King Chaos
Pomeo Osoponeor
DragonLady1 said:
concept of it is pretty cheesy, but that doesnt make it any less good
. I like it. The style is similar to your other one - low saturation and pencil effects. It looks really intricate.
The Creativity Thread
- Thread starter Dark_Jester
- Start date
concept of it is pretty cheesy, but that doesnt make it any less good
. I like it. The style is similar to your other one - low saturation and pencil effects. It looks really intricate.
DragonLady1
Firesoul
King Chaos
Pomeo Osoponeor
Here's the opening to one of a few short stories I've been working on. Its the first writing project I've ever taken seriously. Im trying to make a collection of really Misanthropic Shorts that intertwine and are all twisted in some way. Quick brief about this one - Later you find out that the first person perspective is coming from a fly, although its quite obvious from the start, just not explicit. If you taken time to read it, I'd really appreciate some feed back in so far as - how cheesy is this? and - Does this come across as being feminist?
Ok it has no fixed title, but at the moment its called - On the Wall
This wall, it is covered in shit. Steam condenses and sticks to the surface, slippery and damaging; wet shit, water drips now stained with the summoning stench. Shit distracts everything. I am drawn to it, humans can’t stand being around it, beasts smell and eat it out of curiosity. The epitome of unclean: The waste of waste. A man wets his body using some machinery – he grooms himself with a fragrant bar of soap; I watch. Groping himself – he is indulging in himself. Inside this box – I am violating my sensibilities. I also need to groom. And shit. And Feed. These things - they will wait.
Watching the man I try to understand his instinct. He needs to feel loved and so he grooms to maintain an upstanding appearance. That’s why I would groom if I existed in a man body – for the purposes of attracting a female.
“I’m in the fucking shower! Stop your begging, you’ll get yours soon enough” He responds to what I assume can only be her mating cry. Questioning language is definitely unorthodox for a specimen like myself: as I don’t think in words. I more or less just feel. This moment is a strange one for me. Un-integral to my survival is the need to understand the man, but I find my self curious, and so I feel I should watch, if only to understand an enemy of my specimen. Another muffled mating cry comes from outside this cramped, sepia, grooming room. The man thing makes waste from his front organ in the tub of which he grooms within. “Woman, I’ve told you, I’ve told you again and again. And again and again.” The tone of the man’s voice rises with a strength, a strength from the inside unlike something I can comprehend. “How many times you fucking bitch? How many times? You should know better by now. By now you should honestly know a lot better.” The man steps out of the cleaning tub and turns a dial; the machine stops making water. He grabs a towel from a shelf and pushes it into his skin. This motion dries him.
“Please.” It’s a word coming from a different compartment of this unsanitary man abode. In my state I cannot judge cleanliness, but I see from comparison that this abode is not fit for a man thing to exist. This cleaning room is smaller than most. The waste bowl is covered in shit, and piss stains the floor around it. The walls have some paper-cover on them; but it peals at intervals. The light creator at the top of the room flickers on and off. I find this attractive and so do some of my brothers who kiss the glass around the source of this beauty. “Please!” I hear it again. It’s coming from the woman kind. The man’s expression is filled with an emotion which radiates a painful exasperation, something I don’t have the muscles to do, but something I know would be useful to scare away predators.
The man cleans his genitals roughly and throws the towel hard at the wall where it bounces and then slides to the floor, landing in a pool of water. I cannot help the urge to take flight, smell, soar, land, walk, embrace. The towel is filled with dead skin; the man’s dead skin. I feed my hunger on some and it is good. He leaves the cleaning room and I follow. Swoop, buzz, lift slightly, loop, thud/land. I have a view of so many images. Now I see the woman-kind is laying still with cloth covering her top-half but her bottom half is naked, except for the bruises. Her face is wounded. “Please!” she says. I cannot understand why she says these words. The man is still bare, uncovered, natural; yet under the skin I see he is very unnatural. His breath comes from him deep and I cannot understand why. It would make sense if he had over exerted himself in some way, but I don’t think he has. Intensity makes sense. Adrenaline before a combat is vital. His intensity intimidates the female kind.
Ok it has no fixed title, but at the moment its called - On the Wall
On the wall
Suddenly I have the urge to change position. I split wing, straight, loop, land; all in a blink of mans eye. Seeing things in so many ways is imperative to an existence: Such is mine. I watch and absorb so many images, all the same, all with similar discourse; but I cannot compute them. I cannot feel for what I cannot understand, and all I understand is instinct.This wall, it is covered in shit. Steam condenses and sticks to the surface, slippery and damaging; wet shit, water drips now stained with the summoning stench. Shit distracts everything. I am drawn to it, humans can’t stand being around it, beasts smell and eat it out of curiosity. The epitome of unclean: The waste of waste. A man wets his body using some machinery – he grooms himself with a fragrant bar of soap; I watch. Groping himself – he is indulging in himself. Inside this box – I am violating my sensibilities. I also need to groom. And shit. And Feed. These things - they will wait.
