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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: June 03 2008 at 08:30 |
Prune Variations
Prune prune prune - prune. PRUNE! prune prune - prune. PRUNE! Prune prune - prune. PRUNE! Prune prune prune. PRUNE! Prune prune prune - PRUNE! Prune prune prune - prune.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: June 16 2008 at 13:20 |
A Glimpse of My Local Collection of Mirrors
Our favourite void is the empty kind sometimes met on sculptors' minds and met with such an overwhelming respect above all among those full of life and too much so to move swiftly
but only those who are mobile by nature are capable of remaining still only those who have fingernails for food and drink ink from the last remaining bottle are to break the barrier of life and art
your turquoise dress gives me nice vibes as if we were on an Indian burial ground weighing Japanese pop music with horses to see our eyes open both ways now and what a nice hat you've got also
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: June 23 2008 at 15:35 |
from now on I can only write like a poor Bukowski imitator
recently I've tried writing poems
about the hidden structure of the universe
which I sometimes see from afar
in dreams
but I lack vision and skill
so they all turn out wrong.
I've tried writing about girls
and imaginary hairdressers that I love
like brand new shoes.
but ever since I lost my inspiration
(and believe me it's been awhile)
there's been no other choice
but to try to write like Bukowski
and fail
at that too.
Edited by Vompatti - June 23 2008 at 15:35
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: June 25 2008 at 08:53 |
this is not a poem this is not a statement this is not a vision anymore.
this is an organic machine a flamboyant rock cast at the feet of those who carry pianos on their heads in a Tarkovskyan rainstorm which is not very wise (because they might slip).
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: June 28 2008 at 07:27 |
Today I Saw One of Those Disposable Raincoats...
Hey lady! Have you noticed - there's a plastic bag around you? I said: "Hey lady! Have you noticed - there's a plastic bag around you? She had. What a stupid person.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Points: 67407
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Posted: June 29 2008 at 17:14 |
All Kinds of Manufactured Tools for Nose-Picking Are for Wussies and Here's Why:
I pick my nose with my fingers. You can say what you will about vulgarity, you herald of delicate instruments, but I couldn't care less about your lobster forks. For what have we learnt from the best: always to pick a right tool for the job, be it a ten pound hammer, a scalpel, a clarinet, a pneumatic drill or a finger. Sure, Michelangelo used a brush, but if reaching the best result would have required using fingerpaint he wouldn't have hesitated to do so. That's what made him big. And the Zen Buddhist monks who mumble their incomprehensible yet strangely captivating mantras: what if they could only achieve enlightenment through recitation of old sitcom scripts? Do you think they'd be too embarrassed to follow their path and give up the whole thing as silly nonsense or do you think they'd embrace those sitcom scripts despite the ridicule they might evoke among those who fail to see them as a device? I think they'd choose the latter just as I choose to pick my nose with my fingers. So stick your lobster forks where they belong (in your lobsters and then in your mouths) and let me get on with my picking.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 05 2008 at 17:28 |
Some people...
Some people wear a brown cardigan when fishing for attention. Some people have an urgency to follow fashion around the town. Some people are known for their looks are abnormal. Some people drink wine from a paper mug shot. Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves and some their livers. Some people never marry some other people who never marry either. Some people consider welded things unnatural and rightly so.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 06 2008 at 08:59 |
I Have Something Between My Teeth Again
The most shocking thing to see is a missing wallet.
Still a little heart-attack every once in a while does nothing but good for your heirs.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 06 2008 at 16:15 |
I Can't Think of a More Pretentious Title for This Poem Than "Flow." No, Wait, I Can (This)!
Versatile as I am, fluid, semi-empty, directionless, easily guided by external stimuli like race horses, hamburgers and fame, even I make a bad container for your intentions.
Holes that are crucial for all kinds of liquid exchange, be it material or some kind of "flowing" spiritual stuff (and the more of the holes, the better) weaken the walls as they speed the process.
