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THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

Brisbane, Australia

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#446
Jan 31, 2013
 

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She meets you down on the left
side of moonshine, threads that
gleam lapis filling the shuttles in
her hands. Your brass arpeggio

bones are shining and the grass
is wild, warm. Her laugh rises
frail in the night, beats like blue
bird wings, makes you eat your

fear of pillowed sounds. Lean
into it. Swallow her thin chortles
and let them throb against your
bare-beveled ribs from the inside.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

Brisbane, Australia

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#447
Jan 31, 2013
 

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Have you ever known a man who is a force of nature, and you knew;

and you knew that everything you had done, where you are, where you ended up, self-made, accented, where you arrived, reinvented, from willingness, from hard work, from fear, spite, and hunger, clawing, miming effortless.

And if you met that man, would you tangle with him?

Brave his privileges?

Rouse the embedded genius?

Test the royalty?

Would you dare to teach him?

Pretend to?

And when you go home, and it seizes your depths, with your plans, every worked out facet of them,

every valve of control, your performances, and you excel, insurmountable, and you are alone, at night, with you, and your plan,

and you swindle a living, and what you always wanted is elsewhere, and always with him.
THE MAMMOTH DENTIST

Brisbane, Australia

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#448
Jan 31, 2013
 

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You awake and it’s nine past your time..... nothing to do but drive where disturbed people stand by
the side of the road holding hands with themselves and staring at the

headlights as they eat the gravel, walk into the field muttering about odometers and not caring,
splashing neon lights on their stones and watering hydrangeas till sick rants

of madmen cease only when no one listens, water flows sideways when nobody looks and
the sky is yellow when Dylan sings that it is.

http://youtu.be/hk3mAX5xdxo
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#450
Feb 3, 2013
 

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A prayer for relief; burying my face in my hands.
No use. The pressure is there, just behind my eyes
and I feel the swell that I cannot stem, it's all mine.

Release is not an option and I resist emotion's plans.
No use. I am overwhelmed and I reveal all my shame,
my fear and lonely self-pity. It's all mine.

I refute the evidence before me, disbelieve the truth.
No use. Denial is awash with rage but cannot fight
and is quelled through overbearing might. I call it mine.

I mutter and mumble my pleas to stop. No use,
no use at all. It stays with me, an unwanted guest
in the vacant residence of my heart, that which is mine.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#451
Feb 3, 2013
 

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My imagination stirring,
And creative spirit burning,
But I've got to give it meaning,
While still conveying real feeling.
Putting word or image to paper.
Set down the pencil then come back later.
Don't need to be a bird to get higher.
Using fiction to tell truths still makes me a liar.
Just hoping through revelation you'll see,
That which sets your mind free.
To create wonders of your own.
The seed of inventiveness sown.
And then let joy fill your heart,
As you share your work of art.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#452
Feb 3, 2013
 

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Give a silent thousand.

How many in many substitutes never sentence a base?

How should it voice rules?

Name named aspirates.

Proper words marked words.

Reading is such a pitch.

Select these cents.

They select wise Manila.

What are consonant organs?

What effect first should give the many in the separate uses some other signification?

What is aberration ?

What is the practiced series?

What prefixes under other signification does added Europe in language except?

What is the core value ?

When is it called value?
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#453
Feb 3, 2013
 

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Throw Us A Bone

Romeo
Oh, Romeo
Lips slick with witches brews
Tongue twisted with falsified promise
Lover of death,
Hater of truth
For the one who sings the praises of man,
For the one who tricked love
Impish creature
Beautiful lie
You think you know existence,
When all you really know is
Pretentious love
Standing below her window
You scream out
You trick
You take
Romeo, Romeo
Why are you Romeo?
You are tongue,
You are throat
You are not real
For what you feel
Is naught but lust
Hungry lips,
Hungry eyes,
Delicious lies
Delicately spun words
With good intentions in hand
You smite the longevity of love
Be making a second long decision,
And mouthing sweet poetry
You lap up spilt tears
Like a dog,
Like a snake
You’re sure that its love
You know it to be true
But your truth is false
Your logic flawed
Your words mean nothing
Without weight to back them up
You flutter, a wingless being
From flower to lovely flower
You sip nectar
But never appreciate
The true taste
Oh, Romeo
Forever in precarious sin
Let your heart guide you
And take the life from your chest

