Recent Journal Entries

  • the end of the cold war(i die without you)

    by RosesAtSunset on February 17, 2017

    was it bronze or was it blue

    was it hue or was it you

    how could i possibly choose

    to describe the beauty

    or the blood

    that it drew 

    your fingers your jaw your cheeks 

    my flaws 

    i can't be without you

    so i have to be without you 

    a heartbreak in my dreams 

    and a handshake in my thoughts

    van gogh packs up your things 

    and the medicine lifts you off

    as you sink into the quiet neurons 

    working away in the back of my mind 

    a blue lightning nightmare

    that i can never doubt i love 

    be free be well be happy 

    you dick

     



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  • not depressed not really

    by alterEgo on February 08, 2017

    More like stale. is this me, am i stale, i feel life is stale, my relationship is stable, but at times i feel bored? i guess this is normal, job is also stale, it's like ash in my mouth now, just suck up and do it. I should have taken a longer holiday, I don't like to deal with people. its plesantly safe yet boring in my hidey hole. 

    I had a fight with someone at a gig. someone at work made me cry. i guess that is the two major negative things that happened recently that i can remember. I realise what affects me most is how people perceive me, and if they dislike me. Oh, why cant i realise it doesnt even matter.  i wish i wish.

    good news.

    my boyfriend is so good to me, i feel blessed. i still have happy times with my family even though it seems normal or negative all the time.i still have my health. and my nice cat.and um, income i guess...

    song of the day

    Invaders must die - the prodigy



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  • Burning Berserkley

    by NomadMonad on February 04, 2017

          ☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭

    Enraged by some gay speaker, you act brave
    then rage and bludgeon, shutting down dissent
    while Mario Savio shudders in his grave.
    Behold: another shameful sad event.
    Youthful useful idiots on the attack,
    pawns of global capital dressed in black:
    Bernie’s Berserkley: raze it to the ground
    and Donald will be twenty-twenty bound.
    Georges Sorel, amused, looks on in silence
    at your half-baked proletarian violence,
    infantile intifada, civil war,
    a glimpse of what the future has in store:
    you are the fascists you’ve been waiting for.



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  • 1-25

    by blueplates on January 31, 2017

    Something finally fucking happened in my life after 2 years of stir crazy boredom



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  • Bind, Oh Bind the Fasces’ Bundle

    by NomadMonad on January 31, 2017

    Brother and Sister Citizens:

    Our fatherland consolidates. Let us salute, as One, our terrible destiny, lately manifest as the gathering force of a golden sun now glowing, after eight years of lightless gloom. Now we shine, now we merge our individuality in one to discover our collective future in Trump. As one wave of Greatness we now stride over the ruins of Hope & Change, into the American Restoration. Let us, each one, offer a straight stick of noble hardwood for the mass.

    Donald, our axehead, is now tightly bound with us in a shared sacred duty, projecting his keen edge from the national bundle. Let us, together, grow tired of winning until all worthless cancerous cells are neutralized and disposed of. All that is not full of the Will to Greatness must perish before us. Clad in the shining raiment of victory let us serve with American fervor our new leader.

    Women, mothers and nurturers of the mystic rebirth
    are welcome in our new nation.

    Sweep away the cobwebs of the old weakness, hail the conquering hero, he who fearlessly bears the Roman fasces into the courtroom as judge, jury, and executioner. Let the cities and nations of unbelief tremble and plead for mercy.

    Poems shall be composed as bridges are built to span the years.
    Stanzas shall spontaneously fall into place and march with military precision.
    Every capital line shall converge upon our captain.

    Hail the crown of Donald T.
    Hail the mighty orange flame
    Hail the age's consummation
    (Voters have themselves to blame)

    TRUMP shall smash the global Hydra
    TRUMP shall avenge our national shame.
    TRUMP shall restore our families' honor;
    CONQUER (in his deplorable name) !

    Captain TRUMP, the cord that binds
    TRUMP the axe-head and the judge.
    Leader DONALD, light that blinds.
    Our final King: let none begrudge.


