lycanthrope i feel sorry for the people who are smart enough to see the suffering in the world, but not smart enough to see past it to the elegance....like me for instance. Nah, just a joke, albeit an inelegant one. 020420
silentbob i have a stupid laugh 020420
oldephebe ..to inelegantly finesse a fallacy
countless excavations of ones integrity
countless excavations of being
'till you become innurred to the dimming pangs of conscience
and the lie becomes the thing
the way you are - the inertia of so
many blithely mouthed avowals
and when conscience casts them up
in an unguarded moment - these sundry things - like an autumnal wind - and you feel its icy fingers ominous
dark, disembodied hand
rummaging through the catacombs of your being
stirring up regret, remorse,
kicking up the dead stubbled mast
and you quickly stomp it back down
back down
icy fingers rummaging
back down
and you will
cloak this excresence in elegance
whole hueristics of the happy - graceful exsanguinations
and it has been my distinct pleasure
to have been the recipient
of such an elegant masterful
mind-f**k - mind congugal
complex catchechisms of
subtle cues
ahh bring on the
back water bigle blues baby
nothin' like it
relentless inner critic bilge the word is bilge not bigle 030720
oldephebe elegance = Cary Grant/Audrey Hepburn/Grace Kelly/Ashley Judd/That really tall actress on the West Wing/my man Flint/the applied synergy of the bicameral mind/the pythagorem theorem/the interconnectedness of a womans ovaries, uterus, hypothalmus, her unique cyclical neuro-chemistry and the steps, the methodology of participating in her own healing - /the combination of caramel nugget and peanuts in a snickers bar. 030721
avan a v o i c e a n d n o t h i n g m o r e 030722
. . 030724
randomly recent bigle-igle-igle. ha!

oldephebe Elegance

Lay me down
this broken glass bed,
the harpies shrill
fire lariot tongue
while mother nature
is tap dancing
all over my spine
oh what an elegant
I've suckled
from the shriveled teat
and tasted
what is in your heart
as a child i wanted
to build forests
upon the sand
to hide my soul
from YOU

how's that for elegant?
elegance and this is her. my girl. my geek. my me.
blondeshortmessyhairbluebackmarbleeyes that grow so dangerous and highly dialated they look like she's eaten shards of mirrors and they're lodged in her eyes and you cant stop staring could you lose yourself in the black discs.
dirty little fuckgirl with the sleek black hairstraightener wakes you up in the morning one leg thrown over you one hand sliding down your pants and wake up wake up while wearing nothing but your rugby jersey and your kisses on her neck.

won't dance to anything but forbidden hard skank rock impossible to move to she says as she knifes her hips, grinding against you.
she bites her nails short, but keeps them long and sharp enough to rip your back and make you arch against her and drive deeper deeper gasping with want and controlled rage.
she's sharp and spiky and scary sometimes, when she goes silent and her eyes grow huge and she occupies herself with peeling strips of skin off her lips or smoking one of her ever present marlboro lights 100s. smoky taupe old linen dusty yuppie voiced. make her yours and she will kiss you all night and look after your drunkardy friends, guiding them down stairs step.step.step.step.step.
she's got black eyemakeup under her nails and a cometobed mouth, (f)(s)ucking your fingertips in hot and wet and teeth and lips oh help. she fucks like a jack daniels hangover (hold.on.a.minute.im.too.hot.sweaty.my.head.has.vanished.from.this.earth.know.what.i.mean.eh) and smokes like a hardcore drinker. she chain drinks hot tea and cold juice and has an addiction to vats of chocolate and popcorn.
and this is who she is. my girl. my geek. my me. black pen stars on her eight euro usually onehundredandtwentyeuro second hand jeans, which shes worn for three days and spilled beer on one leg of.
disjointed and funny, she smells of body and clean hair, cigarettes, pot and sex and perfume and euclyptas oil. she loses all her lighters but gets them back eventually. and sometimes she reminds you of a boardgame with some of the pieces missing. or a colouring pencil with a broken lead. and sometimes she's candykisses and she hates cherrys and other days shes all broken lips and teeth and bleeding. and somedays she wants to lean, somedays she wants to be safe, and then on others, those crazy days she runs round the streets in a pair of your boxershorts with no shoes and shes wild and like the wind and you think shes an Object and belonged to the pixie folk at one time, especially when she puts on her wings. and on those days you think bouncebouncebounce versatile girly, she is invincible, without knowing that all this rubber is glass inside. not like a ball, but a thermos flask. perfect for keeping everything in. and she wants you to steal famous art for her (Louis Le Broquey), and she wants for you to never fill up her clavicles with tears and some days and some times youll find her hurting herself and hoping that its you it doesnt hurt, gobbing into the toilet or digging into her wrists, making more cigarette burns infected.
she looks like someone from another time, where Ladies were Real and they took black and white photos of them posing, all pearls and heaving bosoms and having the vapours, and not like now where they take drugs and throw up all over the Paparazzi.

