Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5621 Jan 20, 2013
Roxie Darling wrote:
Personally, LoMac..you're not the one to be talkin about Humility ya little twit! That's a foreign subject to you!
Intolerance is the most socially acceptable form of egotism, for it permits us to assume superiority without personal boasting.

Devout, pious, conspicuous, hypocritical believers, such as you, are never safeguarded in such a high degree against the risk of certain neurotic illnesses; their acceptance of the universal mundane considerations, that you appear to have, is a neurosis that is unlikely to spare you the task of constructing a personal salvation.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5622 Jan 20, 2013
Roxie Darling wrote:
Personally, LoMac..you're not the one to be talkin about Humility ya little twit! That's a foreign subject to you!
POST SCRIPT:-

I want to be
famous
so I can be
humble
about being
famous.

What good is my
humility
when I am
stuck
in this
obscurity?

“ROCK ON ROCKERS!!”

Level 8

Since: Mar 11

Rockin' USA ;)

#5623 Jan 20, 2013
Homunculus Nebula wrote:
<quoted text>
read my lips.......H-E'S B-A-N-N-E-D !!
WHEN and WHY did that happen?? Was it because he WAS mean to Princess Hey awhile back?? Splash me with the gossip shower.. I can take it!!!
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5624 Jan 20, 2013
Remember the long ago when we lay together
In a pain of tenderness and counted
Our dreams: long summer afternoons
When the whistling-thrush released
A deep sweet secret on the trembling air;
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows,
Black rose in the long ago summer,
This was your song:
It isn't time that's passing by,
It is you and I.

“ROCK ON ROCKERS!!”

Level 8

Since: Mar 11

Rockin' USA ;)

#5625 Jan 20, 2013
Homunculus Nebula wrote:
Remember the long ago when we lay together
In a pain of tenderness and counted
Our dreams: long summer afternoons
When the whistling-thrush released
A deep sweet secret on the trembling air;
Blackbird on the wing, bird of the forest shadows,
Black rose in the long ago summer,
This was your song:
It isn't time that's passing by,
It is you and I.
OMG!! This is beautiful!! NICE!!
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5626 Jan 20, 2013
I've dreamed of you so much that you're losing
your reality.

Is it already too late for me to embrace your
literal, living and breathing physical body

and to kiss that mouth which is the birthplace of
that voice which is so dear to me?

I've dreamed of you so much that my arms--which
have become accustomed to

lying crossed upon my own chest after attempting
to encircle your

shadow--might not be able to unfold again to
embrace the contours of your

literal form, perhaps

So that coming face-to-face with the actual
incarnation of what has haunted me

and ruled me and dominated my life for so many
days and years

Might very well turn me into a shadow.

Oh equilibriums of the emotional scales!

I've dreamed of you so much that it might be too
late for me to ever wake up again.


I sleep on my feet, body confronting all the
usual phenomena of life and love

and yet

when it comes to you--you, the only being on the
planet who matters to me

now--

I can no more touch your face and lips than I can
those of the next random passerby.

I've dreamed of you so much, have walked and talked and slept so much with

your phantom presence that perhaps the only thing left for me to do now

Is to become a phantom among phantoms, a shadow a
hundred times more shadowy

than that shifting shape which moves and which
will go on moving,

stepping lightly and happily across the sundial
of your life.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5627 Jan 20, 2013
"THE PRODIGAL 3,11."

The tidal motion of refugees, not the flight of wild geese,
the faces in freight cars, haggard and coal-eyed,
particularly the peaked stare of children,
the huge bundles crossing bridges, axles creaking
as if joints and bones were audible, the dark stain
spreading on maps whose shapes dissolve their frontiers
the way that corpses melt in a lime-pit or
the bright mulch of autumn is trampled into mud,
and the smoke of a cypress signals Sachsenhausen,
those without trains, without mules or horses,
those who have the rocking chair and the sewing machine
heaped on a human cart, a waggon without horses
for horses have long galloped out of their field
back to the mythology of mercy, back to the cone
of the orange steeple piercing clouds over the lindens
and the stone bells of Sunday over the cobbles,
those who rest their hands on the sides of their carts
as if they were the flanks of mules, and the women
with flint faces, with glazed cheekbones, with eyes
the colour of duck-ponds glazed over with ice,
for whom the year has only one season, one sky:
that of rooks flapping like torn umbrellas,
all have been reduced into a common language,
the homeless, the province-less, to the incredible memory
of apples and clean streams, and the sound of milk
filling the summer churns, where are you from,
what was your district, I know that lake, I know the beer,
and its inns, I believed in its mountains,
now there is a monstrous map that is called Nowhere
and that is where we're all headed, behind it
there is a view called the Province of Mercy,
where the only government is that of the apples
and the only army the wide banners of barley
and its farms are simple, and that is the vision
that narrows in the irises and the dying
and the tired whom we leave in ditches
before they stiffen and their brows go cold
as the stones that have broken our shoes,
as the clouds that grow ashen so quickly after danw
over palm and poplar, in the deceitful sunrise
of this, your new century.

