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posted on Nov, 11 2006 @ 10:00 AM

Leopold was a long-haired tabby
with one eye scarred and scrinched.
He lived up to his name
with great leonine standards of decorum
and sat sunning himself
oblivious to all;
his good eye serious and regal.
Underneath the ancient window
that looked like sun-melted glass
he watered the sill
chin held high
above a grey fluffy puddle

Invia virtuti nulla est via.

[edit on 12-11-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 12 2006 @ 12:50 PM
This may be a incredibly stupid post on my part, but im amazed and confused at the same time, did you write all of this on your own? Its quite interesting and engaging. Nice Work

posted on Nov, 12 2006 @ 03:19 PM
Thanks nastalgik

Flagrant Fragrance

Driving around the south of France
in a red mustang
soaking up the adoration.

No response to suffering
or injustice on the board
a hint of flattery
warrants an email reward.

I'd always felt JC was illustrious company.

Oh Lord,

I've glimpsed what holy women and men say -
that in every problem Christ is resolution.
He is that rarest of birds -
a true companion in suffering.
I view my every advantage and fortunate circumstance,
as the result of his proclaiming the Kingdom.
On that day, I was freed from human subservience, oblivion and slavery.
I guess you could say, I'm a Jesus-lover.

Jesus, he was a witch and a terrorist,
but that's not me.

You will all deny me.

[edit on 11-1-2007 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 12 2006 @ 07:29 PM
Never Mention the Name Three9's Again

Never mention the name three9's again
after we've told you
how you remind us of that other guy
always asking after horses
like a clumsy sty.
Of course, he died.
Pig's fly.

"Three9's", the crows called her,
cawing through her slumber.
The book of laws is dressed in crow feathers.

The Fairy

Come hither my sparrows
My little arrows
If a tear or a smile
Will a man beguile
If an amorous delay
Clouds a sunshiny day
If the step of a foot
Smites the heart to its root
Tis the marriage ring
Makes each fairy a king
So a fairy sung
From the leaves I sprung
He leapd from the spray
To flee away
But in my hat caught
He soon shall be taught
Let him laugh let him cry
He's my butterfly
For I've pulld out the Sting
Of the marriage ring.

William Blake

[edit on 8-3-2007 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 12 2006 @ 09:30 PM

We all died there.
Driven to the edge of town
lined up against open pits
buried alive,
when short a bullet -
Never wasted on infants.
Driven into sooty camps
worked to death
sons and wives
slaughtered first.
He saw the Virgin.
She took his soul
led his body through the water
under the gate
over the fields
through the night-black water.
Bullets went through him,
no blood.
Just the vision -
She left with him.
He couldn't stay anymore.
He went home
with his first born.
We all died.
Left to wander through rubble
burnt out buildings
pock-marked fields
filled with parts and limbs.
He built a new life
with a new wife -
new children.
All dead.
Dread of the night
revolve the same return.
Nothing left to give but
Killing for the right
to not be killed again.

[edit on 21-12-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 13 2006 @ 07:00 AM
All That Is

Europeans say God is dead -
Nietzsche was a German.
Italians snub the vatican
and elect porn stars instead;
Probably not such a bad thing.
The unwashed hordes
are completely out of their heads
killing and raping over Him.
A little pill does much more
than an old fashioned exorcism.
Plumbing that works
a triumph of science over ignorance.
Big brother's making a final bid
to resurrect the devil.
Simple folk know the golden rule -
and all the kings are Midas.

[edit on 9-12-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 13 2006 @ 09:41 PM

A mat of hair
around a pale face
bones showing
where a calf had place.
One eye wanders
staring out into space
the other looking inwards
lost and glazed.

She's a baby
in the devils maze.
It takes more than seroquel
to find her.
Risperadal won't calm her.

Here's your floods.
Here's your hurricanes.
Here's your toxic waste.
Here's your millionaires.
Here's your rising costs.

She doesn't sin.
She doesn't fail.
She won't carry the tab.

Africa is dying.