Perfect execution of your processes would require the maximum number of holes and there would no longer be any barriers for the subject to move in and thus no one to follow your word.
All this is very sad.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 09 2008 at 17:26 |
How I Finally Decided to Become a Writer
For years I thought about becoming a writer, mainly because I know I can't get a job because I don't really want to and because I can't really do anything worth paying for. But it was only some minutes ago that I realized that I, just like every remarkable writer in history, have a relatively distinguished nose. I can't really fit coins in it - not even very small ones, only halfway and that's it. I can't tell if they could either (maybe they never even tried), but it's the outside of the nose that matters, and they all had a biggish one (outside): Dante had one, Shakespeare had one, Blake had one, Goethe had one, Gogol had one (but lost it), Tolstoy had one, (Dostoevsky didn't really have one, but then again, he was an exception,) Wilde had one, Kafka had one, Bukowski had one, and Rushdie almost has two. I haven't read any Céline, but I've heard he had one too. And even if he didn't, he should have had. And that guy who was in that Cassavetes movie, he has one too. He isn't a writer, but he sure looks like one. So that's how I decided to become a writer instead of a travelling shoe salesman (a salesman of travelling shoes). I haven't really published anything yet, but at least my nose is pointing the right way.
Edited by Vompatti - July 09 2008 at 17:28
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 09 2008 at 18:05 |
Today I Fell in Love (Again)
I went to the kiosk today to put some money on horses, and there was this really cute girl at the counter, you wouldn't believe until you saw her, I mean I don't usually even look at people but this one was just amazing: her eyes were brilliant green and her smile inspiring and her voice was like morning dew on the ragged asphalt of my soul. So I put some money on horses and left and decided to come again tomorrow even though I'm kind of bored with those horses that never run as they should. But still, a few coins on the wrong horses is a fair price for those eyes.
I thought this was going to be - for a change - an honest and captivating poem. I was wrong.
P.S.
I went to the same kiosk today and there was another girl at the counter and she was really dull and even though I put some money on horses I don't feel like winning anything today.
Edited by Vompatti - July 10 2008 at 09:51
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Points: 67407
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Posted: July 16 2008 at 16:56 |
Ferret Gal and I
I should have known by the number of her ferrets she was bohemian in a very hairy sort of way. Like a smouldering cauldron on a trippy tripod was her finesse, a breath of wind from a jar.
Once a child, twice a president of a chess club, there are boxes for me in surveys, boxes in houses. Society abandons its greyish twigs like drunkards; there are not boxes for everyone, not even for boxers and not for you, my gentle one.
I scratch my arm while thinking of your curves, covered in hairy white beasts, oh glistering one. No rose petals on your naked body but ferrets in my dreams and in reality, with overdubbed scent.
Meet me in moonlight tonight, we'll be bare cores.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 16 2008 at 17:33 |
I Lack Mirrors
Washed my bones in a bowl of despair added salt - Alas! no pears left. Right. Had to trust the pocket watch: 7 - 8 minutes of constant ebullition - fully mechanical, but have I wound it up? oh yes, in the midst of my barren youth my fingers did their little chores. And the hanging chain turned me into an eclectic & elegant goth businessman and that's when I suddenly realized that I'm not wearing a shirt either, which might have further strengthened the impression if my body had not been such a mess.
Where was I? Surely not in Southern China? Surely not!
shrimps are good with white wine whine mine dwarf excavation
etc.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 16 2008 at 17:43 |
I Wrote This With My Feet and I Should Probably Go to Sleep Somewhere About Now
'nnhbgghjk,mmjgv**
öl.kijhvc c cfggbh''¨¨¨' 'ölöl öjhygfgfddc'ä ''¨ kiiujtrdee3ew¨¨u¨' ppo8itwssw
olkjjurww2wqwwwwweweew'ä''¨ää' ' pöolooooloiä *fcddedd
'kjkygtfrdedfg ' gho¨''¨
' mmmn hyygtrfrfd¨'
'¨mujiiiiiiiiiiiiii
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 17 2008 at 11:26 |
A Praise of Containers Big and Small (Including People)
All containers, big and small, hear these noble words that gallop to your presence like numberous horses' herds. I like the fact that your insides can hold some heavy stuff like iron, gold and liquids too (like oil), that's surely 'nuff.