Watching the man I try to understand his instinct. He needs to feel loved and so he grooms to maintain an upstanding appearance. That’s why I would groom if I existed in a man body – for the purposes of attracting a female.
“I’m in the fucking shower! Stop your begging, you’ll get yours soon enough” He responds to what I assume can only be her mating cry. Questioning language is definitely unorthodox for a specimen like myself: as I don’t think in words. I more or less just feel. This moment is a strange one for me. Un-integral to my survival is the need to understand the man, but I find my self curious, and so I feel I should watch, if only to understand an enemy of my specimen. Another muffled mating cry comes from outside this cramped, sepia, grooming room. The man thing makes waste from his front organ in the tub of which he grooms within. “Woman, I’ve told you, I’ve told you again and again. And again and again.” The tone of the man’s voice rises with a strength, a strength from the inside unlike something I can comprehend. “How many times you fucking bitch? How many times? You should know better by now. By now you should honestly know a lot better.” The man steps out of the cleaning tub and turns a dial; the machine stops making water. He grabs a towel from a shelf and pushes it into his skin. This motion dries him.
“Please.” It’s a word coming from a different compartment of this unsanitary man abode. In my state I cannot judge cleanliness, but I see from comparison that this abode is not fit for a man thing to exist. This cleaning room is smaller than most. The waste bowl is covered in shit, and piss stains the floor around it. The walls have some paper-cover on them; but it peals at intervals. The light creator at the top of the room flickers on and off. I find this attractive and so do some of my brothers who kiss the glass around the source of this beauty. “Please!” I hear it again. It’s coming from the woman kind. The man’s expression is filled with an emotion which radiates a painful exasperation, something I don’t have the muscles to do, but something I know would be useful to scare away predators.
The man cleans his genitals roughly and throws the towel hard at the wall where it bounces and then slides to the floor, landing in a pool of water. I cannot help the urge to take flight, smell, soar, land, walk, embrace. The towel is filled with dead skin; the man’s dead skin. I feed my hunger on some and it is good. He leaves the cleaning room and I follow. Swoop, buzz, lift slightly, loop, thud/land. I have a view of so many images. Now I see the woman-kind is laying still with cloth covering her top-half but her bottom half is naked, except for the bruises. Her face is wounded. “Please!” she says. I cannot understand why she says these words. The man is still bare, uncovered, natural; yet under the skin I see he is very unnatural. His breath comes from him deep and I cannot understand why. It would make sense if he had over exerted himself in some way, but I don’t think he has. Intensity makes sense. Adrenaline before a combat is vital. His intensity intimidates the female kind.
Some of you are really talented artists.
I'd like to add to the thread with a 2 guitar (well, the intro has 2 acoustic/2 electric to make 4 guitars in the part) track that I wrote a little while ago. It's 1:30 long, and unfinished.
If anyone would like to host it that would be great.
Steve
I'd like to add to the thread with a 2 guitar (well, the intro has 2 acoustic/2 electric to make 4 guitars in the part) track that I wrote a little while ago. It's 1:30 long, and unfinished.
If anyone would like to host it that would be great.
Steve
Blue Moon
Staring at the Sun
I usually don't write in english.
Wrote that in a pub. More a song than a poem, really.
Chemical Spleen
I confess this urge to sink
I confess this urge to sink
I confess this urge to sink
I confess this urge to sink
People I don't know shake my hand with pride
Hollow words at point blank
As comfort is out of range
I really need some sleep
Morose aftermath
Chemical Spleen
Lulls me awake
And breeds within
Split open your mindframe
In hope of gluing it anew
Just don't mind the splinters
You don't need them and they don't need you
You don't need them and they don't need you
Morose aftermath
Chemical Spleen
Lulls me awake
And breeds within
I really need some sleep
As I confess this urge to sink
Cheers to the wilfully damned.
Wrote that in a pub. More a song than a poem, really.
Chemical Spleen
I confess this urge to sink
I confess this urge to sink
I confess this urge to sink
I confess this urge to sink
People I don't know shake my hand with pride
Hollow words at point blank
As comfort is out of range
I really need some sleep
Morose aftermath
Chemical Spleen
Lulls me awake
And breeds within
Split open your mindframe
In hope of gluing it anew
Just don't mind the splinters
You don't need them and they don't need you
You don't need them and they don't need you
Morose aftermath
Chemical Spleen
Lulls me awake
And breeds within
I really need some sleep
As I confess this urge to sink
Cheers to the wilfully damned.
