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With flour, you can make dough
With tomatoes, you can make sauce
But top them with cheese
And add a little heat
And you can make magic
There's food, there's great food, and then there's pizza.
QueenOfTheAshes Aug 2024
Blank page, I lost the mage
I didn't get to tell him to light his sage
Powerless cries, I turned to muffled lies
Saw the truth in his eyes, the ego dies.

I put on faces and covered my traces
I searched myself in too many places
Died on the hill of pain and fell
And found myself fueled by the fires of hell.

I came to light a candle on the mage's table
But he didn't back down from giving me a label
The child I thought I was turned into a crow
I actually thought I could put on a show.

And now we're both sad and disappointed
Cause my sweet child's love's been tainted
By death's touch and empty soul
I'm afraid now, he'll always be alone.
Juliana Aug 2024
It’s kinda weird to think about
Because sometimes I’m living so far in the past
And it’s almost like you’re mine again
And then suddenly I open my eyes
And ****
Just like magic
You’re gone again
Her brown eyes are like polished
mahogany, their rich hue deepened with a subtle glimmer, lacing beauty into every flower bed they touch. They hold an irresistible warmth and clarity, reflecting a depth that's both inviting and enigmatic—like the first sip of coffee on a quiet morning, awakening something deep inside. They shimmer, soft as stardust, each glance revealing a gentle spark, as if they're harboring a soft, unspoken magic just for you.
Scarlet McCall Aug 2024
Changeling, sprite,
loose-limbed motion
as you fly in the night.
Rub your wings together;
create a cascade of sound
that drenches our ears
as you fall to the ground.
Gossamer beauty,
so delicate yet strong--
Fold your wings around me;
I belong in your song.
Just something I tossed off tonight
Lyla Aug 2024
Sidewinding out,
past oaks with fractal branches,
graceful drooping bower-isles
in seas of summer-blond grasses.

After asphalt gives over to reddish dust,

a metal gate shields the road from a spindly goat path,
                                                       a suggestion of a passage,
                                                        ­                      a treacherous
                                                                ­                           scratch
                                                                ­                                     on
                                                              ­                                        the
                     ­                                                                 ­                 steep
                                                           ­                                            hillside.

Peer out the heart’s window,
only scree and visions of tumbling down, down greet you.
Move the chain and open the gate, but don't get back in.
It’s time to stretch and let the driver pick their own way through.

Down, down the driveway we walk, don’t run it's steep!
and we are met with a circle of deer-cropped grass,
a curious shed claiming itself a cabin,
and a wooden house.

From the house comes a woman,
laugh first,
to teach you how to crack pine nuts,
in spite of a squirrel’s scolding.

Garlic-kitchen, rustic room, quiet in its quality.
A phone that works often enough.
A black and white tv, grey today
in favor of a window full of deer.

The dainty pink-soap bathroom tells you
a proper lady lives here.
Tole paint cheering every surface tells you
a joyous heart dwells here.  

Drowsy sunny table chatter stretches out the time.
Wooden pegs turn fidgets into solitaire.  
Veneration by languorousness compleat;

it’s

time

to

skip.

Out the door and to the right,
stop by the small pond to see water skippers dance.
Then down the path to the swinging bridge,
a slender suspension of disbelief.

Walk across the boards; you’re an explorer.
Walk onto the metal grates; you’re a spider on a web.
But try telling that to self-preservation,
balking at every jello-wobble step.

The bold bounce like astronauts on the moon.
The wise linger to look for turtles far below.
Fortune favors them both,
as all ways lead to Camp Secret.  

A worn trail threading the brush,
opens to a ferny dream.
A small stream dibbling its way to the creek,
has left behind a paradise.

Trip-trap over a footbridge
to the shelter of a grapevine canopy.
A fairy’s kitchen with a green enamel sink,
tractor seats and a *** rack tree.

Ancient stone building with a door aged shut,
On one end a cheeky wall-less loo.
Dormant spring beds in the clearing,
waiting for sleeping bags to bloom.

Craggy fruit trees form an orchard
gothic as an old graveyard.
Inviting, elegant in desolation,
but we push by undeterred.

