JUST SEX and POETRY

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Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5719
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Find your own voice and use it
use your own voice and find it

The sounds of drizzle
on dry leaves are not
like sounds of insults
between pedestrians

Those women laughing
in the window
do not sound like
air conditioners on the brink

The river turtle
does not breathe like
a slithering boa constrictor

The roar of a bull
is not like
the cackle of a hyena

The growl of a sea-leopard
is not like the teething cry
of a baby

The slash of a barracuda
is not like
the gulp of a leaping whale

The speech of a tiger shark
is not like
the bark of an eagle-fish

The scent of a gardenia
is not like the scent of a tangerine

Find your own voice and use it
use your own voice and find it !
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5720
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Out of the layers of stars,
one star whose fragrance fills the wind
comes dancing,
Out of the layers of air,
the sun, our brother, flies.
We are wrapped in his wings.
His golden glance hurls us spiraling
through space,
through time,
through dark.
In dawn light we walk gratefully
in a living world.
The living wind breathes us,
moves in and out,
spins in and out, up and
through spaces in the blue,
spaces where the fading stars twinkle back.
Shadows lengthen and grow bold.
The day unwinds his hair
and sets out on the open road.
Each day, a new vision,
clouds and ravines,
blue wind and buds.

Now grasses, blue, green,
jolt us with their reach,
pushing through the leafmold
to tremble with the urgent energy
of their soft
bristling songs.
These grasses beguile the geese
northward, northward.
Now let us rest in their long touch,
let their delight shimmer over us,
until we too unfurl ourselves
through this living world.
Under a blaze of maples,
under birches shaking their catlins,
under white pine’s massive buoyancy,
over strawberries ripening,
over these hills echoing
with buds and gusts of rain,
let us walk gratefully in this living
world again.

Since: Dec 12

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#5721
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Homunculus Nebula wrote:
<quoted text>
I want a kingdom of words
a river of words
to wash away human misery
and plant roots in my soul
so that it might be an Argonaut,
a Quixotic Knight in fantastic seas
a valiant dreamer of liberty.
A kingdom of words
to rearrange the movement
of birds in branches
to feel the color of a star
the aroma of wind
the spirituality of your passion.
A kingdom of words to help me know
human being, seas and stars
to join my soul and my body
and please my flesh.
I want a kingdom of words for my soul
as much as I want a vast country for my heart
a free country like we’ve all imagined.
A kingdom of words to seduce me
and roll out from my tongue
like a string of pearls
at dusk in my country,
A kingdom of words or a river of words
overflowing, carrying everything it finds in its path
a will-o-’the-wisp in my mouth
a passion devouring my dreams.
To burn my lips
and grant me the keys of the imagination
the islands of colors and spices
Amboina, Banda, Ternate and Tidore
with their trunks and tragedies and adventures
in the sea of lamentations of Vespuccio and Magellan
To have it come to a halt before me
all I need is the light of your eyes
the trembling at the threshold of dreams,
splashing on the white page on this screen......
~DeVine.
There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words in which to wash away human misery

But there is only one that can plant roots in the soul

And

That Word is Love

Soft

Warm

Passionate

Sensitive

Delicate

There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
In which one can rearrange the movement of birds in branches
Feel the color of a star
The aroma of wind
The spirituality of your passion

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

A Tower of Inspiration

Kind

Forgiving

Comforting

Supportive

There is a kingdom of words to help you know
Human beings, seas and stars
To join There is a kingdom of words to help you know
Human beings, seas and stars
To join your soul and your body
And please your flesh

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

Sweet

Delicious

Amazing

Transcending

Fulfilling

There is a kingdom of words for your soul
Words to seduce you
Roll from your tongue
Like a string of pearls
At dusk in your country

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

Motivating

Fruitful

Devine

Refreshing

Beautiful

There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
Overflowing carrying everything it finds in its path
A will-o’the-wisp in your mouth
A passion devouring your dreams

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love


Delightful

Compassionate

Tender

Beautiful

Courageous

There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
To burn your lips
And grant you the keys of the imagination
The islands of colors and spices
Amboina, Banda,Ternate and Tidore
With their trunks tragedies and adventures
In the sea of lamentations of Vespuccio and Magellan