    LOVE UNDER WILL ☻ !
    (was that fascistic enough 4 U ?)

     

     

    shout-out 2 ma homeboyz Benito Mussolini and Vlad P.
    thanx 4 tha inspiration !



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  • 'my smile's an open wound without you' -pw

    by RosesAtSunset on January 26, 2017

    He's pretty like a dream

    that I always wake up from 

    too soon

    and at dawn

    i drown in a 

    crystal monsoon 

    to help me survive the three days 

    or until it's too late 

    like water in my veins 

    and blood on your lips 

    if I can't last another 3 hours 

    bless me or leave me

    to burst into flame

    if you're not ordained

    then why do I kneel

    to the ghost of a saint

    ha/ollowed by lies

    yet as I prepare to (s)wallow 

    I always faint

    And you're gone

    and i watch the trail fade into sun 

    light from whence it came

    like a moonlit night fading into a sunny day

    but why

    does it 

    never

    feel

    that

    way

    as

    i

    melt

    a

    w

    a

    y

     



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  • And when I shatter there'll be nothing but ash

    by RosesAtSunset on January 15, 2017

    Notes:

    Nobody knows how to love like a poet
    And everybody thinks they're a poet
    Sure baby just hold back
    Love-soaked eyes
    Our thoughts are mere tracings of reality
    Tongue stuck out in concentration
    Scrunched eyebrows and a steady gaze
    Compensating for a shaky hand
    And eyes framed by stained glass
    Big butt big buts

    god I shoulda known

    man am I ever gonna miss you 

    what good is an "I do like you"

    when it comes after goodbye drew 



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  • a personal request

    by CleanLaundry on January 13, 2017

    listen, guys, I love Anthony Bourdain. he drives me bananas. I don't care that he's a giant and he's got awful teeth; the man's a class act. in high school I used to come home from swim practice and collapse onto my bed with No Reservations playing in the background, just so I could nap to the rasp of his finely-aged-by-tobacco-and-alcohol voice. I did this. like daily. the dude really gets me going.

    not too long ago I went over to a friend's house and saw that he had an Anthony Bourdain poster on the wall. it was pretty cool too. he was all smoking and stuff, being a badass. he was wearing a tank with some serious guns on it. anyway so I see this poster and I basically lose my shit, I'm all like, "Tony B's the baddest bitch in the game right now, etc." and my friend's like, “yeah totally, I heard he used to smoke blunts with Biggie when he was cooking in New York” (I’ve done a little bit of research on this claim and there's really no evidence to support it whatsoever). so we talk a little more and I ask him where he got the poster and he says it belongs to his roommate who isn't there, and he's not sure where he got it. I'm sort of bummed, but I figure I can find it online. later I'm at home and I'm looking for it but I can't find anything. I mean there are definitely some posters of him, but not the one I'm looking for. the next best thing I could find is this photo called “Anthony Bourdain Naked With Bone” which is superb, don't get me wrong, but I feel like an 8" x 10" print of a picture entitled "Anthony Bourdain Naked with Bone" doesn't really do the man justice. I'm looking for something legitimately poster sized.

    anyway so I figured that's where you guys come in. what I propose we do is scour the internet for Anthony Bourdain posters like the randos scour Panic at the disco lyrics here for the the symbolism behind Brandon Urie’s vocal range. the idea is that with our greater numbers we'll at last be able to solve this most important of mysteries: we'll figure out once and for all the source of the enigmatic Anthony Bourdain poster I saw at my friend's house. It'll be fun guys, trust me. Like a cool little bonding project. back me up Brian. make them do it. 



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  • Never Ever Make It With Your Own Reflection

    by blueplates on January 08, 2017

    My alternating fits of narcissism and self loathing are as present as ever. I am in deep romantic love with myself half the time, and the other half is spent thinking up ways to be someone different than me. It's like I'm in a volatile relationship with my own visage. Either way, I want to fuck myself.



