Your writing
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Magrathean
worldbuilder
6 Stringed Fingers
EditablePoly 1
Ok, here's some stuff taken out of my current project, titled Infinite is the Absurd. It's a peotry/graphics project. And this piece in 2 parts is inspired by William Blake's Marriage of Heaven and Hell.
The Voice of the Devil
I
Let the Just Man be forced
to walk the Vale of death
Will the shackles off
the burden that allows
progress over the barren paths
Loosen grip on the colors
to smudge the tired eyes
When all comes to a blur
drive through inward!
Headstrong unto the rush
And come to a sudden halt
The elusive streak of light
inches to the farthest side
What is it to be found?
The heavy silence follows
the Just Man astray
in the dust that swags black
The senses five are flooding in!
Turn aside, listen with ears anew
to what calls within
The voice of the Devil
II
"The spark of concept, creation and form
comes from the breaking of the rules
The faith is not to be understood
but the path will surely be walked"
The Artist's reason:
the Art is treason
Look away from the blinding point
and see the wild flowers on the walls
I
Let the Just Man be forced
to walk the Vale of death
Will the shackles off
the burden that allows
progress over the barren paths
Loosen grip on the colors
to smudge the tired eyes
When all comes to a blur
drive through inward!
Headstrong unto the rush
And come to a sudden halt
The elusive streak of light
inches to the farthest side
What is it to be found?
The heavy silence follows
the Just Man astray
in the dust that swags black
The senses five are flooding in!
Turn aside, listen with ears anew
to what calls within
The voice of the Devil
II
"The spark of concept, creation and form
comes from the breaking of the rules
The faith is not to be understood
but the path will surely be walked"
The Artist's reason:
the Art is treason
Look away from the blinding point
and see the wild flowers on the walls
Magrathean
worldbuilder
Loosen grip on the colors
to smudge the tired eyes
When all comes to a blur
drive through inward!
That sounds too much like Character.
Headstrong unto the rush
And come to a sudden halt
The elusive streak of light
inches to the farthest side
That sounds too much like Projector.
And the whole thing sounds kind of like TMI with Gallery influences.
Or maybe i'm just too obsessed with DT.
Good work, though. I especially like
The Artist's reason:
the Art is treason
Good play of words, and it really made me think. I kind of agree.
to smudge the tired eyes
When all comes to a blur
drive through inward!
That sounds too much like Character.
Headstrong unto the rush
And come to a sudden halt
The elusive streak of light
inches to the farthest side
That sounds too much like Projector.
And the whole thing sounds kind of like TMI with Gallery influences.
Or maybe i'm just too obsessed with DT.
Good work, though. I especially like
The Artist's reason:
the Art is treason
Good play of words, and it really made me think. I kind of agree.
6 Stringed Fingers
EditablePoly 1
Magrathean
worldbuilder
Okay, here goes. A few pieces i wrote quite a while ago (2004 or so):
And now, for spanish-speaking people:
Enjoy.
SELF-DECEPTION
"Thou speakst to me once in three nights
and now thou turnst away from me?"
Dost thou knowst how such words pain me?
Aware of my mistake, i, however, do write
these words of pain, sunken in fright,
for i know not whether thou shalt forgive
my sin upon thee, whether thou wilt perceive
how i torture myself, how the very sin
doth so. Cry out not thine pain
but thine forgiveness, thine relief.
^ This one is kind of Shakespeare-inspired (or so i try to make myself believe). Not my favorite piece by me, but good enough, i reckon."Thou speakst to me once in three nights
and now thou turnst away from me?"
Dost thou knowst how such words pain me?
Aware of my mistake, i, however, do write
these words of pain, sunken in fright,
for i know not whether thou shalt forgive
my sin upon thee, whether thou wilt perceive
how i torture myself, how the very sin
doth so. Cry out not thine pain
but thine forgiveness, thine relief.