King Chaos
Pomeo Osoponeor
Blue Moon said:
Hey I love that bit. Pretty grotesque use of metaphor. Its good, but I cant help but read it in the rhythm of undo control (I resist without control - I confess this urge to sink).
Blue Moon
Staring at the Sun
DragonLady1
Firesoul
DragonLady1
Firesoul
just thought I might share a poem I wrote lately... I know, its a bit cheesy, whatever...
"Open the window to the sea
The fresh air comes over me again
I look into the deep blue of your eyes
Or are they green, sometimes I cant see
Blinded by all these dreams I just could rest
In your arms tonight, in the deepest of your mind
I wish I could stay there, near your warmth
But all there is now is the silence of my fears
No tears, no hopes, nothing
And in the shape of my lonely demons
I only hold on our precious memories
To stay calm inside this burning heart."
"Open the window to the sea
The fresh air comes over me again
I look into the deep blue of your eyes
Or are they green, sometimes I cant see
Blinded by all these dreams I just could rest
In your arms tonight, in the deepest of your mind
I wish I could stay there, near your warmth
But all there is now is the silence of my fears
No tears, no hopes, nothing
And in the shape of my lonely demons
I only hold on our precious memories
To stay calm inside this burning heart."
marduk1507
Member
It strikes me how do your poems (also those Ive read at your website) remind me of the stuff I was writing back in the early 90s - those were the "fairytale" years of hunting down my future wife, lol. I was so in love I thought my heart would burst, I just wanted to give myself. Therefore, and dont get me wrong now, my poems from those days were a bit pathetic, but I love them dearly, cause I know exactly what was behind them. Now that Im "happy" an´all, I sort of moved to a different level, maybe more cynical, or to put it better, observant (hope its correct) - I am conscious of my emotions, but I try to present them not so straightforwardly. Anyway, I wish you the best, hope youll find the ONE and feel fulfilled.
DragonLady1
Firesoul
thank u very much for the analysis... well yes its kind of very emotional I'm aware of it but its also a way to express my feelings, to let it all out and it makes me feel better too... Its just a dedication to the one who's in my heart... (yes, being pathetic again I know) would u mind to post some of ur early poems? would love to read them!
would u mind to post some of ur early poems? would love to read them!
deatheclipsed
Has a large member
check out my site and let me know what you think.
The Art of Dennis Darmody (deatheclipsed)
thanks later
The Art of Dennis Darmody (deatheclipsed)
thanks later
marduk1507
Member
I posted this one on art thread too, will post some earlier stuff for you Caro later. This one is from like 3 years ago or something.
DEATH
The milestone on the way
Whose beginning was the point
Of no return
I saw my eyes burn
In the womb
In the tomb
Fresh meat
Neatly sliced
From the primevil matter
I saw my head in the gutter
By flies molested
By men detested
Observing the filth as usual
Something as unnatural
As a gift of life can be
Pressed through the hole
A blind mole
Into colour and shape
All mouth all agape
Crying crime crying death
The first last breath
Sucking hastily on everything
There has to be nothing
Otherwise neither life nor death
Are in question
Stepping over the doorstep
A foot ahead of myself
Two millstones grinding
The seeds of our craving
The flour - the ashes
Between conscience and flashes
Of dark ignorant light
Two dimensions in sight
Being the sides of one coin
The slut and the saint
Reflecting, framing, marking
One another´s whatness
In a perfect oneness
They join, they grow your world
You see
Only because you cease to be
DEATH
The milestone on the way
Whose beginning was the point
Of no return
I saw my eyes burn
In the womb
In the tomb
Fresh meat
Neatly sliced
From the primevil matter
I saw my head in the gutter
By flies molested
By men detested
Observing the filth as usual
Something as unnatural
As a gift of life can be
Pressed through the hole
A blind mole
Into colour and shape
All mouth all agape
Crying crime crying death
The first last breath
Sucking hastily on everything
There has to be nothing
Otherwise neither life nor death
Are in question
Stepping over the doorstep
A foot ahead of myself
Two millstones grinding
The seeds of our craving
The flour - the ashes
Between conscience and flashes
Of dark ignorant light
Two dimensions in sight
Being the sides of one coin
The slut and the saint
Reflecting, framing, marking
One another´s whatness
In a perfect oneness
They join, they grow your world
You see
Only because you cease to be
DragonLady1
Firesoul
marduk, thanx again for sharing ur great poems, u really have a sense for words, I can feel ur poems, its great! well here another one I wrote recently (I think I already posted a link somewhere but nevermind):
--------
Through broken glass
How can I see through the broken glass of my dream?