Big money for pharmaceuticals pumping out drug addicts.
The jails are in the manufacturing and customer service business.
We told the nurses at the hospital she was addicted and shooting her oxycontin.
We showed them her purse full of pills, snuck her out during the visit.
They said they'd search it while she was in her room, they didn't.
She took all her trazadone and oxycontin at once, after we left.
They gave her charcoal and put her out on the street the next day, homeless.
We prayed to the incorruptibles.
The next day her cousins showed up from out of town.
They drove her to a medical detox and a treatment center called Nazareth.

[edit on 21-11-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 13 2006 @ 09:52 PM

Incorruptibles are typically found lifelike, moist, flexible, and contain a sweet scent that many say smells like roses or other flowers, for years after death.

Incorruptibles are almost never embalmed or treated in any way due to the religious order's beliefs that the person came from.

Incorruptibles remain free of decay, some for centuries, despite circumstances which normally cause decay such as being exposed to air, moisture, other decaying bodies, or other variables such as quicklime, which is typically applied to a corpse to accelerate decomposition.

Incorruptibles many times contain clear, flowing oils, perspiration, and flowing blood for years after death, where accidental or deliberately preserved bodies have never been recorded to have such characteristics.

Other partial incorruptibles have been found throughout the centuries where certain parts of the body decay normally, while other parts such as the heart or tongue remain perfectly free of decomposition.

All you holy men and women pray for us.

[edit on 15-12-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 14 2006 @ 09:02 AM
These are 10 conditions countries must meet to obtain an IMF loan.

1.) Eliminate and reduce government controls over imports. Justification: transfer decisions on the use of foreign exchange to the free market. Result: Market is flooded with imports, same phenomena that led to the Boston Tea Party.

2.) Devalue the currency. Justification: Devaluation brings down the price of exports and this allegedly increases exports allowing the debtor to earn the money to pay the debt. Result: Population can't afford imports and everything made in country is exported.

3.) Restrict availability of credit and raise interest rates. Justification: Control inflation. Result: Causes inflation.

4.) Limit or reduce government spending and deficits. (social spending) Justification: Tight money policy. Result: Leads to reduction in services, health care, etc.

5.) Raise Taxes. Justification: Curb purchasing power to fight inflation. Result: Less money circulating within market.

6.) Increase prices of public services. Justification: Increse revenue and reduce public spending. Result: Demoralize the people.

7.) Abolish government subsidies for food and transportation. Justification: Limit government spending. Result: Outlaws trade unions creates starvation.

8.) Control wages. Justification: Control inflation. Result: Suppresses purchasing power.

9.) Eliminate price controls. Justification: Free market policy. Result: Leads to price gouging.

10.) Open country to foreign investment. Justification: Free market economy. Result: Economy is controlled by outside investor's. Loss of National identity and government has no access to own resources.

This is a paragraph published in the journal Foreign Affairs by the council on foreign relations in response to Clinton's JFKish inauguration speech. (400 million wasn't spent on impeachment over fellatio.)

"The task is much more complicated and difficult than Clinton makes it out. First the president has not prepared the nation for the sacrifices that lie ahead if America's trajectory is to turn upward.
Second, he has yet to explain the complex obstacles to restarting the American economy when there is a recession in Japan and Europe.
Third, he has yet to confront the delicate problem of pleasing powerful financial markets which are all too ready to unleash their fury at the administration's first fiscal misstep.
Now that the election is over the new president will have to move quickly to deliver the tough message and make agonizing decisions. In the CNN age, when indelible impressions are instantaneously formed around the world and when wall street and it's foreign counterparts can bring policy makers to their knees overnight Clinton's first hundred days are not just an opportunity to unfold a new agenda, rather they just as equally present a mine field that could blow up and damage his administration for the next four years.
Clinton's immediate priorities should be both offensive and defensive and defined in terms that are crystal clear and that reduce the cancerous budget deficit." (social spending)

Noam Chomsky calls it 'Public subsidy of private enterprise"

[edit on 15-12-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 14 2006 @ 03:27 PM

La petite leaves roses
and she covered me in poesy and bloom
held me as I came to ruin
like all the little children she had envied
to be without a soul
to whom to turn
despised as one despicable
the scent of roses filled the room

She has wandered into the belly of the beast, she has marked the ground with her staff and she has spoken with her ring.

