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Homogenised identityA curd festers on the top of a glass
Floating above the homogenised
Relative and pointing
At the curd
Relative to the curd
Fighting to sink
We Will All Know PovertyHearts fooled, fouled, full
Arteries throb, clogged with shadows
With truth, no room for the other
Who is demanding
Who is begging
The self, cut in two
The self can see
No more truth
Clogged with shadows
The good life
All needing now
Gorging on each other
Becoming the other
Poverty, the bifurcation of self
A well heart wealth
Whatever Happened to Forever?Whatever
Happened to Forever? Forever
A word moaned all to often.
By those who don't understand.
Forever? Two months. Less.
Instead say 'I cannot see greener grass at this point in time' or
'Insufficient data to compute new scenarios'.
Too many Tin men
With rusty hearts, not enough
A factor we avoid, but long for.
Do not ignore meaning, but
Subjective thoughts offer no comfort to a cog in the machine.
System error, fatal crash, error 113, reboot, reinstall.
One cog can break a machine, be that cog.
Not falling for foolish security.
Misunderstanding AmbiguityColaba. Mumbai. India.
Tom & Tom step off of the pavement into the chaos of an Indian road. The smell of fried pakoda and diesel over-whelmed them to the point it no longer existed, denying contrast as they walked at equal pace across the street. An empty bottle thoughtlessly thrown was retrieved by a street child, who contemplated it thoughtfully. As Tom & Tom walked further away into doomed potential, a put-put narrowly missed their centre, the driver then having the gall to ask if they would like a ride, "Baba please. Why like this?".
Across Madam Cama Road sat the National Gallery of Modern Art, a pristinely alien aspect exuding false 'civilisation'. Tom looked towards Tom to affirm this was the place, although it was an educated guess inferred from a low quality image. They walked past the burning trash on the other side, passing the iron-fence leading to the entrance where a
The InitiationOne quiet afternoon a mystic closed his eyes; he meditated on the veil and wished it would be lifted. On setting his mind to this task he thought, "Will I die? Is that the sacrifice I need to make?". To this thought the void answered "Yes, you must die". The mystic recoiled at the thought of oblivion and dismissed it as a construct of his own mind, and that of his ego attempting to impose order onto something unknown.
"What coin can you pay me with if all you have is illusionary?" asked the void, to which the mystic thought "Everything I have is an illusion and has no value in the light of the lifted veil". Deprived of the privacy afforded by the inner-monologue a reply came, "Yes, you are correct, so with what coin shall you pay me to lift the veil" the void again asked. The mystic fell into a deeper meditation and thought to themselves "If nothing I have has any value, then the knowledge of this must be the true value I am to pay with", to which the v
The Illuminated Sol EmpireIn 2259 the Sol Empire collapsed into its constituent parts, when expansion was forced inwards. After sowing its seeds in local space, the hunger to reap elsewhere grew as the death pangs of conflict consumed what was once a prosperous enterprise. This is known and always has been.
In the drive to remedy the energy problem, the tap of holographic resonance was opened. The point energy of the object at the beginning of time continues to speak to the needs of relative "constituents" within its domain.
Everything is in the same place. There is no relativity in the resonance. Infinitely-finite is the energy that comes from the only true atom. This is the power source of the holographic engine, constructed by the religious tech seers of the church of singularity.
--Search parameters fulfilled. Data download complete. Transmission terminated.--
A gruff voice speaks "Light of Lights to Church-com, come in". In the silent distance between
Beauty in the contraryThere is beauty in the contrary.
The off beats of appreciation are not wanton
To those found wanting.
In the jazz of life,
They offer an escape from the machinations of our conducting oppressors.
A personal oppressor we all know well.
A violin that shrieks high and
Cuts at the beauty of melody,
Nothing but an escape from the prescient
Vision of pre-destiny. There is a remedy.
There is always a remedy. An escape
From the inevitable end we are
In the madness of the ecstatic heart heavy dance.
Release your burdens and see
What the enlightenment brings.
HomesickI am the river's son,
my arteries flowing turquoise
and turning to rapids
rushing around my frame,
filling me with this sense
of buoyancy, minnows
tickling my sternum.
I am the river's son.
My palms caress each
silty shoreline, every
battered bank and bend,
and these places I know
so well become me
as my fingerprint,
even the bridge above me
inflamed by the afternoon
sun-glow, burning rusty and
the steel blue sky.
I am the river's son;
I bring my home along
like hermit crab,
where I step
I pull water from the earth.
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Lilyas has dedicated herself to making our community a brighter place with her vibrant artwork and infectious enthusiasm for interacting with others in our community. It has certainly paid off, as many deviants flock to her page on a daily basis to let her know how much of an inspiration she is. We absolutely agree, and couldn't let all that hard work go without recognition, so it's with great pride that we bestow the Deviousness Award for March 2014, to ... Read More