Nothing left but the certitude of a fear
I dress in black visions tonight
As for once I know you wont shine anymore
How can I see through the broken soul of my demons?
Memories carved in time cant heal our reclusion
And I still hold on my darkest eyes to hide
The fractured senses of my aspiration.
Hate me, break me, scream for me, but just feel me
There is nothing I can do to cut the spell now
How can I see through you?
--------
Through broken glass
How can I see through the broken glass of my dream?
Nothing left but the certitude of a fear
I dress in black visions tonight
As for once I know you wont shine anymore
How can I see through the broken soul of my demons?
Memories carved in time cant heal our reclusion
And I still hold on my darkest eyes to hide
The fractured senses of my aspiration.
Hate me, break me, scream for me, but just feel me
There is nothing I can do to cut the spell now
How can I see through you?
TheNewBuild
Not Built To Last
Woow.. nice songs!
Marduk, your song is VERY nice...I like the flow in it... I especially like the last part!
DL1, your style reminds me of me. I used to write too... now I just forgot how to do it..I always get lost in too many pictures in head that I'd like to put to words. I will try again, your inspiration makes me wanna write.
Really nice!
Marduk, your song is VERY nice...I like the flow in it... I especially like the last part!
DL1, your style reminds me of me. I used to write too... now I just forgot how to do it..I always get lost in too many pictures in head that I'd like to put to words. I will try again, your inspiration makes me wanna write.
Really nice!
marduk1507
Member
Thanks for the kind words! I really appreciate it.
@deatheclipsed: good stuff man!
@dragonlady: ok, caroline, I went through the "poems" I had written in that emotional period (not that I am not emotional now, but its different, when I write about it, I hope ) of mine and chose this one for you (and now that I look at it, maybe also for KingChaos):
The River Without A Name
The inner life of my innermost innards
Is rotting in the deep valley of Nile of tears of pain
Canyon of emptiness yawns in the heart of soul
At the out of sight bottom a tiny river of hope
The real I on the boards that mean the sleep
The longing for peace gnaws in the laziness of spirit
To act or not to be? That is the cruel question
Pulling the love envelope off the soul of my heart
Im bleeding from invisible stigmata of lamb of love
Im bathing in my own blood in every moment of thought
Im unclean, I cant wash the bloody rust off of me myself
That blood silt rotting only because of me
Torn to bloody stripes of nothing
I am drifting in the cold wind of the apprehention atheism
Chained up like Prometheus to the rock of love
The beloved eagle devours the liver of my heart
You hold the scalpel every day and artery
By artery you separate the heart from the body of my heart
Stripes of adversely stripped muscles of love
Hang over your bloodstained fingers, do you feel them?
You are the tiny river that after four years of pain
Have channelled its course in the heart of my heart
And changed to a ferocious current, to a hateful torrent
Full of maelstroms and treacherous waterfals of wrath
One of them has pulled me under the surface again
Im lying on the bottom and choking on the oxygen of love
Im waiting and loving, not afraid anymore, itll wash me up
Someday and I will go down the river of you to the place where you join me
With every recess, umbrage and haven of you
You fascinate me a with every corrugation and step
You throw me into the spiderweb of the childhood of my love
Where I learn to swim and walk in you
Your dull emotions cannot dream the dreams of love
The image of the godly feeling of cold, when I in you
Swim and enjoy the freshness, is impossible
For the river without a name, but its always here,
Youll see it someday and hopefully wont drown...
...in your self.
Yeah, this ones old, pathetic as fuck, but at least I was trying to write, not just cry my heart out in words. For the sake of comparison, two quite recent ones:
Hell(for John Milton, who wrote "Hell..., no light, rather darkness visible..."
Unthinkable
The spring of light
The father of separation
`Twixt a thing and its shadow
Unbreakable
The spell of love
The child of solitude
`Twixt a man and a woman
Both just visible signs
Of something beyond vision
Hell is where the heart is
With mind in collision
The Onset Of Winter (an alliteration exercise, hehe)
The season of dusk and decay
Seized our souls so suddenly
Our hearts humid, damp, soaking
With the hot sanguine liquid
Of the summer dawns
Freeze, frightened more
With every spasm and squeeze
Thus hissed the sickening sound
Of northern wind scythe
Through the holes in our walls and souls
A cynical grin on his face
Proteus of veils and curtains
Of rooftops swept and fallen trees
This is the time dressing our bodies
In the suits and dresses of sorrow
Oue second skin coloured dead
The stupor of this cold soul dinner
Opens the gate to creeping hate...