[edit on 8-12-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 14 2006 @ 07:51 PM
One night she dreamt of Black Elk. He was wearing a black felt cowboy hat. Not the big fancy kind, the kind cowpokes wear to keep the sun off their faces when they ride for days chasing wayward steer. He looked about 40 or 50, his face wrinkled up with a big smile. He had on a black jacket and white shirt and black jeans. He didn't say a word; he didn't have to.
He just wandered into the kitchen where she was cooking, smiling, as though she'd been expecting him. She recognized him immediately. He seemed surprised when she jumped onto him with a big hug - and though impossible, the smile got even wider. He carried her like that, hugging. They just hugged, it said more than words.

Send me no more a messenger who cannot tell me what I seek. All they who serve relate a thousand graces of Thee; and all wound me more and more, and they leave me dying, WHILE THEY BABBLE I KNOW NOT WHAT. - D Lewis

posted on Nov, 15 2006 @ 07:48 PM
The Fatal Flaw

The shell went off behind them, splintering trees and sending debris flying. A concussive woosh swept them off their feet and sent them flying into the ditch squirming with wet things beside the road. Ringing ears prevented any real communication but the eyes said it all. They scrambled to their feet, clothes tattered and started running.

'Where's the bag?' he roared. She knew it was more important than being alive; can't stay alive without it. He turned and she stopped, when she saw he was staring backwards. Squinting they made it out. A black duffle bag, non-descript drifting down the sewage stream in the ditch. Body parts and gore barely recognizable as anything spattered the background. They were mannequins, they were potted plants, strange sculptures - they weren't human.

That didn't matter, the bag was recognizable. He raced for it. She spotted an empty moped up ahead, the thing beside it wasn't human. 'We've got to get out of here' - he screamed as they ran for the moped. The gas tank was near empty. It was enough to ride across the field. They came upon a couple on a GT 750 and he pulled his gun. 'Get off', he shouted. They didn't argue.

Blood was streaming from her ears. His face was red and blistered. ''Winning the hearts and minds,' he spat, 'the arms and legs.'

[edit on 15-11-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 15 2006 @ 10:00 PM

Mangled at the tree of knowledge.
Elitist sub-text.
Bean counter -
count the money
you've sent people to hell
to invest.
For some of little faith,
Christ sent a witness
Someone you only tolerate -
thinking it forgiveness.

[edit on 17-11-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 16 2006 @ 11:22 AM
You love Moses?

Osama binLaden is the reborn Christ
For many Arabs of the world.
A serious mistake to underestimate
his messiah status
For those fevered with righteous indignation.
Nostradamus prognosticated
The long awaited one will return,
not in the West,
in the East.
In the CNN age,
that fact is not lost
on the web spinners.
Media black-outs
and intermittent derision.
Not hide, nor hair
denotes he's not there.
In the West, we've lost our Gods -
just like Rome.
Why, why do they hate us?
Pitiful moan.
In the East, they've found theirs
and he's wearing the same sandals
of poverty and oppression
the same mantle of
monotheistic obsession
as he did 2000 years ago.
Full circle
They say he used the CIA.
A little like Saul, in his day.

[edit on 9-3-2007 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 16 2006 @ 09:00 PM
Snake ate the Evidence

Kiki was surprised to find a large, very large, snake in the pool. The doors had been locked to the pool that day. She'd gone there a million times, gotten a few badges in that pool - it had always been open all day and filled with busy people. That day the doors were locked and noone was around. Locked doors had never stopped her, when it was something she really wanted. That day she really wanted to swim. So she went in through a small vent that opened into the pool part of the gym.