-- Derek Walcott
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5628 Jan 20, 2013
All the others translate: the painter sketches
A visible world to love or reject;
Rummaging into his living, the poet fetches
The images out that hurt and connect.
From Life to Art by painstaking adaption
Relying on us to cover the rift;
Only your notes are pure contraption,
Only your song is an absolute gift.

Pour out your presence, O delight, cascading
The falls of the knee and the weirs of the spine,
Our climate of silence and doubt invading;
You, alone, alone, O imaginary song,
Are unable to say an existence is wrong,
And pour out your forgiveness like a wine.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5629 Jan 20, 2013
"ELEGY."

Words & Music...Machine Head.

Elegies are to be sung
Winds of Armageddon come
Ignorance within your bliss
Soon you will atone for this
In your carcinogenic haze
Baneful of a newer age
Flowers of a different scent
Poisons of the earths lament

A requiem
Earth belong not to you
Belong all we to her

Take another deeper breath
Inhale invisible death
Pollution fills the land and sky
Forever you justify
Take a deeper look and see
Nothing's left to future seeds
Icicles melt in the blood
Ashes where there once was wood

A requiem
Earth belong not to you
Belong all we to her

Pain of life has pulled you under
Left you there to bleed and wonder
Open heart is torn asunder
Wrong the wrongs that you've been suffered
"Kill" we scream in roaring thunder
Destroy all, leave all things plundered

Acid rain cries her pain
Full bloom, a world gone insane
Her anger the flower
Plays God with all of our lives

A requiem
Earth belong not to you
Belong all we to her

http://youtu.be/F76OY81ZgJ0
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5630 Jan 20, 2013
From outside my house,
only the faint distant sound
of gentle breezes
wandering through the poinsettia leaves
in the long evening silence.

Late evening finally
comes: I unlatch the door
and quietly
await the one
who greets me in my dreams.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5631 Jan 20, 2013
"EPIGRAM."

You puff the poets
of other days,
The living you deplore.

Spare me the accolade:
your praise
Is not worth dying for.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5632 Jan 21, 2013
Her voice was a broken tile
in a classical setting,
a clay edge grating against sky.

Now her lonely silence speaks to
the classified space
in the front of the square.

A man in a corduroy hat is spinning
over the sea. DeVine,
feeling light with a poem.

This was in the early days when,
the glaze not yet dry,
he would sit watching sharp

incredible outlines
rise out of the harbour
needing such a harbour

to displace waves
of pale terracotta branded with
the tight stamp of a seal.

Did he think he was like
Any young man clearing out a tree-house
Or a property?

He was his mother's obstinate child.

He left behind a set of graded bells.

He left behind for all to read
the slow build of stories,
tiles placed across the centuries,

each one taking off diagonally
from the one before.

His pain trickled down
through the floor boards.

Though he left with a poem
in his arms, he left
behind too much.

Now he's lighter than a feather,
less material than snow.

In the old hunting lodge
the stories fall in cryptic patterns

Cold blows the north wind,
Thick falls the snow....
Ice covers the land
Take my hand and go, love

Until the striped deer is back
With its scholars and poets gather
in the garden once more.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5633 Jan 21, 2013
You ask how I spend my time--
I nestle against a treetrunk
and listen to autumn winds
in the pines all night and day.

Liverpool's Vinea Wine Bar
at Albert Dock, can't get me drunk.
The local poets bore me.
My thoughts remain with you,
like the Mersey River, endlessly flowing.

Since: Dec 12

Location hidden

#5634 Jan 21, 2013
Intrigue
Stephen Crane

Thou art my love
And thou art peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks
Woe is me.

Thou art my love
And thou art a storm
That breaks black in the sky
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree
And the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl
Woe is me!

Thou art my love
And thous art a tinsel thing
And I in my play broke thee easily
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And thou art a weary violet
Drooping from sun caresses
Answering mine carelessly
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And thou art the ashes of others men's love
And I bury my face in these ashes
And I love them
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And thou art the beard
On another man's face
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And thou art a temple
And in this temple is an alter
And on this alter is my heart
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And thou art a wretch
Let these sacred love-lies choke thee
For I am come to where I know your lies as truth
And your truth as lies
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And thou art a priestess
And in thy hand is a bloody dagger
And my doom comes to me surely
Woe

Thou art my love
And thou art a skull with ruby eyes
And I love thee
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And I doubt thee
And if peace came with thy murder
Then would I murder
Woe is me

Thou art my love
And thou art death
Black and yet black
I love thee
Woe, welcome woe, to me
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5635 Jan 21, 2013
"POETRY."

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.