FOND EYES
Fond eyes betrayed by a loved one
Still they falleth eft
Eath wounded thus, and so for aye
Betwixt trust and treason they wan
Yonder mind speaketh to mind
Soothes it fain
But the eyes wist not what to think
Rapt withal the power of words and the balm
Praying for blood to thicken
Under threat of coveting forfeit
By carving crimson gashes upon flesh
Except mind speaketh to mind
Yet the thought of deserting is aye present
The longing for eternal nyght, for the endë
The desire to give up the sightless pain
Of fond eyes betrayed by a loved one
^ This is, in my opinion, the best poem i've ever written. Perfecting the old english took a lot of time (months and months), but i think it was worth it. I can't think of any writer who inspired this.Fond eyes betrayed by a loved one
Still they falleth eft
Eath wounded thus, and so for aye
Betwixt trust and treason they wan
Yonder mind speaketh to mind
Soothes it fain
But the eyes wist not what to think
Rapt withal the power of words and the balm
Praying for blood to thicken
Under threat of coveting forfeit
By carving crimson gashes upon flesh
Except mind speaketh to mind
Yet the thought of deserting is aye present
The longing for eternal nyght, for the endë
The desire to give up the sightless pain
Of fond eyes betrayed by a loved one
And now, for spanish-speaking people:
NO HAY HERIDA QUE CURE EL TIEMPO
Dicen que el tiempo cura toda herida,
pero yo sé que ninguna herida cura el tiempo,
porque cuando el tiempo es el que está herido
no hay tiempo ni herida que cure el dolor,
ni hay venda que detenga la sangre,
esa tristeza que no se siente,
pues la tristeza de la conciencia inconsciente
quema como el fuego, fluye como la sangre.
El viento de mis palabras amargas
no apaga el fuego del odio que me ataca,
ni el fuego de mis gritos vacíos
derrite el hielo del frío silencio,
y el hielo de mi barrera mental,
que me protege de todo ataque imprevisto,
llueve en fragmentos al llegar
el huracán que empezó todo:
ese error tan grave,
cometido por sólo una palabra.
No sé reír,
y por lo tanto no sé llorar.
No puedo apagar
esa amargura sin llanto,
porque la herida del tiempo
sangra y "duele más que el dolor",
un dolor innecesario,
pues no hay dolor contenido en una herida
que cure la herida del tiempo herido
que cura todas las heridas.
^ This one is Villaurrutia-inspired, kind of. The phrase duele más que el dolor is from one of his poems, and i like how i managed to use it to complete the picture in mine.Dicen que el tiempo cura toda herida,
pero yo sé que ninguna herida cura el tiempo,
porque cuando el tiempo es el que está herido
no hay tiempo ni herida que cure el dolor,
ni hay venda que detenga la sangre,
esa tristeza que no se siente,
pues la tristeza de la conciencia inconsciente
quema como el fuego, fluye como la sangre.
El viento de mis palabras amargas
no apaga el fuego del odio que me ataca,
ni el fuego de mis gritos vacíos
derrite el hielo del frío silencio,
y el hielo de mi barrera mental,
que me protege de todo ataque imprevisto,
llueve en fragmentos al llegar
el huracán que empezó todo:
ese error tan grave,
cometido por sólo una palabra.
No sé reír,
y por lo tanto no sé llorar.
No puedo apagar
esa amargura sin llanto,
porque la herida del tiempo
sangra y "duele más que el dolor",
un dolor innecesario,
pues no hay dolor contenido en una herida
que cure la herida del tiempo herido
que cura todas las heridas.
Enjoy.
6 Stringed Fingers
EditablePoly 1
Magrathean
worldbuilder
6 Stringed Fingers
EditablePoly 1
Magrathean
worldbuilder
6 Stringed Fingers
EditablePoly 1
You didn't, but you did write "The longing for eternal nyght, for the endë" that ë is intentional?
marduk1507
Member
Thats the Theatre of Tragedy influence I bet. He will grow out of it, dont worry. Anyway, very well written, Undidst!
He will grow out of it, dont worry. Anyway, very well written, Undidst!
Magrathean
worldbuilder
Yes, the ë is intentional. And yes, that's TOT influence. Leave me alone, you, you... evil person, you. 
Thanks, though.
Leave me alone, you, you... evil person, you. Thanks, though.
just so to keep my self into a posting spirit here's something that is actually a "beta" song lyrics to a song of mine (i dropped out the chours parts) it still needs finishing...