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  • Notes: what then

    by RosesAtSunset on January 03, 2017

    Orion draped in cloud's mist
    The moon wore a veil
    Do you see the future
    In our kaleidoscope
    Or do you see the past
    Not another misanthrope
    Not another misanthrope
    Is love an umbrella
    In a terrible storm
    To be put away in the sunshine
    Is love a ladder of locks
    Flowing down a wall
    To be cut away in the nighttime
    What am i supposed to do
    With a heart full of chocolate soup

    And when I shatter?



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  • Saint Christina The Astonishing Envisages The End

    by blueplates on December 25, 2016

    My younger self would hate my guts, I hate my younger self, it's tiring to be a new person every two years. I've become things I said I never would, done things I shouldn't have had to do, and lived to see things I wanted to miss. And, in about a year and four months, I'll be someone else, having abandoned this current personality. I wonder what my new favorite color will be.  



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  • Test

    by brian on December 24, 2016

    Test.



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  • Mustachios contd

    by RosesAtSunset on December 22, 2016

    "Very brave," a harsh, gravelly voice came from behind the two hulking Mustachios. A tall, slight man dressed in a deep blue double-breasted seemed to glide through his colleagues toward the grave and its soon-to-be occupant. 

    The juxtaposition of the well-dressed man in front of the heaving and filthy boy became more pronounced as they stood almost nose-to-nose now. A breath could have pushed the boy into the pit. He knew he was defenseless. They were playing with their food before they ate it. He was shaking involuntarily but he kept his eyes steady, locked into the dead silver eyes of the man they called "The Machine". It was the worst punishment the Mustachios had, so it seemed that he’d hit a nerve. The Machine pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped up the sweat on his brow, never removing his calculating stare from the boy. The heat beat down on them and the cicadas whined faintly in the distance.

    “Wherishe!” He choked out, coughing and out of breath from spending the whole day in the heat without any water.

    “Pardon?” The man smirked, knowing that the boy was very close to collapsing.

    “Torr…” He burst into another coughing fit and gave up trying to tell them what they already knew.

    The Machine waited until he was done retching to say, “I should have known you’d go looking for Torrence. Ahh I always found brotherly love to be so touching.” His wide, sinister smile made the situation seem surreal.

    “Alive…” The boy mumbled, sinking to his knees, “Is he?”

    “Not sure to be quite honest. That’s not my department,” The Machine shrugged, nonplussed, “But I do have a job offer for you, my friend.” He extended his hand in what could be surmised as a benevolent gesture.

    The boy stayed on the ground, muddy brown clashing with pure silver until The Machine sighed, “Well, you have two choices. Take the job. Or I push you into this lovely pit you made and bury you alive.”

    “Go fuck yourself,” The boy managed to sputter out before he began to retch again.

    The Machine's lips split apart cruelly.



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  • Dear Liberal Progressives of the U.S:

    by NomadMonad on December 21, 2016

     

       You have always encouraged us, your deplorable neighbors, to be open-minded, to be tolerant, to build consensus and to appreciate diversity. In light of recent electoral events, we think you have a golden opportunity to practice what you so tirelessly preach.

        We sense that you are upset, bewildered and disturbed by your new president. We are sorry you feel that way, and hope we can make the next four years easier for you. Please keep in mind that many of us irredeemably deplorable clingers endured eight years under that community agitator, although he had not received our vote. We also put up with the grating, strident scoldings of that woman senator and ex-Secretary of State for a long time. While we certainly despised many aspects of their agenda, we did not march, chant hateful slogans, or smash up any property. We did not inundate electors with pleas to switch, nor did we threaten even one. We did not melt down on YouTube or fill Facebook with melodramatic profanity-laden tirades. Please pause to consider this. Perhaps it is time to be tolerant and to appreciate the political diversity of our Democratic Republic. Calling people fascists, racists, misogynists and bigots is getting old now. Instead of telling us what our values are and why we are such bad citizens, why not join us in some small way as fellow Americans on a quest for greatness?

       Yes, we know. It bothers you that we do not get all our views from NPR, MSNBC and the NYT. We are aware that our vibrant variety of news sources is not pleasing to your erudite sensibilities. (And please forgive us for not being as apocalyptically alarmed as you are over "Global Warming"). We are aware that the tactical failure of vote recounts, pressuring electors, and throwing infantile tantrums has left you feeling hopeless and without a game plan.

