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Occasionally, thought-trains derail at the most opportune moments, allowing the plausible deniability of any recall regarding the author's intent, inspiration, nor catalyst.
title: Zehu: A So-So Just-So Story tags: war, school, verse date: 2020-07-20 20:11'07" ;;;;; The following words are not fiction. ``` Zehu hasipur shel katsin beshem Bingo Bee Ayyy NGO Be Aint NGO be no NGO for bingo weren't his name, no! Ratsu lemamen la nahar et ha Ringo bezmansheha deshe vehageshem bli Singo baWadi notru :? ohalim vemotot letsido: khayyalim, shehemtinu lirot; haspaka leshavua, shvuayyim, belakhats; oolai gam kumta imhatseva shelpalkhats! zerem khazak, mibirkaim vamata; takhmoshet beshefa, pkuda shenatata; madim yeshanim, tikim, vesakim; kamuvan gam hamon, hamon, sakinim; rak tipa khomer gelem lasotsiometri, lemniyat hivatsrut od tsava psichometri; plugat tsoarim, yeshenim amukot; ve shomer sheshama: "Au secours, sale cabot." ```
Bits, both rotten and otherwise, preserved arbitrarily; the school tag, while removed from this post, is arguably still relevant.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth; Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there, Had worn them both about the same, And both that morning equally lay, In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--- I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.
... at least, that's how I found the undergrown, overbent one, winding 'twixt excessive capitals, elided punctuals, and italicized in a painstaking digital tribute to merchandise sold in the author's name, and guessing by the author's fame, the trees may not have died in vain.
Here's an other:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, and sorry I could not travel both, and be one traveler, long I stood. I looked down one as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, and having perhaps the better claim... for it was grassy, and wanted wear! Though as for that: my glancing glare had worn them both about the same. They both that morning equally lay, in leaves no step had trodden black, so I kept the first for another day; yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubt that I shall ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and oceans hence: "Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -- I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the `dif-fer-ence."
In case you're wondering: "Here's an other" is not an intentional anachronism for the sake of clockmelt, but rather a transliteration from Hebrew.
General Intertextuality found himself years later as the Icing Squad he faced poised near that cusp adrift in time that floates always around the day when his great-uncle Sammy took him to meet Fire. Mind not the names lost and lost meanings named: the people missed, because of love, you know; the feelings tossed, the talent thrown away! Sailboats sail, and hunters diving go. It's not that dark old night has hid her from us... no. You'd find her, if you went along that trail; Her voice faded to an echo from the dark cold void: "Know Mores!" The primal word still spins the worldly lore!
You see the story do, but not that whore.
OOPS: I ACCIDENTALLY THE HOLE SONNET
Like all good tales, this one began! Not under sail, nor farming tans... I'd seen that man, (about my dog), and found firm footing in a bog. She wasn't there, but -- everywhere; Gills or wings would be no help. Nor audiences, as you learned from Delp. My spacetime, just: adjust, or tear. Perhaps she hears, or reads, or counts my words while them cardinals, counts, and overlords lord over the seven seas where Musa sails away on the MC Memora "Ahhhhh, GIRL!", (as Johnnie cried) ... well he cried and cried and up and died; or "BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH" as Johnnie said, when that shmuck missed that other one's head. The story's yours, but not for you! (all you need'za to be bru tay too)
(cum apologia papae)
Now I send me out to ride... trust the Lord protect my hide; If it gets lost in a far-off land: I trust my steed to cope unmanned; and if I find some garbage cute: please forgive my smash and loot. Should I swallow a suspect weevil? Brace yourself to purge that evil! Forgive my calling grapeshot puts, (I hope that won't cost me a foot) but if I die in a combat zone: gather what's left and ship it home. And if I die of likely cause, let me lie and hold your applause.
When in doubt, just leap about, and eat the flow'rs and grass beneath our feet; don't forget the mushroom's hue, which blossoms up from sand-tank-poo; and see those spiky puffer-fish? Them porpoi can't refuse that dish, no matter what their clickers say. Heed not the words of proper gander apes, who tell us neurons bat for the same team; they drank the kool-aid only once per life, and from my ship will someday walk the beam.
Pop taught me: to think Ma land: how to sew mine fields Lots to think about!
This will not be a lucid post, yet not quite "S-o-C" either. The system must be laid out clearly, for any interested child to decipher with the assistance of a bored yet educational adult (or at least, adult-ascendant), yet they should not need the use of any tooling other than deft hands, and perhaps a jeweller's loupe (or one of those magnifying glasses from the olde dictionaires, the kind they just don't make anymore).
Who is the audience? As a writer on vacation from the stage, or an actor cut off from the scheduler's queue, I am not the one to answer that question. Perhaps you, Dear Reader, are a member of that illustrious category, or at least aware of its existence, identity, form, or functional; mine pleasure would be all encompassing should you inform me of its return value under the simplest fixed-point process, yet I try not to delude myself that truth can be so easily raped from the bowels of our shared simulator.
When is the now? You may glance upwards, recall your Catholic Consensus Clockology, and see that there are no more days left for this message to be broadcast from this window so fictitious as to elicit week-long street-orgies of public-drunkenness -- a grand time, indeed! Yet perhaps not the one appropriate for so clear a message, no, that's why the speaker is muffled, the meaning so shuffled, the rules bent and twisted prose so far that even before the first key stroked, hands knew to tag it "verse".
... ...awake or just a guest at my own wake to spite the cold I play for playing's sake from bottles cut a river flows of sake ...lest we drink our silly way to taki touch more than just black and white they said you play all day from fear you'll wake up dead here now I stay at last that day is past when loved ones see a final smile aghast let's wager there's another way to say ol' Woland dallies when collecting pay smiling like a Cheshire, B cries: "words!? my tongue's curved forkature beats nurbs!" who could even dare to claim to write a fitting battle tribute song tonight
Sing to me, O Muse, not of her that slipped past, down the streetside path to God-knows-where yet here, always, forever, like the track star: gone yet never left (or from another frame, nothing but!)
Sing to me, O Muse, not of future's solvent, buffering that unmeasured measurable, mind's undustable mirror image, introducable yet never reproducable;
Sing to me, O Muse, not of idiots forgettable in days so-ber as to make mules mate...
Sing with me, for I'm losing my only voice.
Since I spend too much time editing, instead of publishing, and I edit too much in the mind, instead of on the page (whether paper, web, or virtual), the risk runs real of simply losing ideas to those natural shocks that make cowards of us all - just witness the day-score since my last post! - I'll thus publish at the very least this crumb collection:
- Power and Pseudonymity
- Value and Mutability
- The Sound of Thought
- Those Ills We Have
- The Name of Action
- The Dream of Time
- The Point of Aim
- The Game of Life
- Cultivating Man
though order lies within the list above you'll find it came not from the voice within the eye adjusted till its needs were met and fingers catered to its every whim then lacking substance in so short a post the poster went in search of rhyming words no reason for each sentence to begin no season for the fleeting life of birds when writing sonnets, some will follow form they rhyme in alternation, of a muse others from God inspiration take such clever, much despicable - a ruse! yet here is found Umberto's key to fame I speak of her, yet do not say her name