However much I like your guts to keep those things inside I sometimes wonder, how come you just never want to hide from people eager to fill you right up to the top, leave you on your own again and on their way then hop.
I guess the answer could be that you're happy to contain all kinds of stuff and good reviews from container reviewers thus attain. Containers are we peolple too, not different from you cans, barrels, jars or boxes, in equel scalar balance.
(Because there's stuff inside of people too, like organs and the like, and all the things you've swallowed, like hairpins or a mike (a 'microphone').)
EDIT: There's one too many letter in the above poem. Spot it and get a special reward!
Edited by Vompatti - July 17 2008 at 11:29
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TGM: Orb
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Joined: October 21 2007
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Posted: July 23 2008 at 18:15 |
Books, VII, VIII, and IV
Unread, open, red, closed, consumed By flickering lights in the year of the unwashed man Who cultivates only crops and, even then, is largely unsuccessful Pathetic, leather-bound, white, paper-backed, considered In thin torchlight by the embryonic human mind, Grasping no words, but only a series of syllables He needs a way out
There's no patience anymore in the mind of our abstract reader, Assume he has a downcast pair of eyes, looking emptily into his own soul Through this textual medium Why does he read, and read, and even move onto the notes and bibliography (all meaningless. The bibliography, like the pages, are blank to this one) when he takes nothing novel from this age-old-creation? He has nothing worth noting, no thing, from this series of letters But still he needs a way in
Empty, exhausted, torn by time, fresh, replete With a series of vivid and un-contestable ideas, Not one of them has any worth or originality. Ordinary. All too ordinary.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 28 2008 at 17:23 |
Just Something I Wrote While Waiting for a (Non-Copyrighted) DVD to be Ripped
Once again, let's begin with the flowerpots; place them on the windowsill - symmetrically - and let our gaze caress their ceramic faces. Let them have all of our aesthetic attention, let them appear to us as a glorious epiphany, let them guide our vision towards the sun (like the plants in them), let them distract us from watching old Buffy episodes. "It's not even late yet", said the florist to the gardener (her boyfriend) and discreetly frowned. "Oh but time passes so quickly", he replied, "and everything that grows, grown towards the sun. But the sun is very far away, the night very long, but not long enough, NEVER long enough! And what once was a seed is now a plant, and what once was a plant is now a seed, and there will be no end for this charade." (Of course he was talking nonsense, poor man.) And the sun went down, and the florist went down (because the gardening scissors suddenly came down upon her head) and the gardener went down to the garden and cut the rest of it down. And the flowerpots came down and the house went down and the world came down and the gardener went down to sleep with his scissors and my computer finished ripping the DVD and I began to focus on Buffy again and I thought about making this a good poem but then I decided not to. (DUCK COMMERCALISM ETC.)
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 29 2008 at 14:26 |
They've Taken Out the Sun, But At Least They Left the Moon
Empty the staircase stares at me like an ancient figure in want of respect but the cellar door is right in the living room and I too have forgotten which way to bow.
The master has gone sailing with his boys but when the gates are distant there's no way to run.
Oh lady at the counter of the kiosk, oh imaginary hairdresser whom I love, won't you come into this vagrant dream and take the part of my love, the witch whose knowing eyes I dare not meet in the middle of this dense emptiness.
Remember how you guided me in my wanderings, as if you knew the horses better than I did (which you probably did, since I hardly knew them at all), how you graced me with the divine smile of your eyes, how you gently touched my hand when you took the coins and placed them in your heart's safe and then in the cold metallic cash register?
And how I fed you strawberries when you opened your mouth without asking? (Needless to say, this was in a dream.)