-- Pablo Neruda
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5636 Jan 21, 2013
Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
Intrigue
Stephen Crane
Thou art my love
And thou art peace of sundown
When the blue shadows soothe
And the grasses and the leaves sleep
To the song of the little brooks
Woe is me.
Thou art my love
And thou art a storm
That breaks black in the sky
And, sweeping headlong,
Drenches and cowers each tree
And the panting end
There is no sound
Save the melancholy cry of a single owl
Woe is me!
Thou art my love
And thous art a tinsel thing
And I in my play broke thee easily
And from the little fragments
Arose my long sorrow
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And thou art a weary violet
Drooping from sun caresses
Answering mine carelessly
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And thou art the ashes of others men's love
And I bury my face in these ashes
And I love them
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And thou art the beard
On another man's face
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And thou art a temple
And in this temple is an alter
And on this alter is my heart
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And thou art a wretch
Let these sacred love-lies choke thee
For I am come to where I know your lies as truth
And your truth as lies
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And thou art a priestess
And in thy hand is a bloody dagger
And my doom comes to me surely
Woe
Thou art my love
And thou art a skull with ruby eyes
And I love thee
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And I doubt thee
And if peace came with thy murder
Then would I murder
Woe is me
Thou art my love
And thou art death
Black and yet black
I love thee
Woe, welcome woe, to me
The blue that startled his heart has faded:

blue-grey like denim now her eyes by candlelight
across the table --

and he knows the fingerprints
of time are on him, too,

though candle's bloom
is less truthful than the unrelenting sun.

He knows them both to be weathered in the cascade
of the years, beyond redress --

still, his hand
which has crept without volition over the linen
to clasp hers, touches, not the flesh time mars,

but the undimmed radiance of her love, pulsing
stronger for the passage of the years since first
he touched her.

His hand tightens over hers
in that familiar reflex which has saved him,

times beyond remembering, from drowning.

Since: Dec 12

Location hidden

#5637 Jan 21, 2013
Charity Chapman

Central Park Waltz

Us too, we waltz
Like a circular parade
Of carnival equines

Shimmering surface,
Harmlessly hissing
As artistic blades carve

Tiny particles of
Crystaline ivory
Descend around us

Further, we glide
Amid fantastical
Glowing creatures

Since: Dec 12

Location hidden

#5638 Jan 21, 2013
Homunculus Nebula wrote:
<quoted text>
The blue that startled his heart has faded:
blue-grey like denim now her eyes by candlelight
across the table --
and he knows the fingerprints
of time are on him, too,
though candle's bloom
is less truthful than the unrelenting sun.
He knows them both to be weathered in the cascade
of the years, beyond redress --
still, his hand
which has crept without volition over the linen
to clasp hers, touches, not the flesh time mars,
but the undimmed radiance of her love, pulsing
stronger for the passage of the years since first
he touched her.
His hand tightens over hers
in that familiar reflex which has saved him,
times beyond remembering, from drowning.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye--
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn's swift force--
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek--
The sudden silence and reserve when near--
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear--
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmèd heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its godlike guest--
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek--
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one belovèd face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble--
Thus doth Love speak.

How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed in silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss--
Thus doth Love speak.

Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5639 Jan 21, 2013
Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
<quoted text>
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
How does Love speak?
In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek,
And in the pallor that succeeds it; by
The quivering lid of an averted eye--
The smile that proves the parent to a sigh
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
By the uneven heart-throbs, and the freak
Of bounding pulses that stand still and ache,
While new emotions, like strange barges, make
Along vein-channels their disturbing course;
Still as the dawn, and with the dawn's swift force--
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the avoidance of that which we seek--
The sudden silence and reserve when near--
The eye that glistens with an unshed tear--
The joy that seems the counterpart of fear,
As the alarmèd heart leaps in the breast,
And knows, and names, and greets its godlike guest--
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the proud spirit suddenly grown meek--
The haughty heart grown humble; in the tender
And unnamed light that floods the world with splendor;
In the resemblance which the fond eyes trace
In all fair things to one belovèd face;
In the shy touch of hands that thrill and tremble;
In looks and lips that can no more dissemble--
Thus doth Love speak.
How does Love speak?
In the wild words that uttered seem so weak
They shrink ashamed in silence; in the fire
Glance strikes with glance, swift flashing high and higher,
Like lightnings that precede the mighty storm;
In the deep, soulful stillness; in the warm,
Impassioned tide that sweeps through throbbing veins,
Between the shores of keen delights and pains;
In the embrace where madness melts in bliss,
And in the convulsive rapture of a kiss--
Thus doth Love speak.
"LOVE LETTER."

Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just tow me an inch, no-
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.

That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter-
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheeks of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,

But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on like a bent finger.
The first thing I was was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mice-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.

I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, and arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.

-- Sylvia Plath
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

#5640 Jan 21, 2013
I see her first darkly
through skein-nets of trees, she is
a brilliant flash of white

pensive and private, she broods

in the woods the darkling
woods
thinking of the dark
the dark demon of the night

how he comes to her

with dark-bright featherwings
to enfold and restrain
to capture and possess, how she
writhes,

moans and cries out……..wakes in the morning

to an empty bed, how he

haunts her heart spaces
through the sun-filled hours
with his dark hope……..with his
demon grasp

but then ....

she sits in a sunny place
till her perfect lover comes
to sit quietly with her
and does not touch her
nor writhe nor moan with her

nor delight her body but

sits and says nothing
while her dark bird hovers……..

unseen

yet bright-dark in the world

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