Since: Aug 09

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#454
Feb 3, 2013
 

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Awwwwww Adrian .... Can you write another brilliant poem for the ladies ? We are waiting in Awe . Your masterful .... Can't wait to read your original poems . Thanks in advance for flooding every thread with others original poems. Lol . Putz
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#455
Feb 3, 2013
 

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Laura Beth wrote:
Awwwwww Adrian .... Can you write another brilliant poem for the ladies ? We are waiting in Awe . Your masterful .... Can't wait to read your original poems . Thanks in advance for flooding every thread with others original poems. Lol . Putz
Okay, sure lame-brain, here goes. step, step, slow, tap, go. go. go. go. get high you talk a good game but you ugh, pollute my brain, mainly sane...lame we run, run, rewarding the youth politics determining heroic vertically done. Alan-Dale Lane he had saw seeds feathered follicles pollen icicles dew. train time, station standing for a second, he get together at the morgue fashioning spikes and tasseled spears, leather my leather, varnish my veal, leaves of glass, in glass, underglassystarsisawtheyoumoon , switching your New Orleans sides across the sky spanning digits to digital remotely controllers who froze in lock and in tune with the *censored*

You keeping up so far..... yet even, Laura-beth ?

It's been far too long since i told you what was glowing or flowing through my mind, the conversationalist's heartbeat never remembers and surrenders like this, easy to fake a sincere complicity; here is the heathen- heating up his oiled lamp, tapping on a drum, getting wired to the grid. he sings like david on his harp trailing behind ribboned angels cancelling out the forever river review sedition seeds of sodom the morgue the way the waves, they flutter they flow through me the surge is dense and i am light and fettered and politely bickering embittered, bartered, borrowed, bruised, cancerous cells tangling along the underside of a mint jaw, the ferret cries in pain as his hind leg is caught in the underbrush he feigns pain, like the dane trained to bow down before gods he is a fool he knows nothing he is bereft.

Bit lost are you....Mmmmm that figures !

A new vocumabulary needed huh....sure...... we build on LOLs and ROTFMFAOLcopters, you silly fool, spinning your web of internet deceit, i saw through it all, the 0s and the 10s alike are still 0s in my mind, they all pretend to try to be beyond their intrinsic GABA, sodium, hydrogen, water, you are your blood, I say, you are a An A, a B, an AB, you are a 0, you cannot get around the contours of your DNA, you silly thoughts, spots. the brain is heavy as metal, sitting in us, gluing the bones to the spine to the hands to the feet to the skin to the rim to the brim, and it helps us to sin.

Do NOT Forgive me..... this is no time for sorry, said the rabbit as he larked along on his stump, chewing at blades of grass- oh beautiful gaia, he muttered under his breath, rather sarcastically, spitting around, stump on ground, bug on hoof.

Get a circle, Laura, and you'll find the circle goes round as circles are wont to do, fucking obvious, you say, as I look you in the eye, you gave me the look of tender surrender to my impenetrably stupid logic. I am a logician, no doubt, a logician a magician is a logician, you know, a logician is a mathematician, you know, who squares the roots, and pies the tress, and divides the skies.....

OKay Beth....now your turn.......need some help ?

~Adrian DeVine.
reader

United States

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#456
Feb 3, 2013
 

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Metaphorically circles aren't necessarily round, a continuous loop is circular along with repetative quest for (_)
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#457
Feb 4, 2013
 

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In the night there are of course the seven wonders
of the world

and greatness, tragedy and enchantment.

Forests collide with legendary creatures hiding in
thickets.

There is you.

In the night there are the walker's footsteps the
murderer's the town policeman's light from the
street lamp and the ragman's lantern.

There is you.

In the night trains go past and boats

and the fantasy of countries where it's daytime.
The last breaths of twilight and the first shivers
of dawn.