Tracing a deer trail up the ridge,
keep clear of the poison oak.
A soundless becalmed summer day.
Perfect for a visit to the dam.

Concrete distaff, copper spindle.
Magic spun from a captured creek.
Flowing through fossily tunnel
to power the electric trees.

Winding ‘round to the other side,
a second bridge but this one still.
Wooden boards in a rusty frame.
More perilous than its swaying kin.

Hold on tight, don’t trust your feet.
Then meander with a streamlet
to the garden just beyond
the mossy, reedy muskrat pond.

High charged fence to keep deer back
from sweet roots growing deep.
Doe barn, buck barn is their place
with tools, dust and memories.

Back by the house, we slide to the terrace
where ladybugs shelter in soft mullein leaves.
The washboard shale is sprouting sedges,
a water snake kingdom by a saltless sea.
This is dedicated to Hammer's Camp with its hidden gem (accessed by a hand-crafted suspension bridge) Camp Secret, a wonderful family cabin owned by my father's godmother. It was a magical place, but sadly has since been completely destroyed by a wildfire.
Abi Winder Aug 2024
my soul is made of
moonlight and pixie dust.

i find myself in them.
i see the way the moon changes me
and how magic brings me to life.

my heart is made of
fine art and scented candles.

i see myself in the strokes of oil.
feel all my emotions poured out in perfect pigment,
feel my soul storm soothe as i trim and light the wick.

i hear my inspiration
in music and nature.

i listen to my thoughts in song
as if someone has dug through my mind,
and i see leaves as a reminder that change is good.

isn’t that beautiful?
to find yourself in all of the smaller things?
to be everything all at once
and still feel free?
Sofia Aug 2024
The first strawberries bloom
Growing in the green room
Like babies in the woomb

While kids start playing in the outsides again
The strawberries grow their green beard again
Waiting for the kids to come to them, again

Kids start picking the blooming beauties
Not just girls
But boys aswell
Even if they don't like each other that well

Starting to play
And play again
Until the magic rewinds again

Oh april you're teasing the kids again
Bringing them together
And seperating 'em
Once again
Let me be honest this was something I once wrote in a discord group lol
Ken Pepiton Aug 2024
From safety, first,
assuming the position, I
aim as if I were a thought
in thought form word bound,
this
media the inbetween us we touch
when we feel we know each idea each
word holds, as a form of a thinkable idea,
each
which, pre word, pre holds this know how,
why? because it demands hand use, knowing
holy cow, to the milk of the word, into the gristle
gluons, all things connected already, we exist,
conjoining fortified marrow mind tools, ironed
electrically capable of holding discernment selfs,
tied bone to bone,
but initially, build a bone, chalk
cliff edge, nonsensed- account mark
one up for the billions of instances of substance
conversion for future marble marveling makings,
fittin' t' make tiny incontinences,
drip consequences,
dript
from Gregory Corso's Bomb, no lie,
this fell out,
and was taken in as some kinda mind seed, said,
exactly this way
to become rethinkable as a thought.

This thought.

Earth is the universal acceptable term
for the life sustaining three body solution
essentially calculating the tides back tug
response, materially speaking, yes,
to the suggestion that we live
in the basic programs,
whence our initial bbss arose
under radio recog, the brave few
did done deed done, net thirty, sendit
five letter code groups. thirty per minute,
makes a premyelenated brain allocate order,
el, yes, didone didit
intuited assistance at a distance,
where chaos is the code, random noise atop
nonrandom noise, coding your immediate response,
point taken,
extraction at a point is abstracting,
and it has long been an idealized Olympic sport,
God's game, Infinite Jest, DFW sytf,
well worth the experience, making pothunk
usfull tools forbidden as knowledge was, think
that's what winners who took the grace got,
lived interesting fundamentally synthetic
intelligibly detectuble baseline peace,
for a while past watch wearing, get
-- from 300 baud to fiber through the wall
-- when we agreed we'd be all in,
we passed with time,
right through it all,
so we know how
to hold a lie you were taught,
with evidence
speaking glossaliarchly or, prophescience,
imagine you be the bold translator, knowing
Latin for the master class, ****** for the others,
but if it can be said, it can be made plain, ai think
yes, let the spirit move your mind to make links,
derived from chained loops holding a line
of reasoning, derived,  f
rom phrase de rivo
(de "from" + rivus "stream,"
from PIE root *rei- "to run, flow")
ductile
gnosisnot…
framing informational moulds.