       Mother Russia is also concerned about you, for you are in fact as dear to her as any of her adopted children. In your deeply troubled state, she longs to embrace you. Maybe this is an opportunity for you to seek solace in Orthodoxy and to delight in the richness of timeless Christian ritual. This would be far better activity for your souls than crying over lack of gender-fluid bathrooms and easily-procured abortions. Mother Russia is grieved by your confused notions regarding faith and family. Rather than celebrate perversity, why not participate in true diversity and join us in making our sovereign nation great once more.

       Liberal progressives, we have need of your enlightened and broad-minded creativity in these troubling times.

    Sincerely,

    a brainwashed dupe and minion of Vlad Putin



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  • my poems are garbage compared to frederico garcia lorca and thats a compliment

    by RosesAtSunset on December 21, 2016

    "A thousand crystal tambourines /

    wounded the dawn."

    wow. now THAT'S how you describe the stars. jeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez

    Here is a link to the full poem: http://old.aprweb.org/poem/sleepwalk-ballad




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  • moms voicemail message

    by CleanLaundry on December 18, 2016

    listen, Daniel. you oughta

    eat more yogurt. There

    was this study done at Harvard

    with these suicidal rats:

     

    the scientists gave them 

    some yogurt and then

    they were completely fine. 



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  • at arm's length

    by RosesAtSunset on December 18, 2016

    so you waited

    with your arms out tenderly

    and they rendered you a tragedy

    the next time

    you sharpened the blade

    and cut down the ones 

    that made minor mistakes

    now you're alone

    with a bitter peacefulness



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  • pleaseshowuppleaseshowuppleasshowup

    by CleanLaundry on December 16, 2016

    How can I begin anything new with all of yesterday in me?



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  • Give your entry a title

    by RosesAtSunset on December 06, 2016

    I wish journals showed up on the mobile site 



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  • Give your entry a title

    by RosesAtSunset on December 06, 2016

    Her real name was Charm. Most people who knew her real name wondered why she bothered with a stage name. But she preferred to be called Charisma. It had more character than most stripper names and no matter how many people made fun of her real name, she couldn't bear to change it or use it for her work. Her mother had given her the name and she wouldn't let it be sullied by her life choices.

    Her face was okay looking, framed with long, straw-coloured hair and centered with dark brown eyes. Nobody cared about her eyes though. Her body seemed to keep people's gaze below her neck. Most men spoke only to her chest. She supposed it was fair since she spoke only to their wallets. She had filled out at 13 and had always had some kind of boyfriend taking care of her and buying her whatever she needed. She had only started stripping recently when the last guy she moved in with had gotten violent with her after a night of drinking. She figured, at 25, she needed to make some of her own money, at least to buy a house of her own. She'd dropped out of school at 16 so her career options were dismal. Her car was still paid for by Beau, a long-standing casual lover. He liked to call her Charmaine, but other than that he was alright.

    He was supposed to pick her up tonight, but so far she had stood shivering outside in her tight yellow tube dress for about half an hour. She could go inside and wait but Donny would try to make her work a couple more dances. "Come on, sweetheart, you didn't even break a sweat. Just one more dance for the nice man, be a doll." And so on and so forth.

    A gleaming red mercedes, a newer kind, pulled up in front of the club and stopped in front of her. She immediately walked over to the door and opened it, not bothering to try to peer through the tinted glass. She started to complain about his lateness as she slid into the cream-coloured leather seats, but she stopped short when she noticed the handsome man with xray blue eyes and dark hair gazing at her with an amused expression on his face.

    "You're not Beau," was all she could say to break the silence. 

    "A harsh thing to say to a Frenchman," he smiled. "But I'm sure I can change your mind," he said as he merged back into the busy traffic of the main street. 

    She could have stopped him, or even jumped out of the car at that point. But there was a deep curiousity that kept her from stopping the progressing events. She buckled her seatbelt and stared at him, but he looked only at the road ahead with a confident grin.



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