Once inside the atmosphere was different. It was dim, the lights were off. There was a charge in the air. Frightening, almost electric. It was eerie in the dimly lit empty pool, usually filled with the sound of children and splashing. Her footsteps echoed off the walls and ceiling, soft little pads that resounded with an ominous echo. 'I've come this far', thought Kiki, not to be outdone by a little creepiness. The pool was a beautiful blue, and the water seemed clear and inviting. She stripped off her clothes and dived in.

She discovered she was not alone. A humongous snake swam up to meet her underwater. She almost drowned drawing breath, but the snake bobbed her up with his nose. He was as long as the olympic sized pool and quite as thick as a large tree trunk around. The pool didn't seem big enough for him. Kiki was instantly terrified. The snake looked a bit like a boa, black and white, which didn't make sense it must be an anaconda, she surmised. She thought he might eat her. The snake grinned and imparted into her head, 'Just think of me as your dog.'

There was a bit of a disconnect between an unearthly large snake capable of telepathy and her friendly and loyal pet who was never more satisfied than when eating a pig's ear. Kiki decided to take him at his word. They swam together for awhile. It was fun. The power of the snake as he moved through the water made waves that Kiki rode on. He let her cling to his big fat body and swam her around the pool. She wasn't quite convinced of his status as a friendly dog and relieved that the snake didn't seem to mind when she wanted to leave.

She threw on her clothes and left by the front door, which wasn't locked from the inside. Once she'd gone a few yards from the building she saw two officious looking men in black suits with hats approach the door. 'Oh no', thought Kiki, 'What if it's not locked and they find the snake in there. They might discover everything.' She inched out of sight and watched. They pulled and pushed at the doors. They tried keys and all manner of lock picks, to no avail. Frustrated they left. 'Oh thank goodness,' thought Kiki. 'Snake ate the evidence.'

posted on Nov, 17 2006 @ 03:41 PM
The Ballad of Ray Bradbury

Listen up children, to the story of author's three
Issac Asimov, Ron L Hubbard and Ray Bradbury.
Fast friends, they were, birds of a feather
Increasing their wit together, measure by measure.

On they went publishing, quite happily:
In fictional digests, journals and weeklies.
They openly ached with an artist's passion
To enchant men and lead them, after a fashion.

Books and fame were the prize they sought -
One night as they conversed, Ron had a thought;
'Religion is obviously the order of the day' -
'His dianetics', he confided, 'would find hearts to sway.'

Issac's gifts were openly astounding,
In science and biology, he would find his grounding.
Already dreaming of circular seas -
Askance, he regarded Ron's ministries.

Ray was downhearted as he regarded his lot.
His recent publications had come to naught.
'What's worse', commiserated he -
'They call me a racist and demand I change the story.'

Ray had seen the nazi blaze
The book burning rallies and national malaise.
He found his own books similarly touched,
His own visions within the censor's clutch.

His friend's nodded, as friends will do
When they're sympathetic and know the details too.
None of them propagated the inequality of man,
They were compelled to write what had truly been.

While Issac and Ron knew Ray was clearly gifted,
They secretly also felt not to their level lifted.
They could think of no obvious reply
To the quandry that clouded Ray Bradbury's eye.

Ray - not one to be disparaged
Envisioned a world wherein his voice held no carriage:
No safe cranny, no safe nook
For any ideas in Ray Bradbury's books.

'All sad and destitute will I be,
Without my pen, my voice', cried Ray Bradbury,
As he perked some coffee to write Farenheit 453 -
The title changed when Issac told him the right degree.

Listen up children and beware the writer's tale.
The censor's board can't grasp what hindsight will regale.
Ron's busily ministering and collecting fees:
An army of lawyers gag the courts in litigies.

Issac has grown rich and won the love of many -
Family, fans and the intelligentsia.
Ray lived a happy life and to actions bent his pen
He never lied while he explored the mysteries of men.

[edit on 9-12-2006 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 18 2006 @ 08:19 AM

For Charles Baudelaire

I do not know you now, or like you, nor
Did I first know or like you, I admit.
It's not for me to furbish and restore
Your name: if I take up the cause for it,

It's that we both have known the exquisite
Joys of two feet together pressed: His, or
Our whores'! He, nailed; they, swooning in love's fit,
Madly anointed, kissed, bowed down before!

