Quintessensual Inducing belief in some sort of hereafter is the opiate of the masses. It makes them accepting of injustice and enslavement. On the way to the bank, the Man laughs at their stupidity as he encourages their foolishness and treads on them.

Make no mistake. Fight for justice and freedom now. Crush the Man and his banks if necessary. Live and love to the fullest. The reality is the dead are nothing but dust, forever and ever.

miniver The truth is, that first poem never really ended -- it grew, see. The second poem began, never recognizing that it was still the first one. And more followed, and they were all a little different, or fixated on different little things -- or appeared to be. But all those little things were rather irrelevant to itself, which is what it had really been fixated on all along (were it all compiled, you see, which it fortunately weren't). And now, it might tell you that it will never end, nor never did begin, for that soulless voice has grown and grows, in water, wind, and sand, and vines, and rhymes, and numbers, and even certain cleverly-placed punctuation marks, if you look closely. It mutters, and whispers, and whistles (you may recall), whose purpose is itself, whose self is clever nothingness and cold futility.

So far as I have deduced, at least. I am no artist. I do sit up, oftentimes, and consider of my past those line breaks that I will eternally regret; though it is written -- all will continue in my place.
birdmad little cast-away particles of me visible on the sunbeam that cuts through the window

motes and specks and atoms

the detritus of the history of all history swept off the front porch and back into the yard
MollyGoLightly i used to sit by the triangular window at my grandma's house, where the sun came in through a straight line. i'd beat pillows by the window, and dust would explode into the light. 000725
somebody dust you are and to dust you will return 000919
deb the snow was perfect
that light glaze
over bony tree branches
hiding the yelloed grass
bathing the concrete
in perfection
all the while
knowing her purity
will be soiled
by the first passing car...
and as the diamonds
gleam in the streetlight
as they fall,
the sky that pale tangerine,
a snowplow just had to
drive past
breaking her spell.
deb yelloWed* 010126
marjorie comes after ashes to ashes.
it's where you find yourself
after a long day
when your feet won't move your body
and your body can't move your mind
and your mind just won't stop punishing you
for all the things you can't leave behind
ever dumbening Steel--
cut grind weld.
Angry electrons puddle as
wire feeds fire.
Sparks rain from spinning stone
dance from melting seams.

The cement is covered in a fine black ferrous dust.
tulip bruises dust is so amazing and beautiful, it makes me feel like im a little girl again, and i sit and watch it for hours, and all my friends just go, oh right, shes stoned, but im not. and then i try to inhale the beauty of it, and it fills up my throat, and tickles my cillia, and i choke and cough and splutter, and everyone stares at me like im weird.
hehehe how angsty am i?
me "she packed a suitcase full of dust" (i think) 030624
delial "all we are is dust in the wind ..." 030707
oldephebe miniver - Brilliant!
and i'm not being sardonic or ironic
Can i just say Brilliant!
without being forenscially didactic without unwinding the thread from
its vine
without trying to laboriously tap out some syncopated leitmotif of mine?
This is the gold encrusted vermillion - breaths that embroider blather even down to its last sub-atomic constituency
as for the inaugural salvo to this protean poem
i invite you
to open the apeture
of perception
oldephebe MollyGolightly
you guys must have been embroidering your breaths as i was pecking out the prior post
all you guys write some really palpable stuff
Fire&Roses "I read somewhere that dust is mostly made up of human skin... if this is true, I think there may be a naked man behind my couch." 030722
Death of a Rose Dust words, washed away with shifting salt dunes. I can actually see the dust in this light but I can't actually track one for two long, don't have the mental acuity for it. But it's still pretty, all the while I'm breathing it in. 031009
uhanei It’s funny how memory changes things. Fact and fantasy blur together to form a fusion of truth and lies; A misunderstood history.

I only forget what I don’t want to remember: it's a chamois of my memory, a pyro of my mind’s eye.

Imagination distorts reality and you are left with a warped and fragmented account of your past.

Don’t be fooled by what (you think) you know.
radish this is beauty. is it? 040405
Zsiga ashes to ashes
dust to dust
Perspective_of_Soul I like dust on things. I like wiping the covers of old books before i read them and watching the dust swirl and disappear. 040720
solace we're all just specks of dust, in all the specks of dust in the universe. 050510
me it's just a word to describe some kind of solid particles floating in the air, could be everything, or nothing. who cares... at least we're still friends, at least we're still in live! 050510
narcisstic_grapes dusty, musty.
it floats, shimmers in a half-light. gets into raspy lungs and chokes the air out, settles on forgotten skin.
In_Bloom The stuff that flits from my fingertips when I open my hands to look upon love I thought I was growing and carrying there 081007
what's it to you?
who go