What happened to our love when it's first flame burned out in the menacing autumn wind? Did we manage to delve into one another, build a fireplace before it withered away? Yes, we did, however it wasn't quite soon enough to preserve the original inspiration which brought us all the way here. That's why we now have to skip some lines (which would probably have been rather dull anyway) and step right into the end of the poem (but hopefully not step ON it, especially not with our boots on) which goes something like this:
I am your battered hand. I am your rope decorated neck. I am your leftmost lung, gasping. I am your frequent inaptitude sailing on the muddy waters of your innate excavations.
the end.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: July 30 2008 at 12:36 |
I Spent Three Days Trying to Copy These DVD's And I Was Just About to Give Up
but then I suddenly met this highly attractive girl and I instantly knew she was meant for me when she said: "boy, do you look like someone who's been struggling with DVD's like I have!" and what else could I have said but: "I sure have! ever since I began trying to copy these DVD's my mind's been a bloody madhouse." and she said: "tell me about it! don't you just hate it when you try to copy some DVD's and the first thing you notice is that the DVD video camera has messed something up so that when you play the DVD on your laptop the numbers don't run as they should and when you try to play it on your PS2 it freezes when the title should change. so you make a copy and hope the problem goes away but it doesn't. so you decide to rip the video from the DVD to make some video files that you then can burn on a DVD. so you rip them and notice that the ripper has converted them to avi files and the picture quality is even worse than it was. so you do it again and this time rip them into mpeg-2 files (that's the format on the original DVD's, right?) and you're positively surprised because the picture is good and you think everything's going to work out ok, just burn the mpeg-2's on a DVD and the job's done. WRONG!!! you try one DVD burner that manages to burn all the files but makes them separate titles so you can't just skip to the next one with the next chapter button and there's no menu either so you'd have to watch the whole thing at once. so you try a DVD authoring program which seems fine until you're supposed to burn the disc. error. doesn't work. doesn't do anything. so you try another one and that doesn't make a menu either but at least you can combine all the mpeg-2 files so that you get one title and several chapters but you can't really choose the place of the chapters, only put chapters every 5 or 10 or 15 etc. minutes but in addition to these you notice there's also some random chapters that appear for no apparent reason. so you think, whatever, I can live this, at least the DVD runs ok. WRONG!!! it seems fine at first, but soon you notice that the audio gets totally out of sync. so you think about trying something else and you download all kinds of software: DVD burners, DVD authoring tools, DVD joiners, converters, editors. nothing works. then you become desparate and think about giving up, returning to the time of the VHS, starting a fierce revolution against everything digital, taking your life with a stainless steel spoon, writing a blues song with the lyrics: woke up this worning and had to copy these DVD's there's something wrong with the original discs they don't run on my PS2 and not on any DVD player either and my woman's mad and the government's insane and who invented these bloody DVD's anyway? but instead you just go and buy a Captain Beefheart album and pretend that there's more to life than things that don't work things that don't ever work." and when the red haired attractive girl had said all this she played with a her red hair and smiled seductively but I didn't really care about her because, after all, she was just a dream and I was all alone in this faulty digital world with my digital problems. and I went to buy a Captain Beefheart album (on vinyl) and to the kiosk to put some money on horses and there was another girl at the counter again.
PS. If anyone knows how to burn mpeg-2 files on a DVD so that they make one title with several chapters and the sound stays in sync, please help me.
PPS. This is not just a poem, this is how my life really is.
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Vompatti
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Joined: October 22 2005
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Posted: August 12 2008 at 05:34 |
Can Coffee Do Internal Damage?
Now here's the question we all think about! And the answer is: Yes. I used to be one of those who drink two (large) cups in a row like it was water. Now, roughly two months later I can hardly stand one cup. From the first sip to the last it's pure revulsion and physical PAIN. Sometimes, at social events, I must grin like a demon to avoid VOMITING. I know now: just like booze gets to you in the end so does coffee very soon very soon very soon... BUT still: who wants to be the weirdo who doesn't drink coffee? The end is at hand the hand at the handle of the cup.
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