You fell, you prayed. And so did I, like all
Those souls whom thirst and hunger, yearningly,
Shining with hope, urged on to Calvary!

--Calvary, righteous, where--here, there--our fall,
In art-contorted doubts, weeps its chagrin.
A simple death, eh? we, brothers in sin.

Paul Verlaine

[edit on 8-3-2007 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 19 2006 @ 08:59 AM
Ascend and Your Enemies Become Your Friends

Those muddy mustard beige copperheads have little knack for human therapy. She'd swallowed all those pills and duct-taped the bag onto her head. Lights started to flash in her eyes. She lay down under her favorite blanket to call it quits, when she heard them outside the window. They must have known it was out of character for her.

"Oh, they just have to pump her stomach", they sneered, as though she were making a nuisance of herself. That must be true. Sick people are a terrible nuisance. Always whining about the horrible pain and injustice that the 'lucky' ones never have to endure. The lucky ones just don't want to hear what's happening outside their lucky world; even when it's at the expense of what the 'unlucky' live through.

They expected her to not whine about it. She knew better. Never mind, the truth comes out in the wash. The truth will be shouted from the roof-tops. That's why they sneered outside the window, they knew - she knew - about the roof-tops.

Better they sneer than patronize. Being patronized always irked her. It seemed to always come from the dumbest people. People who don't care about the truth of the situation for most people in the world. People willing to congratulate themselves for the smallest sacrifice. People who have looked 40 all their lives, not 14. People who rely on face value.

Looking like a kid forever may be great, if you don't want to reach tall shelves and don't mind being followed around by store detectives for 30 years, thinking you're a teenager. Teenagers are treated very badly. Children are fresh from the light, everyone can see it. Then they become teenagers and they're still close to the light but the world conspires to beat it out of them.

A lot of them these days are pretty demented with the power drives by twelve. Most of them feel bad about it. Then they're congratulated and embrace their downfall. Kids do well if you give them the opportunity to be good. The world tells them lying and money is more important and their childhood lights are quashed with decisive and immediate attention.

In this world, there's really no such thing as justice. Those Gucci clad parasites driving up to the courthouse everyday in their luxury cars think they're God's gift to humanity - spreading justice. Wait till they die and see what they really are - parasites sucking the life out of the people they're 'helping.' They're just like everyone else, not above the real law. She didn't have to read a book to see that. Too bad it's only exemplified in books. Even their cars are a stain upon them.

One night as she prayed in her chair she felt a river of freezing cold in thin air. A river of freezing cold that passed through her hand and in it - a river of freezing souls, withing in their torments, crying out - "Forgive me, I didn't know."

Those material riches you think make you lucky just may be a curse.

[edit on 11-1-2007 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 19 2006 @ 09:05 AM

She doesn't get to tell her story.
People get nervous,
start pointing fingers.
Too hard to listen
to suffering.
Half the world
lives like chattel
and she hasn't the right
to disabuse you
of that notion.
She wants rapture.
Listening with love.
This is my body.
This is my blood.
Joseph never said a word
so Mary could speak.



Fenrir breaks his gleipner chain
God's battle valiantly and in vain
Then you and I to Yggdrasill
To hide until barley grows again.

Rather like children.

[edit on 11-1-2007 by clearwater]

posted on Nov, 19 2006 @ 08:50 PM
Never again by flood, but by fire, or so some stories say.


Black the churlish and bedevilled hearts of men
Wanton and aflame with selfish penury,
Lusting after maidens innocent in glen;
Souls alit with love for all things heavenly.
Rifling conqueror's tomes to emulate
From pages black and long and of despair vast.
Earth's bosom muddied with blood inviolate,
While shines from heaven stars with graces aghast.
Her fragility seemingly abandoned
To cruel wickedness for which mute witness tells
All crude monstrosities contained in canons
Spewed from the brimstone of unsatisfied hells.
A prison bower their own loathe desire
Unquenchable to holy ardor's fire.

[edit on 19-11-2006 by clearwater]

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