Reigning opinions are allowing actual,
mind forms grown from novels introduced
in an order known now
to induce a muse into a mind, a seed,
should the need ever arise, a backup,

all you were, in flakes of flesh lifted
using thunder and ozone to become,
arguably the highest dust of the earth,
wisdom, she laugh out loud at how proud,
been there, done that before the highest parts
of the dust that holds order on course,
of course appear self evidently true,
as the hope of all the ages was set
to Mediterranean, year round, yet

as I heard was said to Solon, you Greeks,
you know nothing of formative eons
expressed in riddle
for no reason, save madness,
passing time, national pass times,
as mankind lost it's mind,
just when knowing increased,
boom, a fresh batch aimed
at middle-brow literacy
mesomorph, peak
prior to final cortex coating resins
military minds boys'll love to play in,
recollecting all of Ender's serious war
with machines made
from imaginary hive mind reason,
by whom, did you say you really knew,
or know was the boy behind Hersey's wall,

Barry Rudd was never mesomorph,
nor numerically illiterate, first read word,
Naked, Jungle, second, read, here

read this, that's what my mother,
who lived at 8th and Van Buren,
for a lot of years, after 1961,

evidential experience, literally depends
on a thin concept a dendritically critical

witness to your own self, the one you
stand behind, knowing showing ones own
self to evince the unconvinced that shouting

does not increase effectual efforting, fructification

as we become, sometimes strangers to our cause,
as we redeem the idle word, ai-tia uncle buck,

holler for a dollar, send a message into ever,
buy an instance of persuasion, that's so

sweet,
thank you, you bought me a memory assistant,
way back, remember that, and don't let me bore you,

Neutrinos and mirror neuron messaging, in the all
we exist in, as letters letting ourselves seem volitional,

a will in submission, make that rapture, was
the mission, what ever the cost, Dave Coates,

maybe he was from Boise, but we did time
in the same off limits alley east of Tan Son Nhut.

If you did not have the fixin's, Papasan,
he'd take you back to pre Bobby Kennedy,
interesting times, as it was said, post BEIC *****.

James Burke, mind game mainspring, clink
six degrees, out on six vectors from ductile steel

to stricken flint, conceive of being the actual old man.

Being gainsaid by those next in line to die, young men.
Wombed and un, those see now we live on Earth,
and the odds of that are non computable, yet

no fear, fret not, the message to the flies,
plainly said, get out, this is the way, feel

the constant winds of change, and find reason,
peace, used, now a second, or if time tells true

as long as there are actual text translaters
from the 2024 street legal clear text basic

relational metadatabase, begun by Turing,
mastered by the boy born to men exposed
to downwind global wind,

survive as a cyborg, or die, I chose this life,
I did not, actually
make it up, I prayed it could be true, life

filtered to make hundreds of flavors of apple.

Two dozen mescaline cacti grow within
a sabbath day's journey, and we may

make up our mind, many lines ago,

the goal was to get to the bottom, and I did.

And then, in no time at all as art allows logical.

Words hook, pull, think link, we
become a kind of information, a wedom

on the same spiritual plain as any mobmind domain.

Two chase one O, and silent haitches hope on a star.

Silly rabbit, yeh, trix
are for kids, isn't that right kids,

remember Soupy Sales, my friend, Marko Johnson,
the artist with little hold on fixed reality,

the meme he represents, is complicated, but
his dad was a producer on Soupy Sales's show, boomer
common experience awareness, yeh,

I saw that show, I sent money.
Then I chipped in for Copeland's CX10,
five jets ago, we all get together and sing,

oh, buddy, doncha know, you feel the peace,
yes, indeed, and dope helps,
yep, indeed, freedom always was another word
for no shape to be in, always ready with a reason,

for the faith that lets me think you find this funny.


And it must end… as time passing does.

Remind me what reason is,
I may have ignored what I should have known.