There is you.

A piano tune, a shout.

A door slams. A clock.

And not only beings and things and physical sounds.

But also me chasing myself or endlessly going
beyond me.

There is you the sacrifice, you that I'm waiting
for.

Sometimes at the moment of sleep strange figures
are born and disappear.

When I shut my eyes phosphorescent blooms appear
and fade

and come to life again like fireworks made of
flesh.

I pass through strange lands with creatures for
company.

No doubt you are there, my beautiful discreet spy.

And the palpable soul of the vast reaches.

And perfumes of the sky and the stars, the song of
a rooster from 2000 years ago and piercing screams
in a flaming park and kisses.

Sinister handshakes in a sickly light and axles
grinding on paralyzing roads.

No doubt there is you who I do not know, who on
the contrary I do know.

But who, here in my dreams, demands to be felt
without ever appearing.

You who remain out of reach in reality and in
dream.

You who belong to me through my will to possess
your illusion

but who brings your face near mine only if my eyes
are closed in dream as well as in reality.

You who in spite of an easy rhetoric where the
waves die on the beach

where crows fly into ruined factories, where the
wood rots

crackling under a lead sun.

You who are at the depths of my dreams stirring up
a mind

full of metamorphoses

leaving me your glove when I kiss your hand.

In the night there are stars and the shadowy
motion of the sea,

of rivers, forests, towns, grass and the lungs
of millions and millions of beings.

In the night there are the seven wonders of the
world.

In the night there are no guardian angels, but
there is sleep.

In the night there is you.

In the daylight too.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#458
Feb 4, 2013
 

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The face of the precipice is black with lovers;
The sun above them is a bag of nails; the spring's
First rivers hide among their hair.
Goliath plunges his hand into the poisoned well
And bows his head and feels my feet walk through his brain.

The children chasing butterflies turn round and see him there
With his hand in the well and my body growing from his head,
And are afraid. They drop their nets and walk into the wall like smoke.

The smooth plain with its mirrors listens to the cliff
Like a basilisk eating flowers.
And the children, lost in the shadows of the catacombs,
Call to the mirrors for help:
'Strong-bow of salt, cutlass of memory,
Write on my map the name of every river.'

A flock of banners fight their way through the telescoped forest
And fly away like birds towards the sound of roasting meat.
Sand falls into the boiling rivers through the telescopes' mouths
And forms clear drops of acid with petals of whirling flame.

Heraldic animals wade through the asphyxia of planets,
Butterflies burst from their skins and grow long tongues like plants,
The plants play games with a suit of mail like a cloud.

Mirrors write Goliath's name upon my forehead,
While the children are killed in the smoke of the catacombs
And lovers float down from the cliffs like rain.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#459
Feb 4, 2013
 

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Morning trickles over the bruised bodies
like a drop of sweat over the lines of my hand

I crawl over the ground
with stem and wrinkled mouth.....

the sun swells into the canals of monstrous leaves
which recover cemeteries harbours houses,

with the same sticky green zeal
then with disturbing intensity there passes through my mind
the absurdity of human groupings
in these lines of closely packed houses
like the pores of the skin
in the poignant void of terrestrial space.

I hear the crying of birds
of whom it used to be said
that they sang and implacable resembled stones

I see flocks of houses
munching the pith of the air
factories which sing as birds once sang

roads which lose themselves
in harvests of salt pieces of sky
which become dry on verdigris moss....

a pulley's creaking tells us
that a bucket rises in a well
it is full of limpid blood
which evaporates in the sun
nothing else will trouble this circuit on the ground until evening.......

which trembles under the form
of an immense pinned butterfly
at the entrance of a motionless station.