She looks like a Lady and acts like an Acid Casualty.
sexy little girl princess. my girl. my geek. this is

Voodoo child The Beatles lyrics 040615
poopmonster poop 040616
u24 very elegant, oldephebe. the consonants make a nice clicking noise as you read it. like sibilance but with T's not S's. Gluttoral? no, not really. smooth, flowing. elegant. 040623
emmi the tips of your fingers are elegant, you wear your thin shawls carelessly and fold your long legs nochalantly, you sing praise and watch him from the corner of your eye. 040623
z minimalism 040624
pete you and your nine dollar martinis *laughs* what an elegant restaraunt I work at. 040624
booker boo 040819
stork daddy i love board games with missing pieces. you never know when the game will fall apart. 040819
oldephebe wait a minute

first elegance, i just gotta say godammit! stop it okay. just don't write anything like that here again. okay? it was just too much, too beautiful, to fucking real and i literally hear the skin being ripped off your soul, i hate that shit.
be alive
be alive
just fucking be alive okay?

zeke - minimlaism?

what is that man?
z minimalism is just enough - no more 051219
oldephebe C'mon man that's bullshit! you know what i'm asking you. i mean she opened up herself, she let us see her hidden gory glory and all you can write is minimalism? you might as well just take a piss on a picasso or something.


okay so anyway z - i'm a little extreme here, maybe it's just the cycle of the moon or just me being manic and just wishing someone else in my tiny sphere of existence could give a damn and FEEL someones ache besides thier own. i think i get carried away but it just hurts so fucking much to see others hurting...i hate but damn if she walked right out of her..shit another time and place and i could write that shit here but let's leave THAT radiant spirit out of this...

still though..weren't you just torn down inside by what elegance wrote?
zeke oe:
i was commenting on the elegance of her prose. and yes, i feel the power of her words. have you ever known me to comment directly on angst and it's twin progeny self loathing and narcissism? i live my own drama, make my own movies. what you do i value. you do it well. do not, however, ask me to be you. i, simply, cannot.

your words are beautiful. you make very vivid renderings. i feel privileged to have that window which you have opened here. thank you. i hope to read more.
avan Z - Hey man ride the bitter screaming stream to oblivion. It's the only way to free your own true poetic voice. I mean if poetry is the music of the soul then you've got to touch that thing with a hot iron in order to let that or those dream pangs, and uh.. the ghost of destiny ring deep down in your soul, stir the ol' aura up, drink from other streams, i know you're a brilliant cerebral guy but even cerebral types can have communion with the cosnstellation of cares and concerns that daunt us and stalk us like 50 foot shadows of the fallen ones casting a great pall over our souls and it's hel trying to shout down or out of that inpenetrable shadow...god just look at some of the really if not inspired at least ambitions forays into the worlds of dense and didactic tautology that I've driveled out here in blather.

OK. You'll feel better being YOU and I'll just leave it at that.
z i take it, then, that you are of the opinion that i have not yet found my voice. that is a reasonable statement. i am too close to my own work to judge it by any "objective" standards. i can say that i am deeply passionate about some of what i do here and that in spite of it's quietude (relative, for instance, to the brilliant and pyrotechnic work that elegance wrote above), it is very emotional. for me, joy and angst are all there. perhaps it is your reading of my works which is lacking. then again, perhaps my passions are flat and joyless to you. you will have to decide that for yourself.

thank you for the implied compliments (i think). as i have said before, i very much appreciate your work and look forward to it always.
oE Nah man, you're cool..i just been really kinda manic lately and it's been boosted by the melancholy and the season and what not...i just get peeved at the emotional and linguistic filters we erect to process our emotions and block those that are too abstract and or unpalatable...i do it myself..so maybe i was uncoiling against an aspect of myself that i see in some of your more cerebral and detatched and or clinical offerings.
oldephebe believe me z you don't EVER want to be me, be well, be brilliant be yourself my friend - my spelling sucks doesn't it?
you pray and ask for death..you want it to rain black and hard upon your world only you didn't expect it to wear such a lovely face, or have such an incredible soul betrothed to god, betrothed to bishops and kings and sweeps up an entire village of children into her ocean expanse, her heart so full and so empty and so giving and nurturing to every child...but still betrothed to bishops and kings and dingdoms beyond the pale and rach of my fractured littel life...this is what i believe..she is so far beyond me and above me and i would not dar poison her world with the taint of my shadow upon it..stay in the light..stay..in what feeds you stay in what must be honored by god and man..

it's just too much anymore..damn..i have wept over these things..how did i get here..what fragment of light..of super heated..damn i mean what are the rhetorical implications of all this allegorical abstract apology or apologia. i am sorry and i do not yet know for what? i mean you step out you stumble out bent and goofy and aloof and you are slowly struck by thunder and this ember, this shade or color or diffraction of burning light and you see it cast from her eyes and poured from her soul and how do you say these windows were all but blackened and nearly seladed shut..what did you do? do not throw your heart into any songs for me for you will only wind up loving what has been dead, what is dead and only resuscitated recently for one purpose..i believe and that would be to serve the cause of bishops and kings and minister to the greater good. damn this is going to kill me..i didn't want anything to touch me..they think its arrogance or being dismissive but it's not..maybe..maybe..i'm just trying not to get in the way..trying not to screw up somebodyies perfect life..trying not to disrespect the province of that bishop and kingdom he's trying to build..one kingdom, one queen, one light and one sight, one sun in her sky, in his sky and one lord to honor above and beneath it..so that leaves me ...nothing... as it should. and you say..i was just wandering along back into life..roused from my death bed, i escaped the silver scythe glittering and grinning at my elbow and in my ear..you must not be fond of shadow..of thinly breathing life..what you see as arrogance or dismissiveness or even as the coals of anger quickly roused to flame, to life, the tears of grief quickly built to sorrows burning current..is just that there is just so much death..so much of me falling down fast inside and there is another..mother and mistrees and architect of my pain and torment..al ost like some gothic fantasy stepping out of a portrait and here upon this canvas that muse..for that is what stoked these..oh god i just wnat to say wash your eyes and rise from that river of sorrow and turn away from me you equisitly broken flower or DON"T ever turn the light of your heart upon me..stay were you are..for where i am i wouldn't wish for you. every breath i take is beating me down.. as for my muse, my bruising burning muse, well, THAT is a wholly separate thing - i am a relic of a rotted life come wandering in from the cold white mountains blanketed in the silver knife of winter. that's it so any pretensions of greatness or talent or calling or anything else is..laughable -
what's it to you?
who go