Since: Dec 12
I realize you and Trish have had an ongoing argument on Topix.
I do not have a nickle in that dime. That is between the two of you.
I came here at the prompting of a friend in the forum I am registered in. I did not come here to fight and bicker with anyone nor do I wish to now that I am here. I do not fit her behavioral profile....I will leave you to think about that one.
Since: Dec 12
If Trish has told any truth..... She is telling the truth when she is telling you that she is not me.
And here come all of the SOCKS. Right on schedule. Wait for it...
Since: Dec 12
I have told the truth and ONLY the truth with everyone I spoke to. I never did anything to Laura Beth until she started coming after me in this very thread.
Guess we all know why now. GAME OVER!
You are correct again Trish, the game is over. I do hope that you stop the games you are currently playing on this forum.
I am hard pressed at this moment to feel sorry for you when YOUR behavior has put you in the situation you find yourself in at this moment.
Your behavior is unhealthy an until you CHOOSE to stop playing games I have no desire to continue correspondence with you at any level.
You owe a great many individuals apologies. I hope you are woman enough to give them.
“New & Improved..”
Since: Oct 07
Formerly From Kenya
Ohh, it will get better..Ol' Oz will slap back, then a couple of puppies will jump in, it all ends at the vets with everyone gettin' a shot...!..beautiful..
I think I just flushed an adrain devine..had to use the plunger..twice..stubborn bass turd..
Since: Dec 12
Since: Dec 12
I don't know what games you think I've played or the great many you think I owe an apology, but I'm not happy it's been made public like this. I don't believe I've been playing games, but I am truly apologetic if I've offended you.
You have come to this forum registered and unregistered. You have used that position to start arguments between individuals by pretending to be someone other than yourself.
You have several registered accounts that you use at your discretion.
If you refuse to speak to me with anything other than the truth then know my ears are closed to you in the future.
Explain yourself yesterday and do not pretend you have no idea what I am speaking of. Because for you do that you are implying that I am unaware of the games you have been playing with people on here and I assure you I am not.
It’s always darkest before the leopard’s kiss.
Where there’s smoke there is emphasis.
A bird in the hand is bound for the stove.
The pen is no mightier than the soul.
Never underestimate the nib of corruption.
Better late than suffer the long introduction.
All work and no play is the way of  the sloth.
If  you can dream it bring the child the moth.
He is not wise that parrots the wise.
All that glitters has been revised.
An idle mind is a sign of  the time.
The less things change the more we doubt design.
Since: Sep 12
It just amazes me to see all the different story lines out here at OFFBEAT and TOPIX forums.
So much history and even new comers joining the shows. I so badly want to write about some of the stories.
I'll admit I find Adrian to be the most interesting story and mystery out here.
Why do they all gang up on Adrian?
How many woman has this man charmed and then disposed of? How much of this is actually his own words?
What happened to break up all the so called friendships out here and cliques?
These are more entertaining than any Soap I ever watched.
The Soap Opera YOU have ORCHESTRATED..........
And YOU have been ORCHESTRATING it to your own amusement..........
I am enjoying the show Trish..........
Her blue dress is a silk train is a river,
is water seeps into the cobblestone streets of my sleep, is still raining,
is monsoon brocade, is winter stars stitched into puddles,
is goodbye in a flooded antique room, is goodbye in a room of crystal bowls
and crystal cups, is the ring-ting-ring of water dripping from the mouths
of crystal bowls and crystal cups, is the Ol' man River is a hallway, is leaks
like tears from window sills of a drowned house, is windows open to waterfalls,
is a bed is a small boat is a ship, is a current come to carry me in its arms
through the streets, is her floating in a blue dress through the streets,
is only the moon sees her floating through the streets, is her in a blue dress
out to sea, is my mother is a moon out to sea.
We meet in a reflective trench and you are skeptical but then you begin to feel my solidarity
like a short-haired snake between your legs.
The snake starts to hustle, overweening
the lip of pants.
Let’s you and I never be cops to each other.
Because we study elephant lore, and in all the annals of elephant adventures, there was only one cop.
And he was shit.
Elephant stories are like pop songs, one of the earliest forms of experiential autonomy.
Yes their appearance is in the form of money,
but they go into our mouths and we sing them beautifully and when our lives are ruined we sing them again at karaoke.
And karaoke is one of the world’s greatest displays of total solidarity.
Almond waves come out of my cel-phone.
Marzipan insurrection not just televised but broadcast.
If you want to know the status of my solidarity,
look down at the lips on your nipples.
We’ll be safe, or at least in solidarity, reading Bhanudatta’s Bouquet of Rasa and its comrade in literature,
Rooting on The River of Rasa.
It helps to understand there were two realities
and words were in the paper one.
The other was made of clouds
and sometimes whatever animals
or feelings clouds made with their shapes.
The cloud world had giant one-way windows.
You couldn’t see inside and it was very, very dark out.
Your own face sent
out a search party for you.
The limitations of our brains and other body parts
kept rapping on the glass as we danced.
I could never tell which was you
and which was me
and if that simple touch
was some girl’s thighs
or the wings of a moth.
The paper world had words available
but none were the right ones. Later at the bonfire
people threw all the words in
and soon the entire world burned down.
Afterward we kept
talking but one of us kept glancing
at something over
the other person’s head.
You said it was to watch
for predators. I said what’s “predators.”
You made a cloud with your index finger
in the shape of a person whose language had words
for every complicated feeling.
I made the shape of that person’s insides
and internal organs
and started an electrical storm
that would never stop.
Now I’ve heard for the last time.
It doesn’t snow today but February has laid its hands upon my shoulders.
We’re swaying now side to side as if we’re waiting something out.