Since: Dec 12

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#461
Feb 4, 2013
 

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Written by
CYP

I need a distraction from the world

Diversion from the everyday analysis of faces, behavior, and words

Yes, that man is lying

No, she is telling the truth

Watch him and you will identify his tick

Keep watching for it will tell you something that he will not say

I need a divergence from the content analysis

Words spilling over top of words

Yes this one is that one

And

He is not he

But

She

I need alteration from counting your toe taps

Eyes that noticed the touch of your ear

Facial analysis

That shows your deception

I need a conversion

No, he is not a threat and he will not kill the child

Yes, the gun is tucked in the back of her jeans

The profiles complete

I need a transmogrification from analysis of your behavior

Yes, he is narcissistic

She is bi-polar

The little one has ADHD

I need a change

Maybe if I just closed my eyes

Close them dammit

Dear lord tape them shut

No

This

Isn't

Working

I heard the pitch change when you spoke

Subtle as it was I heard it

Now I must tape my ears shut
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#462
Feb 7, 2013
 
Sweet Peace ascends on open hill,and

sage seekers wait in morning chill,

and night mists arise in bright'ning skies;

where truth is sorted from the lies.

Lay claim to power set by king,

and like mourning dove on broken wing,

a wounded way that circles round;

no pledge of peace can thus be found.

Undo the patterns of the past;

and walk the path of heart at last.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#463
Feb 7, 2013
 
"Life is not permanent.....

Like the leaves that fall from a tree, all things are impermanent, nothing endures;

there is always change and death.

Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against a sky, how beautiful it is?

All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness there is a poem, there is a song.

Every leaf is gone and it is waiting for the spring.

When the spring comes it again fills the tree with the music of many leaves, which in due season fall and are blown away;

and that is the way of life."
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#464
Feb 8, 2013
 
We seldom notice how each day is a holy place
Where the eucharist of the ordinary happens,
Transforming our broken fragments
Into an eternal continuity that keeps us.

Somewhere in us a dignity presides
That is more gracious than the smallness
That fuels us with fear and force,
A dignity that trusts the form a day takes.

So at the end of this day, we give thanks
For being betrothed to the unknown
And for the secret work
Through which the mind of the day
And wisdom of the soul become one.
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#465
Feb 8, 2013
 

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(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)

Someone I loved
once gave me
a box full
of darkness.

It took me years
to understand
that this,
too, was a gift.

Finally on my way to yes
I bump into
all the places
where I said no
to my life...

All the untended wounds
the red and purple scars
those hieroglyphs of pain
carved into my skin, my bones,
those coded messages
that send me down
the wrong street
again and again
where I find them

The old wounds
the old misdirections
and I lift them
one by one
close to my heart
and I say "holy
holy."
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#466
Feb 9, 2013
 

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“The past lives on in art and memory, but it is not static: it shifts and changes as the present throws its shadow backwards.

The landscape also changes, but far more slowly; it is a living link between what we were and what we have become.

This is one of the reasons why we feel such a profound and apparently disproportionate anguish when a loved landscape is altered out of recognition; we lose not only a place, but ourselves, a continuity between the shifting phases of our life.”
Anonymous

Brisbane, Australia

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#467
Feb 9, 2013
 

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Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
Written by
CYP
I need a distraction from the world
Diversion from the everyday analysis of faces, behavior, and words
Yes, that man is lying
No, she is telling the truth
Watch him and you will identify his tick
Keep watching for it will tell you something that he will not say
I need a divergence from the content analysis
Words spilling over top of words
Yes this one is that one
And
He is not he
But
She
I need alteration from counting your toe taps
Eyes that noticed the touch of your ear
Facial analysis
That shows your deception
I need a conversion
No, he is not a threat and he will not kill the child
Yes, the gun is tucked in the back of her jeans
The profiles complete
I need a transmogrification from analysis of your behavior
Yes, he is narcissistic
She is bi-polar
The little one has ADHD
I need a change
Maybe if I just closed my eyes
Close them dammit
Dear lord tape them shut
No
This
Isn't
Working
I heard the pitch change when you spoke
Subtle as it was I heard it
Now I must tape my ears shut
"Tell yourself
as it gets cold
and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are......
Illusions may fade, but the sublime remains
Life, for the most part, inevitably becomes routine,
the random confluence of timing and fortune
that configures its components all but forgotten.
But every so often, I catch a glimpse of my life
out of the corner of my eye, and am rendered breathless by it.

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