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Analysis of Lietemyrsky"There, where the cadence ends"
It means a special place in Milegu, where there isn't the normal cadence of Milegu. Ultimately, an exotic place of Milegu."they were the persecuted of time,"The Dussians were the main race that fight agains the Essence of Paranoia, Devourers, dem nutkiae, and the Army of Evil (comanded by the Xontassseslisz’nurom) in the final momments of Milegu."the final tool of complexity, teachers of geometry and causality,"The Dussians, with the help of other species, openned the Planes and they were also specialists in the Milegu (about its geometry and paradoxes)."but when the lava floes broke out among the stars around them, they realized that they were just tiny irregular bubbles within the mind of possibilities"The lava bursts refers when the Essence of Paranoia began to devour the Milegu, tearing apart the structures of the Planes and generating flows of ener
LietemyrskyA small analysis of this text can be read here.
This small text, full of barely understandable concepts, metaphors and wordplays, was written by a Duusilt Dussian when the Lietemyrsky, the Storm of Mud, began. The Storm of Mud (Lietemyrsky) is part of the Storm of Fire (Tulimyrsky), when the Esesence of Paranoia tried to devour the Milegu
There, where the cadence ends; they were the persecuted of time, the final tool of complexity, teachers of geometry and causality, when lava floes broke out among the stars around them, they realized that they were just tiny irregular bubbles within the mind of possibilities. Ice. Not the physical ice produced by the reduced range of temperatures of those complex, although stupid, animals inhabitants of Qui. Is, then, the ice of existence, the endless depth that di
Dussian Duusilt by ~aralc16
The Master floated several measures above the ground.
—Master, how is the Milegu?
—The Milegu is like an inmense endless metal wall, parallel to itself.
—Master, what is Milegu?
—A perfect sphere in the middle of Nothingness, containing All inside it and being is nothing more than a point.
—Master, who is the Milegu?
—The Milegu is the icy fire that dream us.
Like the moons, like the stars...
Like the moons, like the seas of stars... por/by ~Jakeukalane
Like the moons, like the stars,
like the seas of stellar dust...
Like the poem of the cosmos looking us.
Like the frost nebulae in the sky,
and the planets tearing apart.
Like the finite universe
that it is infinite for us.
The Mare of the Wind
Image Midnight Run by = Dianabolique.
Let the wind guide your steps
allow the whole space sleep in your dreams
and, through the years,
your spirit will gallop free.
Move beyond the shadows
and behold the prairie:
the old fire stops burning
if you look at it.
What would you do if you were
the owner of the sea?
What would you do if you were
the mistress of the wind?
Would you raise the seas to the earth
and vanish all the life?
Your joy would dissapear.
You would make the sea talk through waves
and the wind wishper through mist.
Dancing between them
and kissing the coasts.
Cross the clear water,
travel to the middle of night
and full of illusions arrive.
Jog slowly towards the plain,
let the breeze caress you,
stand your soft mane
and travel to the ends of the world.
La Yegua del Viento
Imagen Midnight Run por = Dianabolique.
Deja que el viento te guíe
permite que el espacio duerma en tus sueños
y que, a través de los años,
tu espíritu galope suelto.
Traspasa las sombras
y contempla las llanuras:
el viejo incendio dejará de arder
si lo miras tú.
¿Qué harías si fueses dueña del aire?
¿Qué harías si fueses amante del viento?
¿Alzarías los mares sobre la tierra
y hacer desaparecer
toda la vida?
Tu alegría se desvanecería.
Harías hablar al mar a través de las olas
y al viento a través de la bruma.
Danzando entre sí y
besando las costas.
Surca la cristalina agua
hasta la mitad de la noche viaja
y de ilusiones siéntete llena.
Every momentA sinuous melody,
in the middle of the sacrifice;
a ridge that bleeds
and looks to their tenants.
40,000 people waited for the underworld was opened
40,000 people praying to a nonexistent god;
the cruelty of the only one who they had to fear was indifferent
and he would not stop until the world halt
under his feet of iron.
Huge black clouds formed at the other end of the world.
A gentle breeze caressed their face, mocking his misfortune:
the sky could not be bluer even if it was dyeing of the color of the sea.
The silence was absolute; ancient symbols of good luck was growing from the soil
now enemies of humanity.