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

Accepting

Happiness

Laughter

Joy

Reliable

And I halt here before you with my river of words

With the light in my eyes

Trembling at the threshold of dreams

Splashing on the white pages on this screen

Since: Dec 12

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#5722
Jan 22, 2013
 

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*But there is only one that can plant roots in the soul
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5723
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
<quoted text>
There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words in which to wash away human misery
But there is only one that can plant roots in the soul
And
That Word is Love
Soft
Warm
Passionate
Sensitive
Delicate
There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
In which one can rearrange the movement of birds in branches
Feel the color of a star
The aroma of wind
The spirituality of your passion
But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul
And
That Word is Love
A Tower of Inspiration
Kind
Forgiving
Comforting
Supportive
There is a kingdom of words to help you know
Human beings, seas and stars
To join There is a kingdom of words to help you know
Human beings, seas and stars
To join your soul and your body
And please your flesh
But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul
And
That Word is Love
Sweet
Delicious
Amazing
Transcending
Fulfilling
There is a kingdom of words for your soul
Words to seduce you
Roll from your tongue
Like a string of pearls
At dusk in your country
But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul
And
That Word is Love
Motivating
Fruitful
Devine
Refreshing
Beautiful
There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
Overflowing carrying everything it finds in its path
A will-o’the-wisp in your mouth
A passion devouring your dreams
But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul
And
That Word is Love
Delightful
Compassionate
Tender
Beautiful
Courageous
There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
To burn your lips
And grant you the keys of the imagination
The islands of colors and spices
Amboina, Banda,Ternate and Tidore
With their trunks tragedies and adventures
In the sea of lamentations of Vespuccio and Magellan
But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul
And
That Word is Love
Accepting
Happiness
Laughter
Joy
Reliable
And I halt here before you with my river of words
With the light in my eyes
Trembling at the threshold of dreams
Splashing on the white pages on this screen
I am a collaborator
language is my law
I will do fine by silence
but my mouth is unruly

wading into history
tossing sentences and formulations
onto the page in chaotic patterns
under my breath I whisper:

these hills are on fire
these streets are on fire
my will is on fire
my chest is on fire
my hopes are on fire
my writing is on fire - it is
an ever burning
ever changing flame...

Where the flower shows her beauty,
Desire disengages itself from later,
Names are suspended in two bunches of eight,
A nail scratches the horizon into skin.

Fingers cross over into here and here and here,
Hands grasp at veils made of spun silken hair,
Infinite breaths give colour to infinity.

Insects hum in unintelligible light
Eyes cross the intoxicated belly,
The underarm savours forgotten dreams.

Where the flower shows her beauty
The consonant inspires the vowel.

Butterflies take the salt from the sea.

Time enamels tattoos on petals.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5724
Jan 22, 2013
 

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In the hollows between time and forgiveness
*
In between love and longing.
*
In the hollows between grace and faith
*
In between diamonds and the rough.
*
In the hollows between struggle and freedom
*
In between flotsam and pearls.
*
In the hollows between earth and sky
*
In between anguish and recovery.
*
In the hollows between darkness and dawn
*
In between memory and healing.
*
In the hollows between proof and promises
*
In the hollows between love and loss
*
Finding you.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5725
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Was it at the beginning of March
or at the end of September?

And, has it any importance
in which season it was?

Anyway, it was here:
in this country there is no there.

We are in the suburb
where the city begins.......

(distrutful voice)

It is a landscape like a hieroglyphic
where everything represents another.

And no one himself
(each one looks into another one like on a mirror).

It is a labyrinth without Daedalus.
It is an endless stroll
through tunnels of fear.

It is the great wheel of desire,
not fitting in the night sky.

It is the great flight without Icarus.

No one conforms to his self
in this limitless smallness.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5726
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Why my worn out eyes?
barely have they observed reality
and they blink
they crack
they darken,
they don’t want to know more.

To what purpose this succession of colors?
The spread out hand for a new face,
the precise answers
and then…
the same nothingness
and the room with shadows
without any of those faces,
all reduced to constant
reflections on the mirror.

A feeling of seeing
the spectacle
and turning the lights off.