But I have heard and we are no longer waiting.
It is almost March and you are gone.
In the air there is a long slow sigh.
In the air a surety dances like smoke.
I can be certain you are gone.
Still my knowing you pulls at me and turns a corner.
In February a life tries to fill itself out,
Searching pigment for even the loneliest spaces.
And death seeps in, a persistent stain,
Overflow of time outside of time.
An aberration, death speaks of saturation.
For this reason there is never enough.
For this reason you come to be all light and all shadow.
I’ve caught your laughter like a headcold.
All day and into the next
Now you've tracked me down, look me in the eye
While awkwardness takes my hand like an old friend and looks away.
What I’m trying to name here I can’t say plainly enough or with enough severity.
Love of things that falsely represent a sentient being
You married a marionette for the lumbering way
that she succumbs to teeth. You saw; she sways
and says okay. And she admires the daze
you move in, hydroplaning days away:
exultant accidents. Instead of me,
a blissful wooden girl; a wooden knee
submitted for exhibit. Deadened trees:
the shelter you inhabit. And didn’t we
expect it, eking out animatronic
epochs on the sofa? Both electric—
me with boredom; you ran programs: tricks
for trenchant eyes. Disguised, the lists you ticked
led straight to this. Your love nest: nuts and bolts,
no musts. No lust. No faults,.......
and no one’s fault.
The shadows of trees are a loom
on which you sequester your fear,
containing it through the ineluctable chant of days,
through the weave and thread of tumult.
But drive south on routes one and nine,
forsake corporatization and
the rotting tooth of conscience.
Oh love, suspend your adorations until further notice!
For the lions fart in the sun,
And, fragrant with longing, I think of them.
Those noble cats teeter in the heat waves of August,
on the verge of consequence.
Meanwhile, we flounder, confused by a vector of days.
The duplicity of higher math baffles us—
this equation for happiness, this interpretation
no tongue can demonstrate.
What meme for despair? Forget your body,
a comma lost in the sentences of night.
Forget how it yearns to be a semi-colon,
holding independent but related thoughts together.
Remember, instead, the rooster, the bright red selvage
of the East—those feathers cropped towards emptiness.
Recall how light raises its spurs, where blood splats
On the wounded windows–actually, the dawn.
Reach into the cloud
architecture, almost to the stars.
I lived where they are made
growing up as a kid.
I just wonder what people
are thinking sometimes,
or what happens to ideas
too un evil to endure.
Out there near the edge
the ferocactus has begun to bloom.
I heard once some skaters
were murdered there.
Today I would only
take advice from an angel.
She says soon you will grow
into a beautiful girl.
Soon you will become a planet,
moons and everything.
Sometimes I feel so happy
I forget I’m going to die,
then I go to the desert
with just my sticks
and wait for the shaman.
He always comes.
And raises a temple up
from the dirt, to give to my life
a gleam of delirium, that I may
accept the final results with grace.
This world repeats
a soft et cetera .
open up and feel.
It must be a part
of the daily breezes
that roar down the mountain,
the mountain you prefer.
I live inside a crystal ball
that only sees behind me.
Once I was a teen king
thundering over the peasants.
I was born in the image of Steve.
Once I was a farm boy
on the level of clouds.
Float me back to those heights.
I remember yellow heat
in my yellow clothes and
an idea like a campfire
telling me it wasn’t sure
I’ve ever done the right thing.
Now when it asks for cures
I retrieve an amulet from a secret
altar of things that make me calm
to look upon, and when it asks
Fama, where is your love now?
I think about eating poutine
from the small of her back.
Lord she’s gone done left me,
done packed up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs–
F uck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
f uck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
f uck marx and mao f uck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism f uck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes f uck joseph f uck mary f uck
god jesus and all the disciples....f uck fanon nixon
and malcom f uck the revolution f uck freedom f uck
the whole mothaf ucking thing
all I want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing.........
Some women ride horses.
Some women are horses.
Some horses are wolves
who have lost their teeth
and are ridden by women.
Some wolves are horses
ridden wild with dreams.
Some women are dreams
in the shape of horses
free of the ghost of wolves.
Some ghosts are women,
their bent air a kind of riding.
Some women ride dreams
and bend the air, freeing
the ghosts and the wolves,
and the horses.
Double Liar Paradox (Jourdain's paradox)
This version of a famous paradox was presented by English mathematician P. E. B. Jourdain in 1913.
The following is written on opposite sides of a card:
THE SENTENCE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS CARD IS TRUE.
THE SENTENCE ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS CARD IS FALSE.
Kate please BEWARE...!
"All that glitters is not gold"
I am the mother of sorrows,
I am the ender of grief;
I am the bud and the blossom,
I am the late-falling leaf.
I am thy priest and thy poet,
I am thy serf and thy king;
I cure the tears of the heartsick,
When I come near they shall sing.
White are my hands as the snowdrop;
Swart are my fingers as clay;
Dark is my frown as the midnight,
Fair is my brow as the day.
Battle and war are my minions,
Doing my will as divine;
I am the calmer of passions,
Peace is a nursling of mine.
Speak to me gently or curse me,
Seek me or fly from my sight;
I am thy fool in the morning,
Thou art my slave in the night.
Down to the grave will I take thee,
Out from the noise of the strife;
Then shalt thou see me and know me—
Death, then, no longer, but life.
Then shalt thou sing at my coming,
Kiss me with passionate breath,
Clasp me and smile to have thought me
Aught save the foeman of Death.
Come to me, brother, when weary,
Come when thy lonely heart swells;
I’ll guide thy footsteps and lead thee
Down where the Dream Woman dwells.
By Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872–1906)
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