Their number seemed low, but who cares one or thousands when
dying from absurd reasons.
"You forget that everything dies ....
... the universe will cease to exist and all with it"
I remember, perhaps, the most important:
"The only thing worth observing is the reality of the world...
...in every moment".
Los Seres Amables (Los Feyoji)
Atención: LA IMAGEN NO ES MÍA, ES DE springsofiyore. Imagen original aquí
©Hyposs Productions. ©K Vanderveen
Esta raza, llamada en todos los antiguos códices como "los seres amables" llego a estar casi extinta. La razón de su persecución era su tendencia a proteger a la gente de la violencia. Detectaban cuando la gente estaba en peligro y hacían lo posible para evitarles cualquier daño (incluso si tenían que perder sus vidas).
Esta actitud no fue la única cause de la rápida caída en el número de Seres Amables. También tenían enemigos muy peligrosos en círculos criminales y llegaron a ser una de las razas más odiadas por los asesinos e incluso por los ejércitos (los Seres Amabl
A year ago I see a sparrow with three eyes. It was completly normal but voilà!, sudenly it opened its third eye. It had perched quietly in the jamb of the window and sang. Truth is that it sang in an extremely strange way, in a way that one does not believe that a sparrow could sing, or even a bird. It emited small squeals interspersed by a kind of bass squawks. Its singing was not normal, that was clear. After a while I had already started to get a headache. I tried to frighten him, but no way. I slammed the window shut to scare him but even so. Instead of staying plastered to the window frame, appeared so calm above my side table without traversing the distance from the side table to the window. It was then that I was paralyzed by seeing its third eye openning in the middle of that tiny forehead.
Then began whispering strange words in a language that sounded like Nordic. After, he began to scream in the same language with a tone of urgency that scared me. He passed in
Liquor is one way out an'death's the other The art of growing up,
is to pour shots of whiskey
into your coffee in the morning
to make it through
when all you want to do
is lie in bed
but there’s nothing
The tragedy of the mook and how it died one dayThe fickle sky presses
Against the glass of the windows
And the dry strung up heat of the winter sun
Spilled over the anemic asphalt
Our shadows seared into the bottom of our sneakers
Moving with a sort of blithe nonchalance
Searching for the speckled grey of a familiar horizon
The apathetic footsteps and my clenched hands
Quiver beneath the setting sun’s bloody smear
Across the over populated sky
That was no longer clear
Rather it was the looking glass phenomena
Spread eagled across my retinas
And during those grief stricken days spent
Hanging off your rooftops and skylines
I've contemplated replacing
my heart with another
Liver so I can
Drink more and care less
And I can vow that sleeping is only
For the dead or at least
The heavily medicated and sadly
I can no longer tell the difference between
spun out so far, i can't be true to you.he's still the way i watch the stars
and how i run like no one's watching
he's what i dream of when i'm awake
but maybe i'm done waiting
maybe it's you
maybe it's me this time
and maybe that's enough
he still races through my veins
and no, my heart is not steady when i see him
but i was never one for patience
a year is too long to hold on
and he is conservative
and button downs
he is beautiful
but i am wild
i am dirty feet
and summer evenings
i am mud-caked nails
and cider throats
i am sun soaked
laced with drunken poetry
i am watercolour
he is oil based
he is canvas in london galleries
i am doodles on napkins in mediterranean restuarants
you are cheekbones and dark eyes
coffee stained fingers
smirks and accidental brushes
i don't intend to know anything more
he is confidence
i am uncertainty
i live in the wind and the forests
we both spend too much time in front of mirrors
but whilst he kisses them
i crack them
and all the while he is leather
the King and his moon.i.
this is an ode
to the King. We
watched him blow
away like an ocean
of black feathers,
and our Father muttered
that he was
forgiven, always, truly
forgiven. But we
all know that
nothing gold can
stay-- he had to
go. It was written.
that was when the
Queen cut her hair. Again,
we watched it fall to
her chamber floor
in heaps of strung
gold. But we already
knew that it would have
to go. We already
knew that she
would go, for it
was written, and it
was already forgiven.
the Prince grew up
with the memory of
black shoes and hair
littering the halls of
an empty palace. The
Queen was busy, always
busy, and then she was sick--
and then the Prince put on
his black robes for her, even
though he always remembered
her in shades of red.
on his father's throne,
the boy-king realized that
this was the place
that swallowed up his love,
and it gave way to war.