No one can suddenly drive away
the shadows that dwell deep down;
scraps of so much,
on that which we are
alone…
without ourselves.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5727
Jan 23, 2013
 

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I have forgotten the symbols
The forms of the letters
The sound of phonemes to cut the silence
I do not know how to write her name
And much less how to pronounce it
Motionless, on a desert beach
She is wearing the dress of salt given me by destiny
There are no signals or tempests during the day
And at night multitudes of stars silently ignore the need I have
To know their names
Wet sand daily buries my bare feet
Do not remember the grass, nor the cement, or the shoes
My hands in an effort to grasp the air
Lost the mobility of long ago
Long ago…
Long ago when I knew little and felt little
I knew of love in the sea
Of the salt skin in my mouth
Of the warm present of her silken body
Not mattering the sarcastic gaze of the fish
Long ago I knew that her saliva sated my thirst
And that my greatest possession was in the fine silver threads that crowned her head
I have forgotten the words,
The phonemes, the numbers, the dates
Like a child coming back to the world
Understanding nothing
Feeling everything.......

The emerald green iris she had have come out from the orbits to look for the code with which I deciphered the world.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5728
Jan 23, 2013
 

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Just as I wonder
whether it’s going to die,
the orchid blossoms

and I can’t explain why it
moves my heart, why such pleasure

comes from one small bud
on a long spindly stem, one
blood red gold flower

opening at mid-summer,
tiny, perfect in its hour.

Even to a bright eyed
blonde haired craggy poet,
it’s purely erotic,

pistil and stamen, pollen,
dew of the world,
a spoonful

of earth, and water.
Erotic because there’s death
at the heart of birth,

drama in those old sunrise
prisms in wet cedar boughs,

deepest mystery
in washing evening dishes
or teasing my lover,

who grows, yes,
more beautiful
because one of us will die.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5729
Jan 23, 2013
 

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"EXCOGITATING."

Dozing, I go over the human face with microscopic eyes. I go over a nose lightly sloped, sweating near the nostrils.

I am a look on a face with a nose that thinks. I am some millimeters away from the skin that shines, my eyes are the eyes of an ant, and the face a mountain range.

In front, under, up, submerged in itself, absent-minded. Indifferent, without imagining being looked upon by something minute.

And I,—the inconceivable—, know, that this crease near the nose on which I am now walking belongs to a face.

Astonished, I freeze: how can this line, this sweat, this sketch of a cheek, be a face and even a name, a history, a period of time?

How can, at the same time, this portion of grease and heat go further than a name, a history, a period of time?
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5730
Jan 23, 2013
 

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So many absences all the time
that I can no longer name them.

Rain falls behind the tears
and from the courtyard rises an odor
of damp earth and apples.

Only ghosts live now
in this house
-hieratic specters
that have shed their flesh
and their silence-.

I cross the bridges of time,
while memories fall
changed into murmurs of stone.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5731
Jan 23, 2013
 

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What sounds are those, that are heard
from the pale forest
of your drenched mouth?

What potent fruit nourishes
you in your city
of empty time?

What stone dares shout for you
from that Herodes of straw and salt
which stirred your blood?

What saint about to fall
collapses now between warm veins
that tear open your wound?

Altar wise
by owl- light,
my imagined life goes on
by the power of someone death,
precarious prince at the sky’s edges,
who permits me to speak at the fire of war,
to tell my shadow in the alchemy of water
where to name a light is to picture the night,
to open a chalice at dawn’s intention.

Here the dead hold sway,
where someone, maybe a god,
slave of rain,
a melancholy ruler of what was,
avidly opens the silence of blood
in the night’s vertigo and its fear
so that he might say what is, what burns endlessly
in the cups of dust that drizzle his thirst into vacuity.

This is the hour when I may know
what was torn from my history,
the fragment chiseled over a cold surrealistic night.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5732
Jan 23, 2013
 

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An instrument, waxed and shiny,

Can stick to moisture on a naked chest,

With strings taught and ready,

Gripped by one and caressed by another.

He drove to the garage and let himself in,

With the guitar resting snug on his shoulder,

Endless hair obstructing all but his fingers,

Concentration absolute.

With only the beeping fridge,

And dripping tap as accompaniment,

In the dead of night.

He strummed to coke cans,

Chocolate bars and porn,

Ignoring the aching in his back,

As the chords cut the silence,

In the back of the stockroom,

A rodent audience gathered curiously,

In the shadow of his lover.

