the compass of the night,
inside the memory of your face

Outside the walls are shaking
Inside the dogs are waking
Outside the hurricane won't wait
Inside they're howling down the gate

Love is the child of an endless war
Love is an open wound still raw
Love is a shameless banner unfurled
Love's an explosion,
Love is the fire at the end of the world
Love is a violent star
A tide of destruction
Love is an angry scar
The pain of instruction
Love is a violation, a mutilation, capitulation,
Love is annihilation.

I climb this tower inside my head
A spiral stair above my bed
I dream the stairs don't ask me why,
I throw myself into the sky

Love me like a baby, love me like an only child
Love me like an ocean; love me like a mother mild
Love me like a father, love me like a prodigal son
Love me like a sister, love me like the world has just begun
Love me like a prodigy, love me like an idiot boy,
Love me like an innocent, love me like your favorite toy
Love me like a virgin, love me like a courtesan,
Love me like a sinner, love me like a dying man.

Annihilate me, infiltrate me, incinerate
me, accelerate me, mutilate me, inundate
me, violate me, implicate me, vindicate
me, devastate me

Love me like a parasite, love me like a dying sun
Love me like a criminal, love me like a man on the run

Radiate me, subjugate me, incubate me,
recreate me, demarcate me, educate me,
punctuate me, evaluate me, conjugate me,
impregnate me, designate me, humiliate
me, segregate me, opiate me, calibrate
me, replicate me

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Thanks Merbo =) Loving the Sting...

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Patriotism

by Ellie Schoenfeld

My country is this dirt
that gathers under my fingernails
when I am in the garden.
The quiet bacteria and fungi,
all the little insects and bugs
are my compatriots. They are
idealistic, always working together
for the common good.
I kneel on the earth
and pledge my allegiance
to all the dirt of the world,
to all of that soil which grows
flowers and food
for the just and unjust alike.
The soil does not care
what we think about or who we love.
It knows our true substance,
of what we are really made.
I stand my ground on this ground,
this ground which will
ultimately
recruit us all
to its side.

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Night falls
and keeps on
falling
Autumn leaves
bruise the sky
a yelllow shiver
ripping the smooth hour
with it's edgy
spine
Struggling to hold back
the dawn
open hearted lovers
cling to the sweet fruits
of last minute kisses
so eager
to lose themselves
in the honey thick gravity
of love so new
while beyond the Gates
leaves tear themselves
from the only limb they've known
to experience
the freedom
the uncertainty
of air.

- Jewel Kilcher

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m Maid up

A maid ran a mile on the head of a pin
To find out where the light was getting in
That pin made a hole upon the ceiling
That made our maid recount this feeling.

"Bring some flour and luke warm water."

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Antigonish

by William Hughes Mearns

Yesterday, upon the stair,
?I met a man who wasn

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WALT WHITMAN'S NIECE

by Woody Guthrie 1946


Last night or the night before that
I won't say which night
A seaman friend of mine
I'll not say which seaman
Walked up to a big old building
I won't say which building
And would not have walked up the stairs
Not to say which stairs
If there had not have been two girls
Leaving out the names of those two girls

I recall a door, a big long room
I'll not tell which room
I remember a deep blue rug
but I can't say which rug
A girl took down a book of poems
Not to say which book of poems
And as she read, I laid my head
And I can't tell which head
Down in her lap, and I can't mention which lap

My seaman buddy and girl moved off
After a couple of pages and there I was
All night long, laying and listening
And forgetting the poems.
And as wll as I could recall,
Or my seaman buddy could recollect,
My girl had told us that she was a niece
Of Walt Whitman, but not which niece,
And it takes a night and a girl
And a book of this kind
A long long time to find its way back

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Though now a poem- it's a 1st draft un edited ive just completed for Uni- english and writing your own life!

i hope you enjoy it- look past the inevitable gramatical errors. Im very interested if you can feel my passion within it coming through as its a big part of my life. Read slow for best viewing!

And please let me know if it makes sense! its meant to shop and change- its how i write, but if it's too hard to follow let me know!

AUTOBIOGRAPHY ON WRITING A MEMOIR - And the subsequent impact it has left on my life.

It is true in a sense; that you only realize the true impact and profoundness of a time and place in retrospect. Only when you can link all the pieces of life

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very reflective and passionate, I bet your grandpa's memoirs make for a fascinating life :P

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I think that's absolutely beautiful, valley.
And not only the content, but word choices, sentence construction- it flows well.
It's honest and interesting.

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I think that's absolutely beautiful, valley.


And not only the content, but word choices, sentence construction- it flows well.


It's honest and interesting.



thanks mate!


thats interesting you say it flows well- ive shown a few people and it flows differently for each person!

cheers for the kind words too zeph :)

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