@deatheclipsed: good stuff man!
@dragonlady: ok, caroline, I went through the "poems" I had written in that emotional period (not that I am not emotional now, but its different, when I write about it, I hope
) of mine and chose this one for you (and now that I look at it, maybe also for KingChaos):The River Without A Name
The inner life of my innermost innards
Is rotting in the deep valley of Nile of tears of pain
Canyon of emptiness yawns in the heart of soul
At the out of sight bottom a tiny river of hope
The real I on the boards that mean the sleep
The longing for peace gnaws in the laziness of spirit
To act or not to be? That is the cruel question
Pulling the love envelope off the soul of my heart
Im bleeding from invisible stigmata of lamb of love
Im bathing in my own blood in every moment of thought
Im unclean, I cant wash the bloody rust off of me myself
That blood silt rotting only because of me
Torn to bloody stripes of nothing
I am drifting in the cold wind of the apprehention atheism
Chained up like Prometheus to the rock of love
The beloved eagle devours the liver of my heart
You hold the scalpel every day and artery
By artery you separate the heart from the body of my heart
Stripes of adversely stripped muscles of love
Hang over your bloodstained fingers, do you feel them?
You are the tiny river that after four years of pain
Have channelled its course in the heart of my heart
And changed to a ferocious current, to a hateful torrent
Full of maelstroms and treacherous waterfals of wrath
One of them has pulled me under the surface again
Im lying on the bottom and choking on the oxygen of love
Im waiting and loving, not afraid anymore, itll wash me up
Someday and I will go down the river of you to the place where you join me
With every recess, umbrage and haven of you
You fascinate me a with every corrugation and step
You throw me into the spiderweb of the childhood of my love
Where I learn to swim and walk in you
Your dull emotions cannot dream the dreams of love
The image of the godly feeling of cold, when I in you
Swim and enjoy the freshness, is impossible
For the river without a name, but its always here,
Youll see it someday and hopefully wont drown...
...in your self.
Yeah, this ones old, pathetic as fuck, but at least I was trying to write, not just cry my heart out in words. For the sake of comparison, two quite recent ones:
Hell(for John Milton, who wrote "Hell..., no light, rather darkness visible..."
Unthinkable
The spring of light
The father of separation
`Twixt a thing and its shadow
Unbreakable
The spell of love
The child of solitude
`Twixt a man and a woman
Both just visible signs
Of something beyond vision
Hell is where the heart is
With mind in collision
The Onset Of Winter (an alliteration exercise, hehe)
The season of dusk and decay
Seized our souls so suddenly
Our hearts humid, damp, soaking
With the hot sanguine liquid
Of the summer dawns
Freeze, frightened more
With every spasm and squeeze
Thus hissed the sickening sound
Of northern wind scythe
Through the holes in our walls and souls
A cynical grin on his face
Proteus of veils and curtains
Of rooftops swept and fallen trees
This is the time dressing our bodies
In the suits and dresses of sorrow
Oue second skin coloured dead
The stupor of this cold soul dinner
Opens the gate to creeping hate...
DragonLady1
Firesoul
wow the first one is really dark... I like the others too, I used to write french poems inspired by baudelaire when I was younger, I had some who reminded me the last one, they were kind of more realistic and I mostly tried to play with language there... but I guess that for the moment I couldnt write like this in french again as I didnt exercise for a while and forgot a bit of the subtile words... I should read more baudelaire again
MagSec4
.:..::.: :.::..:.
King Chaos
Pomeo Osoponeor
Hey Mags, I had no Idea you were an artiste, I always thought you were more of a 'science' kinda guy. They're all spot on paintings. The planets one with the heavenly tunnel is especailly great. I feel like I could just fall into that picture. The colours in the submarine/lake/sunset one are really awesome. The quality of drawing in the first is of a massive standard. The car really does look like it should be zooming by, as if you've captured a still moment of a dynamic moment. Fookin impressed I am, you madman. Keep at it dude, that be some immense talent you got right there.
Those are absolutely beautiful, Mags If those are 6-7 years old, I think I'm speaking for everyone when I say we'd love to see something recent, since this is the kind of talent that tends to improve with years. And practise, of course.
If those are 6-7 years old, I think I'm speaking for everyone when I say we'd love to see something recent, since this is the kind of talent that tends to improve with years. And practise, of course. 