It was no sooner set to the ground,

As it was in his arms again,

Each time the notes grew stronger,

More lucid, more extravagant, more overpowering,

Strings eager to improve on their last.

The Guitarist played until his fingers were hard,

Ridged and yellow from smoking and strumming,

And practising, and adjusting and perfecting,

Endlessly, as he had no timepiece to adhere to.

He continued every night and every day and every night,

Until his scent was that of his muse.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5733
Jan 23, 2013
 

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I don’t have a theory of it. It is just an analogy
with a huge lake with ample inlets and outlets.

This lake is a canvas for clouds that drift away,
slowly, like the leaves fallen.

Or say, it’s more like a girl

whom I’ve never known and I’m sure
I’ll never know.

This girl secretly leaves an infant
on a pavement and disappears from sight.....

And the crying baby is picked up


by a kind couple.

This is easy and hard, two in one scheme.

But I don’t have a theory of it. It is just an analogy
with the lake where the boy stares
at his still reflection, and where


he gains a tremendous strength.



Or say,
it is the stone he hurls into the lake
to distort its trancelike quality.

It is the instant
when the ripples lap

his rumpled reflections.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5734
Jan 23, 2013
 

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she liked her men
spare and sparse
lean of words
without flowers in their hands
their shirt sleeves rolled up
to show the world
how hard they lived,
their legs tucked into boots
as thick and dark as calluses

she liked them sprawled
elbows on the table
at dinner
their forks demanding her attention
spearing the meat
like clean kill
chewing with the gusto
of young rams
their teeth reminding her
of how devouring was
a holy act

and she would dream
of those hands
curious beasts of prey
skin freckled with the grit of stars
and gravel from wrong turns
making paths across her blouse
pulling her skirt up
to meet their questions
and of how her throat
would buckle
like it had no will
at the whisper of her name.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5735
Jan 23, 2013
 

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At my reading
every day
language breathes
down my nature

on the podium
losing myself
in stolen words
as kisses

making out
in a roll
of my tongue
capturing solitude

with a scrappy
wonder
in a blunted alembic
of a life sentence

soon to be
reflected on
graffiti walls
and then translated.

At daybreak
by the ice pond
escaping parental storms
in a ninth year,

and captive
of the used bookstore
in disappearances
by tall shelves
digging out chapters
with an itinerary
of large silences,

red eyes half open
by unseen volumes
under a solitary light
the young hand
climbs up the ladder
beneath the stammer
and shyness
of a forgiving nature
with a a few coins left
from an allowance,

and you, Dylan Thomas
all in blue under cover
is taken home
to read in private
when no one
is around.
They

United States

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#5736
Jan 23, 2013
 

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Homunculus Nebula wrote:
My other name is DeVine....They call me a poet.
Actually, we call you an idiot, Sybil.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5737
Jan 23, 2013
 

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Discordant the piano
spears through the Gauloises cigarette haze,
allowing her scarlet words to ooze through,
with their promises

of longing
and love
and death
and heaven
and hell…
and everything in between.

She sings to me, though every man in here will tell you the same.

They’re lying, of course.
The barkeep chases a three legged dog
through the open door.
It turns back to look at him contemptuously, before trotting, free, into the night.

Thoughtfully, I draw circles on the table with my shot glass.
Would that the easy flow of cheap scotch could carry me away from here and to your door,
Or maybe you’ll find this poem…

No,

this cry for help,
and come for me.

She runs her slender, perfectly manicured fingers across the piano lid and looks at me,
though every man in here will tell you the same.
They’re lying, of course.

I briefly squeeze my eyelids tight together,
and pour another.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5738
Jan 23, 2013
 

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I live my life inside my patio window.
It’s here, at my business desk I slip
into my own warm pajamas and slippers
never seeking Jesus, but comeing to terms
with my own cross and brittle conditions.

Outside, winter night turns to winter storm,
the blue jay, cardinal, sparrows and doves
go into hiding, away from the razor whipping winds,
behind willow tree bare limb branches
they lose their faces in somber hue.

Their voices at night abbreviate
and are still, short like Hemingway sentences.
With this poetic mind, no one cares
about the seasons and the slants
the wind or its echoes.

I live my life inside my patio window.

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