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Kvothe Jul 15
A light
is struck
in highland heights,
and the vista
***** in
whispy smoke.
Tire-track clouds
distort, tickled
by the fleet
embrace of
such a
fickle vapour.
I pollute
clean air,
and lungs,
with my crime.
But
at the cusp
of mountain
and mist
I contemplate
home,
and how
I do not
miss it.
Not a bit.
My tongue
and senses sear,
and I,
at least,
am unclouded.
On smoking a cigarette up a mountain
...
You see them hazily dancing,
like in a fever dream
shades turning to dust
in dimmed neon lights
ghosts of a past, wieghtless in flight
you watch them dancing in the haze of the night,

Engine sounds cut the dew Of the dawn
You are too young to sleep
tangled up in roadside oleanders
All trying to live a dream
Isaace Jul 11
Part 1

Upon this strange land we beheld organic structures of oblong intonation and mosaic, bio-organic design. The trees grew in irregular shapes, reminiscent of cones and gelatinous globules.

From the shadows, the honourable Nipslip Cockhantuu would now align with us! Nipslip Cockhantuu kindly offered to be our guide— our emissary!— upon entering the sacred village of Tok-Tuu. He would be a conduit, as it were, between us and the strange customs of the Tok-Tuu peoples.

Now we come closer to the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu, its minarets looming before us as in the dreams of secluded architects. Birds of vibrant colours soared above our heads and danced in strange formations, communicating in a language close to our own. Upon entering the village, Nipslip Cockhantuu granted us the honour of rubbing his dark ******* before the statue of the village's founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy. Nipslip Cockhantuu's ******* were soft and delicate, possessing a gentle, bumpy texture, very much like our own human *******.

Such wondrous celebrations ensued! And we knew our arrival upon this strange orb was a success, and that there would be many discoveries to be made!


Part 2

My companions, forlorn, left Remus Primoid— disappearing like vultures into a Sub-Saharan vista of the night— and travelled back to Earth, missing the the life they had once lived. I, however, had no friends or family to sustain my sentimentality and decided to stay upon Remus Primoid, within the village of Tok-Tuu, hoping to create a life for myself upon this distant world.

In my fifth year as a villager of Tok-Tuu I was permitted to learn the oblong mutterings: sacred chants created by the pre-eminent founder, Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy, who uttered these chants as he carved the ancient structures of Tok-Tuu and the hidden statue of Tei Romuloid-Papatemuloid, the mother of all life on Remus Primoid, a statue hidden within the depths of the ancient tombs, situated deep within lost catacombs.

The mutterings were as follows:

"Oblongboidoid, Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Boid, boid. Bashin-gore— I sustain my left foot. Boid, boid. Tok-Tuu, Tok-Tuu. Helmonstap-hablefoot, caress carefully."

Upon my learning of the sacred mutterings, I was initiated into The Society of Sculptors. Such joy I felt, in this, my fifth year, to finally be accepted, truly, among the people of Tok-Tuu!


Part 3

In the gloom of the Mindfear Caves, my chanting echoed throughout, and I could see the Seven Heads hovering before whilst I uttered the Oblong Mutterings. In here I could become one with the land of Tok-Tuu and its spiritual soul.

Having reached the culmination of my meditations, I emerged from the caves into the warm breast of summer, passing through Tok-Tuu's ancient orchard on my journey home. There, seemingly by fate, I met a gentleman who appeared to be in the process of painting the lifecycle of the Bulbous Tree, a tree which grew into full bloom and expired in the space of mere hours. He introduced himself as Outside-Inwards Jenkins— a descendant of Oblong Jenkins-Kennedy— and had been cast from the village of Tok-Tuu for practicing occult techniques in the manner of the forbidden doctrines, using these teachings in the creation of his artworks.

"You shall become my pupil, Earthbeing, and accompany me on my iminent journey into the jungle of Vorboon, in search of the Abstract Scroll. Within its writngs are techniques that are crucial to my artistic progression, and I shall share what I learn with you. Once I have learnt the teachings of the scroll I shall finally be able to complete Emerson, The Great Water Lilly, and apply the finishing touches to my homage of Rotondo The Clown."

Our words had been spoken and I would begin to embark on a quest that would be of great importance to what was meant to be in a time when we would begin.

We began our journey in the evening, when the air was cool and the Bloodfang Mosquitoes were perched high in the trees. The jungle of Vorboon was dark and abstract, especially at night, when winding vines and hollow trees could lead lost travellers deep underground. I quivered in fear as Outside-Inwards Jenkins led me deeper and deeper into the heart of the jungle. However, though fear pervaded my soul, I still saw an inner light transmute within my mind's eye, morphing into the form of the Abstract Scroll. I allowed this image to guide my fearful heart.


Part 4

Fear moved with us into the bleak jungle of Vorboon, the canopy above eclipsing our throats like body-clung latex. The torturous heat ushered from me crystalline salt of the sweat gland, cascading in hallucinogenic fragments of mirrors reflecting refracted light, curving around us and confusing the spectrum of amalgamated forms.