Fall Back
a conscience screaming for attention ungiven
points to the questions lying unasked
i had no choice but to shut down completely
and live on to curse the thing that was I.
forced me to leave you to all the deciding
you just remind me of things that i loathe
gave up the battle and turned on denial
years have gone past me since i sounded retreat
and lost
familiar feelings of the years that have past
are surfacing again and i know what's next
again in that room with the walls caving in
endless fields of sadness, i give in
nothing but roadkill on your pathway to glory
no need to say that this feels so wrong
(I) gave up the battle and turned on denial
I still live to curse the thing that is I.
(i dropped out the chours parts) it still needs finishing...Fall Back
a conscience screaming for attention ungiven
points to the questions lying unasked
i had no choice but to shut down completely
and live on to curse the thing that was I.
forced me to leave you to all the deciding
you just remind me of things that i loathe
gave up the battle and turned on denial
years have gone past me since i sounded retreat
and lost
familiar feelings of the years that have past
are surfacing again and i know what's next
again in that room with the walls caving in
endless fields of sadness, i give in
nothing but roadkill on your pathway to glory
no need to say that this feels so wrong
(I) gave up the battle and turned on denial
I still live to curse the thing that is I.
Magrathean
worldbuilder
Like you said, it still needs a bit of polishing. One thing that struck me as odd was that at times it seems like it's personal insight / self-lament and at times it seems more like a complaint against something someone did to you. However, i like the more personal ton it's got (it's much more personal (i.e. self-insight / self-lament) than most of the things i've read lately).
i had no choice but to shut down completely
and live on to curse the thing that was I.
and
(I) gave up the battle and turned on denial
I still live to curse the thing that is I.
are brilliant.
i had no choice but to shut down completely
and live on to curse the thing that was I.
and
(I) gave up the battle and turned on denial
I still live to curse the thing that is I.
are brilliant.
hey thanks alot
the way i see it is personal insight and a complaint becouse i actually complain against what one can do to himself. I have seen that so many times when a person decides to negate his/hers true interests and pursue other goals just for the promise of money or power or whatever, or sometimes this goals are imposed upon him by his peers or family. This is sad and in the song i refer to the part of your character or person that actually is left behind and is forced into the background when you decide to be something that you are not.
UndoControl said:
the way i see it is personal insight and a complaint becouse i actually complain against what one can do to himself. I have seen that so many times when a person decides to negate his/hers true interests and pursue other goals just for the promise of money or power or whatever, or sometimes this goals are imposed upon him by his peers or family. This is sad and in the song i refer to the part of your character or person that actually is left behind and is forced into the background when you decide to be something that you are not.
King Chaos
Pomeo Osoponeor
Some cool stuff. Only skim read though the thread (nice thread btw) will read it with more care later.
Here's the shortest story I ever wrote... it's called Red and Orange Lights (I think I posted this in the creativity section ages ago).
Red and orange lights, flashing and floating around him, suspended in a thick, sticky darkness, some in a temporary orbit, some parallel, some are stationary (these move the fastest). It’s like being at a disco, only cars have taken the dance floor, moving around in aimless circles as rain patters down at a steady unexciting rate, covering the car window with spots, much to the lethargic enticement of one particular pale-faced drone; and all he does everyday is look as far ahead as he can to find a spot on the highway, timing how long it takes to reach the cited spot, when he accomplishes the distance, he repeats process, his mind always occupied, wavering on the completely trivial, and his eyes not attent to the speed and force of the car in the lane next to him, he moves left oblivious, with only a split seconds indication, the bump was not severe – he had been rear-ended before; just not in the rain.
He span for a while, to his son's amusement, before making contact with another car which although not relinquishing the steady but deadly rotation, did propel them to the edge of the road where the car flattened a few road marker posts (these were red and white, stationary, and always appeared moving) before the tires hit a rut in the new soil surface, and the car flipped spectacularly, almost a perfect 180 degrees in the air, setting up for the slam, which came with the crunch of bones, shattering of glass, a wave of dust and dirt, grinding of metal, cry of an infant, the signal distortion of the monotonous radio voice and the sudden sound of heavy rain.