You know what they
say-- "A heartbrok
i.by the grace of an orphan wintering,
i have known you
babel, babylon: eyes raptured rare and hands
to strange knowing and throat bruising
pale against the press
. ...such sudden gods. such taken
you stumbled where night slurred
too far to the left; my wild garden
old dusks, blue
reality vs. pretendi.
a wooden sword
and an eye-patch
i was a girl who
knew deep inside
had developed feelings
and they were all
selfishly for me.
you tricked me,
you kidnapped me,
all to tell you stories
in which good triumphs
over evil, not really;
was to walk the plank
as you planned to kill
him and feed him to
the ticking crocodile.
happy thoughts and
faerie dust would
allow me to fly,
but i only had the
first and i was doomed;
your wooden sword poked
my back, waiting for me
to take the leap
down (the stairs),
hearing the ticking
(of the oven)
go off - just in time.
surly, mother called us
down for dinner
and at the end of the night,
it was all truly
bedtime stories will
serve as my peter pan,
as my escape from reality.
PossibilitesWhen I was 5
I wanted to be
anything to be
When I was 12
I wanted to be
to learn how
the Earth works
and what makes
stones so beautiful
When I was 16
I wasn't sure what
I wanted to be
The future was uncertain
So was I at this point of time
But then again
So were other kids
Now I'm 20
I want to be a writer
My mind's eye seeing
people and places
like a photo album
words stringing together
to create something beautiful
Untitled...The world is made of a couple of hopeless poets.
Dreamers cutting their wrists,
Rivers are the color of their dull, dusty blood.
The metallic taste of their sorrows on my tongue.
Bullets entering skulls that when burst open, shimmer with brilliance.
A gentle touch.
Oh, what a pity.
For all geniuses to be forever lonely.
And all poets, dead.
Not That DifferentA writer sat down beside an artist,
Notebook and pencil in his hands.
The artists’ curiosity lead him,
To stop his sketch and take a glance.
And so the young artist asked the writer,
“Is there any chance that I could look?
Because I need words to paint a picture,
Could I look inside your notebook?
The words you have written on the pages,
Are the inspiration I need.
My hands itch to draw the scenes your mind made,
A poem, or story I plead."
The writer only laughed at the artist,
And then he simply shook his head.
“An Artist was what I used as my muse,”
Was what the old writer then said.
"Today I’ve learned something I won’t forget
I need your work and you need mine.
The threads of our works, they are intertwined
What a pretty thought and clear sign."
They looked and smiled as they swapped their works,
Flipping through pages both called art.
The only difference that separates them,
Are titles that keep them apart.
The gaze of the Ancient Ones
Guardians of cosmos,
from eternal times.
Givers of life
they banish the dead.
Their wisdom is infinite,
but not all they know.
Simple formules, complex patterns
all seems complicated from afar.
At distance the beauty is disorder
and the confusion reigns.
How far your mind would reach?
Galaxies, groups, clusters and superclusters awaits;
simple vacuum and a little of dust.
Pure energy, climbing incomprehension,
quasars, blazers and supernoves;
naughty nebulosae and red dwarfs.
Veins, nerves, epithelial cells,
eyes of the size of solar systems.
admirable light reflections,
of the icy galaxies and the red hipergiants,
there are the Ancients,
I Belong To You I hate rain. Not really, I love it. Just not when the most beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect, comfortable, waterproof, perfect coat in existence has been savagely butchered by my so-called friend’s Dalmatian. Every slap of rain on my naked arms is a stinging reminder of the irreparable hole in my wardrobe.
Some people might try to fill the void with lesser coats but I can’t bring myself to betray Valentino, even after her death. Instead my slippery arms grapple with each other in wet shock as I stumble to the op shop, clinging to one last thread of hope. I know in my deadened heart that I’ll never have another coat like her. Yet here I am, blundering through the elements in my vain search for the acceptance and warmth I found wrapped in Valentino’s woollen sleeves.
Thud. My body slams into the door, making the ‘open’ sign quiver and the bells tinkle in offense. I fight for entry, the door’s assault doubled by the stale funk of
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More