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    poetry


    dotsJournal: ...dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    I've not been around much (again)
    hopefully I'll be around more, for a while at least

    ...Created 2008-04-28 19:38:44

    dotsJournal: Punishmentdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Working away...

    Seamus Heaney

    I can feel the tug
    of the halter at the nape
    of her neck, the wind
    on her naked front.

    It blows her nipples
    to amber beads,
    it shakes the frail rigging
    of her ribs.

    I can see her drowned
    body in the bog,
    the weighing stone,
    the floating rods and boughs.

    Under which at first
    she was a barked sapling
    that is dug up
    oak-bone, brain-firkin:

    her shaved head
    like a stubble of black corn,
    her blindfold a soiled bandage,
    her noose a ring

    to store
    the memories of love.
    Little adultress,
    before they punished you

    you were flaxen-haired,
    undernourished, and your
    tar-black face was beautiful.
    My poor scapegoat,

    I almost love you
    but would have cast, I know,
    the stones of silence.
    I am the artful voyeur

    of your brain's exposed
    and darkened combs,
    your muscles' webbing
    and all your numbered bones:

    I who have stood dumb
    when your betraying sisters,
    cauled in tar,
    wept by the railings,

    who would connive
    in civilized outrage
    yet understand the exact
    and tribal, intimate revenge.

    ...Created 2008-04-21 06:30:03

    dotsJournal: New Policydots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Brain Fried

    I've decided. I have a new comments policy.

    I used to just go through poetry that needed commenting on and comment on anything that I thought I could say something interesting about or contribute to in some way.

    Now I click on the user first. If they're in the positive and I have something to say, I'll comment them. Same too if they're just a few in the negative, they can have the benefit of the doubt.

    But when someone is behind by a lot of comments and still posts a few pieces of poetry at a time it really annoys me because I really don't think they're contributing to the community we have here.

    So yeah, no more comments for selfish posters. At least get back on top before posting more of your own stuff. For a while I was -20ish too and I thought "This isn't fair". I wasn't posting and I gradually worked back up. It isn't impossible.

    End (fairly relaxed) rant.

    ...Created 2008-03-11 19:11:14

    dotsJournal: On Lady Macbethdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Thinking...

    Out, out, brief candle!
    Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
    That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
    And then is heard no more: it is a tale
    Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
    Signifying nothing.

    ...Created 2008-02-22 19:13:28

    dotsJournal: The Boxerdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Thinking...

    From The Boxer by Simon and Garfunkel

    In the clearing stands a boxer,
    And a fighter by his trade
    And he carries the reminders
    Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
    Or cut him till he cried out
    In his anger and his shame,
    "I am leaving, I am leaving."
    But the fighter still remains

    ...Created 2008-02-17 07:20:16

    dotsJournal: The Seductiondots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Relaxing

    Just felt like posting this...

    The Seduction by Eileen McAuley

    After the party, early Sunday morning,
    He led her to the quiet bricks of the Birkenhead docks.
    Far past the silver stream of the traffic through the city,
    Far from the blind windows of the tower blocks.

    He sat in the darkness, leather jacket creaking madly,
    He spat in the river, fumbled in a bag.
    He handed her the vodka, and she knocked it back like water,
    She giggled, drunk and nervous, and he muttered ‘little slag’.

    She had met him at the party, and he’d danced with her all night,
    He’d told her about football; Sammy Lee and Ian Rush,
    She had nodded, quite enchanted, and her eyes were wide and bright
    As he enthused about the Milk Cup, and the next McGuigan fight.

    As he brought her more drinks, so she fell in love
    With his eyes as blue as iodine,
    With the fingers that stroked her neck and thighs
    And the kisses that tasted of nicotine.

    Then: ‘I’ll take you to the river where I spend my afternoons,
    When I should be at school, or eating me dinner.
    Where I go, by meself, with me dad’s magazines
    And a bag filled with shimmering, sweet paint thinner.’

    So she followed him there, all high white shoes,
    All wide blue eyes, and bottles of vodka.
    And sat in the dark, her head rolling forward
    Towards the frightening scum on the water.

    And talked about school, in a disjointed way:
    About O Levels she’d be sitting in June
    She chattered on, and stared at the water,
    The Mersey, green as a septic wound.

    Then, when he swiftly contrived to kiss her
    His kiss was scented by Listerine
    And she stifled a giggle, reminded of numerous
    Stories from teenage magazines…..

    When she discovered she was three months gone
    She sobbed in the cool, locked darkness of her room
    And she ripped up all the My Guy and her Jackie photo-comics
    Until they were just bright paper, like confetti, strewn

    On the carpet. And on that day, she broke her heels
    Of her high white shoes (as she flung them at the wall).
    And realised, for once, that she was truly truly frightened
    But more than that, cheated by the promise of it all.

    For where, now, was the summer of her sixteenth year?
    Full of glitzy fashion features, and stories of romance?
    Where a stranger could lead you to bright worlds,
    And how would you know, if you never took a chance?

    Full of glossy horoscopes, and glamour with a stammer;
    Full of fresh fruit diets – how did she feel betrayed?
    Now, with a softly rounded belly, she was sickened every morning
    By stupid stupid promises only tacitly made.

    Where were the glossy photographs of summer,
    Day trips to Blackpool, jumping all the rides?
    And where, now, were the pink smiling faces in the picture:
    Three girls paddling in the grey and frothy tide?

    So she cried that she had missed all the innocence around her
    And all the parties where you meet the boy next door,
    Where you walk hand in hand, in an acne’d wonderland,
    With a glass of lager-shandy, on a carpeted floor.

    But, then again, better to be smoking scented drugs
    Or festering, invisibly unemployed.
    Better to destroy your life in modern man-made ways
    Than to fall into this despicable, feminine void.

    Better to starve yourself, like a sick precocious child
    Than to walk through town with a belly huge and ripe.
    And better, now, to turn away, move away, fade away,
    Than to have the neighbours whisper that ‘you always looked the type’.

    ...Created 2008-02-14 14:09:22

    dotsJournal: WCdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    http://www.writerscafe.org/profile/Predator/

    ...Created 2007-08-02 16:37:50

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    ...Created 2007-07-31 10:51:42

    dotsJournal: dots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: The Usual

    <a href="http://www.writerscafe.org/profile.php?id=13274"><img src="http://www.writerscafe.org/images/links/200x100_flyer_1_read.jpg"></a>

    ...Created 2007-07-31 10:51:24

    dotsJournal: 1000 Daysdots
    -------------------------------------------
    Mood: Relaxing

    1000 days since I signed up

    I can't remember finding this site, why or how. I'm glad I did. I've used it sporadically, in fits and starts. I'll log in every day for a few weeks and then neglect it for a stretch of time.

    But it's always here. I like that.

    It does feel like it has changed alot though. I remember when I enlisted you would post something and, without fail, have four or five comments within the next two days. I don't know whether there are fewer people looking to give or if my poetry is just less commentable now :p

    Well, anyways, thanks to Eliteskills
    For always being here
    x

    ...Created 2007-07-06 07:44:21

    Be kind, take a few minutes to review the hard work of others <3
    It means a lot to them, as it does to you.

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    Supernatural Cowboy Sleuth written by endlessgame23
    Shi written by ShyOne
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    untitled written by ShyOne
    Supernatural Cowboy Sleuth (2) written by endlessgame23
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    Journey written by endlessgame23
    Supernatural Cowboy Sleuth (4) written by endlessgame23
    Love written by saartha
    Florida's Autumn Solstice written by closetpoet
    I, Plutarch written by HisNameIsNoMore

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