"Outside-Inwards Jenkins, please, I cannot take this any longer! We must leave this writhing jungle!" I wept one million tears of sorrow and fell to my knees in lamentation.
"Do not weep-weep, earth-being, for we have arrived upon the temple's entrance."

The temple soared above us as if in the dream of a secluded architect, creating cataclysmic structures within his slumber. Its beauty was truly beheld, by us, fading into mist-forged fog, reminiscent of the Marabou stork or the Shoebill— the fog's imperious gaze.

Upon the temple's steps stood the long-necked man, Scatard Acrosdaune. His countenance was elongated with sinister elation. He was unquestionably bizarre in every conceivable manner. Everything about his appearence was long and disconcerting, as if he were the echo of an echo of a man. His lecherous strides were reminiscent of The Ghost of a Flea.

"Please, thou welcome most unto the existential temple of the Abstract Scroll. Scatard Acrosdaune, he who is I, shall be your guide within the depths." Now, with a foreboding resonance, Scatard Acrosdaune paused in ominous contemplation, shrouding the mechanations of his frontal lobe.

"Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Where is thine scroll? Walk in mine footprints, before the Bloodfang Mosquitoes quiver and awaken, as the shimmering sunlight fades."

Within the temple, cyclopean blocks of incestuous dual notation, rippling within a multitudinous alignment of masonic anticipation, partook in the abuse of subterfuge in order to forget the Sea Horns. We would head deeper still, deep into oblique chambers of solitary apparition, conjuring that which had plagued our collected mental cognition.

With cascading light faltering, lurid transcendence of encumbered paralysis began. Physical forms traversing innumerable catacombs of dread— between concrete moulded into the shape of modernity and totem poles transpiring against the unification of collected consciousness, inspiring gelatinous brain matter— had overcame us.

Sliding through abyssal-black tar of stroking, crawling, writhing primal sludge! Subsequently escaping through pores of sweat coagulation! We allow silk-woven experience to be spun within a lair of manifestation, coinciding with visions of mutilation and culminating in continuous arachnid dread!
Hadrian Veska Jun 26
Down the hall
Back and to the right
Past a broken neon sign
Through an unlocked door
Then down four flights
A hole in the wall
In a room on the left
Follow it down
Through dirt and rock
After more than a while
You'll see a faint light
A oil lamp hanging
Kept by those who travel
So bring some won't you
The oil that is
Not much further past
You'll  find what you seek
The city beneath the city
The world and the way
That we abandoned long ago
The past they made us forget
And the future that might still be
Steve Page Jun 22
It was before dawn
and she was never seen again.

We had often wondered about her
and her wild impatience,
her passion for holding
life’s burdens and treasures equally lightly,
for dropping and gifting them
with devout fervor.

Nolle leapt out of a window
and left her bonds behind.
We woke to her whoop
and smiled at the echo of her song.

Nolle leapt out and we wondered -
what would it be like
to crave life that much?
[a mesh of story and memories]
Robii Jun 19
It is within
Within the mind
Beyond the sight

A world on it own
World of anything felt deeply
Seen with the eyes but not there
Time travel done through thoughts, ideas and pictures
An adventure to unlock dreams, possibilities and impossibilities

My solace
Distinct planets to lands of perfection to the peak of the mountains my mind wander to
An ecstatic  cosmos indeed
If you can’t see it
You can’t achieve it.
Do what makes you happy
See it and be it
Ellie Hoovs May 16
Time unfurled
a single yarn from the hem of a sweater
pulling apart the fabric of it.
Light consumed all darkness
until even the word shadow
held no weight.
The heavy weights of fear,
depression, and the impenetrable bruises
of lifelong aches,
melted,
like winter snow being touched,
at last,
by the spring sun.
A room awaits, made for me:
a coffee ***,
always full and warm with welcome.
A leather bound journal,
with ever-ready pages,
and a pen with ink made from my own veins
that always knows what to say.
An old fashioned is served up promptly,
at 7pm,
when my mother greets me at my door
and curls up next to me on the couch
we talk and laugh,
for hours inside a minute.
Candles glow with ambered remembrance.
Music plays the odes to journeys taken.
My grandfather fishes by a river nearby,
teeming with bass,
and I glimpse the child he never was
smile at me.
Every morning the ocean of my backyard
kisses my feet as she waves hello,
her salt no longer bitter.
I greet the blood of my blood
and bone of my bone upon the shore.
They wear faces that, through centuries
still resemble my own.
We tell stories around bonfires
of the legends that we were in our time.
My soul is made tangible.
I touch the fringes of my warrior spirit,
caress the edges of my creativity.
I dance with the stars before dawn
upon a floor made of crystalline moonbeams,
and marvel at how green,
how delicate,
how infinitesimal,
is the Earth below.
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