Maybe it was minutes, maybe it was hours later that pale face regained consciousness, water splashing hard all over his upper torso, glass all over and around him, dry blood clotted about his nose and mouth and a cut on his temple that although not long in length, was about half an inch deep and was still weeping blood, a viscous sticky kind - thick with plasma and fresh blood cells. He had become a sideshow attraction for fellow drivers who slow down momentarily to look at the artistic wreckage. Fascinating. Pale face’s son hadn’t worn his seat belt tight so he could move around freely in the back of the machine and that he did, as his head ploughed into the roof, splitting his face open and crushing the bones in his spine. Brain trauma. So he lays motionless, the blood pumping from the cavernous crack between his adorable eyes, only to be washed away moments later by the icy bullets of rain.
End.
Here's the shortest story I ever wrote... it's called Red and Orange Lights (I think I posted this in the creativity section ages ago).
Red and orange lights, flashing and floating around him, suspended in a thick, sticky darkness, some in a temporary orbit, some parallel, some are stationary (these move the fastest). It’s like being at a disco, only cars have taken the dance floor, moving around in aimless circles as rain patters down at a steady unexciting rate, covering the car window with spots, much to the lethargic enticement of one particular pale-faced drone; and all he does everyday is look as far ahead as he can to find a spot on the highway, timing how long it takes to reach the cited spot, when he accomplishes the distance, he repeats process, his mind always occupied, wavering on the completely trivial, and his eyes not attent to the speed and force of the car in the lane next to him, he moves left oblivious, with only a split seconds indication, the bump was not severe – he had been rear-ended before; just not in the rain.
He span for a while, to his son's amusement, before making contact with another car which although not relinquishing the steady but deadly rotation, did propel them to the edge of the road where the car flattened a few road marker posts (these were red and white, stationary, and always appeared moving) before the tires hit a rut in the new soil surface, and the car flipped spectacularly, almost a perfect 180 degrees in the air, setting up for the slam, which came with the crunch of bones, shattering of glass, a wave of dust and dirt, grinding of metal, cry of an infant, the signal distortion of the monotonous radio voice and the sudden sound of heavy rain.
Maybe it was minutes, maybe it was hours later that pale face regained consciousness, water splashing hard all over his upper torso, glass all over and around him, dry blood clotted about his nose and mouth and a cut on his temple that although not long in length, was about half an inch deep and was still weeping blood, a viscous sticky kind - thick with plasma and fresh blood cells. He had become a sideshow attraction for fellow drivers who slow down momentarily to look at the artistic wreckage. Fascinating. Pale face’s son hadn’t worn his seat belt tight so he could move around freely in the back of the machine and that he did, as his head ploughed into the roof, splitting his face open and crushing the bones in his spine. Brain trauma. So he lays motionless, the blood pumping from the cavernous crack between his adorable eyes, only to be washed away moments later by the icy bullets of rain.
End.
Magrathean
worldbuilder
Cuthalion: Ah, yes. That is annoying to the point of becoming mad (in both senses of the word). I have seen it too many times as well.
Gav: some are stationary (these move the fastest) That made me fall in love with your piece from the moment i read it. And then i fell in love with it all over again. I love the way you describe in minuscule detail the most everyday scene ever. these were red and white, stationary, and always appeared moving Ah, yes, to repeat the best phrase in the whole piece in a different context. Most effective. And the ending is just beautiful in that twisted way which i so love. Speechless here, mate.
Gav: some are stationary (these move the fastest) That made me fall in love with your piece from the moment i read it. And then i fell in love with it all over again. I love the way you describe in minuscule detail the most everyday scene ever. these were red and white, stationary, and always appeared moving Ah, yes, to repeat the best phrase in the whole piece in a different context. Most effective.
And the ending is just beautiful in that twisted way which i so love. Speechless here, mate.
King Chaos
Pomeo Osoponeor
Thanks kindly for the words man. sometimes I think phrases like that are a little stunted... I dunno, like contradictions that I don't explain. Sometimes I feel like I'm trying too hard. But the more I write the better I reckon I get. Thanks again for reading through it. I'll post some more a bit later as to not hog the thread too much.
6 Stringed Fingers
EditablePoly 1
KC: Fascinating tale, I like the metaphors you used in the beginning. And the spinning part sounds as if the car is doing skatebroad tricks. XD
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