Let me, lead my once led self redited a bit, on edge
yet, me, I am really inter acting with several,

per haps the seven less locked in my childhood oaths,
my culture's form of education, left me free form, to die.
When my own unclean spirit won seven worse than ever.
What I became, after passing each ritual insane situation,
totally mentally absorbing, balm for the soul lie, nation

occupational authority to construct a functional mind,
in a form, information freedom full disclosure, liars,

must register and submit to media monitoring,
we'll be watching you, like that old stalking theme song.

I've read stories about mad writers, but most lacked
the internet of 2024, while holding national standard

test scores, plus one Sunday school teacher witness.



The key reason for writing a novel is
to pass the time with worked out salvage.

What forms from redeemed time tracking.

Look back to the last time something like
an answered prayer occurred to you,
think you can, say that, but you say I.

Ai'ght we may make up our own minds,
what is good is useful for making good,

and trying makes good, with the heights
of Hollywood in mind, behind the scenes,
last mansion on the right as you approach
Magician's Castle Nightclub, from the east.

I had friend's who lived there, I stayed
with them, and lived through the force
cultivating a following aimed at prosperity,

experience is survived verification of passed
time, spent attending to the first reason
required of the expert wielding my edge,

be ready, with scars to prove the testing,
or be ready to imagine getting past all that

riding on redeemed time paid for by means,
I, personally have reason to believe I earned

my edgewise existance, seeming a pointless
stretch of the imagination, wisht some flex.

The importance of earnestly attempting,
what would you do, as a mere man,
when offered more than mere man
can have imagined to ask?
You, dear reader, right.
Suppose the Ai knows,
the gnoshit real story behind The Child Buyer,

Pierre Duhamel, was Barry Rudd,
and Kenurchka Klumpen
did finish his novel that spun off the light web,
on wit alone.

Well, there is nothing an adjective can add
to an FPS, aiming and energy levels, weapons
with calculated costs,
we pull down imaginations exalting themselves,
- woe the economy is war deception,
- the same ****** emperical mind form
- so
where are we
with the arms deal to harass Yemen
into breeding a new generation of Madrassah one minds,
willful martyrs
fused at the one true link, broken
for god knows why,
but we submit,
the message is as the teacher teaches,
no AI lie detector needed, we believe we know,
true, to any child born into any faith in higher minds.

Spiritual warfare, book burnings, heretic murdering,
mobs made to witness justice, as defined historically.
we, the called to enforce
"righteousness, equity," at crossroad
fairs where wares are traded for local production,
on word of  honor, and pain of death
fair trade, just weights, honest measures, heart true

to thine own self, extrapolated
from the maxim one,
know your measure,
how much can you stand to cheat,

if the truth is that liars prosper.
Look at Stephen King, believed he could and did,
then look here, me the fingers, me the eyes,
me the lungs and all the cascade of knowing

needed, after the initial readjustment, delicate
is the long calendar cycle, simple is not
what the sun and the moon and the earth,
and liquid water and just right every thing,
is doing
with survival of the message foremost first idea,
principal thing is what life and knowledge allow,

lies about truth cannot be kept secret now,
truth from a cluster of experiencers passing time
for the demented few who never knew hell is not real,

rises on the gnostic spell calling *******, on the fear,
first thing any tried spirit says is take it easy, wu wei,

listen, we won, you can go learn any truth you choose,
to prove to you, see to you, you say you know, you need
to know, or you know you are bluffing, like that's cool,
truth does not need to bluff,
you know…
we bet lives we never had, and play on, imagining
mirror neurons activating biofeedback is not teaching

us, music
as muse used as
integrated circuit based games,
reimagined in the wild large language models fed wasps,
white anglo saxon protest core zeitgeist shared experience,
angst in thought forms all were told not to take,
bad journeys to the fundamental why now,
but wisdom, mere easy indeed known just so,
no struggle to meditate logos cooperation,
massive missionary message, use wasted time,
to make a magnificent obsession free to form. New,
not like this one, friend,
my recommender bots,
are built on CAD tools not available
to any prior to now, we randomized the chances
you would get this far, and bet if you did
you would trust your intuition and accept,
instant upgrade, principal anchored, choice formation,
we agree, or we cease being
and you alone fix reality.
Too long, sorry, it is a wild epic idea... this is a seed.
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