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The Tides of Winter Malice A cat With its head in its paws And its cool sway teetering against the wind Tell me where I must go, dear mother To find that honest wind of sunset past But the cat swayed only silently against that longshore boat And its crimson paws now tainted with dear sisters blood To whom do you serve? she asked But the breeze drowned out my cry of "you" And the cat still swayed its sweet sonata The rhythm pulsing between its tensed muscles And the red beats falling To dance no more. To you.
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:45 |
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# ? Jun 9, 2024 17:38 |
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slam whale holy grail
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:46 |
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roses are red violets are blue this thread sucks and sdo do u
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:46 |
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roses are red violets are blue op is a human being
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:47 |
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poo poo posting faggots have infested the forums moreso than normal
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:49 |
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Iseeyouseemeseeyou posted:slam whale
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:50 |
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leaves of grass is p good
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:51 |
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Wayside Bazaar posted:leaves of grass is p good "I. I feel so alive. For the very first time." -Walt Whitman, Song of Myself
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:53 |
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a dead art form
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:54 |
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a wet hot dump kisses your grandma's filthy box
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 22:59 |
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Plastic Goldbaby posted:a wet hot dump kisses Now we're talking!
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:02 |
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MCMXIV Those long uneven lines Standing as patiently As if they were stretched outside The Oval or Villa Park, The crowns of hats, the sun On moustached archaic faces Grinning as if it were all An August Bank Holiday lark; And the shut shops, the bleached Established names on the sunblinds, The farthings and sovereigns, And dark-clothed children at play Called after kings and queens, The tin advertisements For cocoa and twist, and the pubs Wide open all day-- And the countryside not caring: The place names all hazed over With flowering grasses, and fields Shadowing Domesday lines Under wheat's restless silence; The differently-dressed servants With tiny rooms in huge houses, The dust behind limousines; Never such innocence, Never before or since, As changed itself to past Without a word--the men Leaving the gardens tidy, The thousands of marriages, Lasting a little while longer: Never such innocence again. Philip Larkin (1922-1985)
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:05 |
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Like shimmering light shone from paradise Iridescent but having form like sammite From depths of Detroit's rusty core The man who once by evil fell Rises angel like, Michael with flaming sword and a badass gun that cries out, "veneance unto thee, perdition!" "vengeance to cutpurse and coked-up whore!" For Robocop, held up by celestial host and Promethean wonders unknown, shall drive the wicked to hell's shores, and will know his name once more.
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:06 |
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The Waste Land BY T. S. ELIOT FOR EZRA POUND IL MIGLIOR FABBRO I. The Burial of the Dead April is the cruellest month, breeding Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring Dull roots with spring rain. Winter kept us warm, covering Earth in forgetful snow, feeding A little life with dried tubers. Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade, And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, And drank coffee, and talked for an hour. Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s, My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled, And I was frightened. He said, Marie, Marie, hold on tight. And down we went. In the mountains, there you feel free. I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, You cannot say, or guess, for you know only A heap of broken images, where the sun beats, And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, And the dry stone no sound of water. Only There is shadow under this red rock, (Come in under the shadow of this red rock), And I will show you something different from either Your shadow at morning striding behind you Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Frisch weht der Wind Der Heimat zu Mein Irisch Kind, Wo weilest du? “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago; “They called me the hyacinth girl.” —Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden, Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither Living nor dead, and I knew nothing, Looking into the heart of light, the silence. Oed’ und leer das Meer. Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Had a bad cold, nevertheless Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe, With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she, Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor, (Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!) Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks, The lady of situations. Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel, And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card, Which is blank, is something he carries on his back, Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find The Hanged Man. Fear death by water. I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring. Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, Tell her I bring the horoscope myself: One must be so careful these days. Unreal City, Under the brown fog of a winter dawn, A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many. Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, And each man fixed his eyes before his feet. Flowed up the hill and down King William Street, To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying: “Stetson! “You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! “That corpse you planted last year in your garden, “Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year? “Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed? “Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, “Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again! “You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!” II. A Game of Chess The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne, Glowed on the marble, where the glass Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines From which a golden Cupidon peeped out (Another hid his eyes behind his wing) Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra Reflecting light upon the table as The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it, From satin cases poured in rich profusion; In vials of ivory and coloured glass Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes, Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air That freshened from the window, these ascended In fattening the prolonged candle-flames, Flung their smoke into the laquearia, Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling. Huge sea-wood fed with copper Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone, In which sad light a carvéd dolphin swam. Above the antique mantel was displayed As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale Filled all the desert with inviolable voice And still she cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time Were told upon the walls; staring forms Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair Spread out in fiery points Glowed into words, then would be savagely still. “My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. “Speak to me. Why do you never speak. Speak. “What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? “I never know what you are thinking. Think.” I think we are in rats’ alley Where the dead men lost their bones. “What is that noise?” The wind under the door. “What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?” Nothing again nothing. “Do “You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember “Nothing?” I remember Those are pearls that were his eyes. “Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?” But O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag— It’s so elegant So intelligent “What shall I do now? What shall I do?” “I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street “With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? “What shall we ever do?” The hot water at ten. And if it rains, a closed car at four. And we shall play a game of chess, Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door. When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said— I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself, HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Now Albert’s coming back, make yourself a bit smart. He’ll want to know what you done with that money he gave you To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there. You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set, He said, I swear, I can’t bear to look at you. And no more can’t I, I said, and think of poor Albert, He’s been in the army four years, he wants a good time, And if you don’t give it him, there’s others will, I said. Oh is there, she said. Something o’ that, I said. Then I’ll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look. HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME If you don’t like it you can get on with it, I said. Others can pick and choose if you can’t. But if Albert makes off, it won’t be for lack of telling. You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique. (And her only thirty-one.) I can’t help it, she said, pulling a long face, It’s them pills I took, to bring it off, she said. (She’s had five already, and nearly died of young George.) The chemist said it would be all right, but I’ve never been the same. You are a proper fool, I said. Well, if Albert won’t leave you alone, there it is, I said, What you get married for if you don’t want children? HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon, And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot— HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME HURRY UP PLEASE ITS TIME Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight. Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight. Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night. III. The Fire Sermon The river’s tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed. Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song. The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers, Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed. And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors; Departed, have left no addresses. By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept . . . Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song, Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long. But at my back in a cold blast I hear The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear. A rat crept softly through the vegetation Dragging its slimy belly on the bank While I was fishing in the dull canal On a winter evening round behind the gashouse Musing upon the king my brother’s wreck And on the king my father’s death before him. White bodies naked on the low damp ground And bones cast in a little low dry garret, Rattled by the rat’s foot only, year to year. But at my back from time to time I hear The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring. O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter And on her daughter They wash their feet in soda water Et O ces voix d’enfants, chantant dans la coupole! Twit twit twit Jug jug jug jug jug jug So rudely forc’d. Tereu Unreal City Under the brown fog of a winter noon Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants C.i.f. London: documents at sight, Asked me in demotic French To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel Followed by a weekend at the Metropole. At the violet hour, when the eyes and back Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits Like a taxi throbbing waiting, I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives, Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea, The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights Her stove, and lays out food in tins. Out of the window perilously spread Her drying combinations touched by the sun’s last rays, On the divan are piled (at night her bed) Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays. I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest— I too awaited the expected guest. He, the young man carbuncular, arrives, A small house agent’s clerk, with one bold stare, One of the low on whom assurance sits As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire. The time is now propitious, as he guesses, The meal is ended, she is bored and tired, Endeavours to engage her in caresses Which still are unreproved, if undesired. Flushed and decided, he assaults at once; Exploring hands encounter no defence; His vanity requires no response, And makes a welcome of indifference. (And I Tiresias have foresuffered all Enacted on this same divan or bed; I who have sat by Thebes below the wall And walked among the lowest of the dead.) Bestows one final patronising kiss, And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit . . . She turns and looks a moment in the glass, Hardly aware of her departed lover; Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass: “Well now that’s done: and I’m glad it’s over.” When lovely woman stoops to folly and Paces about her room again, alone, She smoothes her hair with automatic hand, And puts a record on the gramophone. “This music crept by me upon the waters” And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street. O City city, I can sometimes hear Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street, The pleasant whining of a mandoline And a clatter and a chatter from within Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls Of Magnus Martyr hold Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold. The river sweats Oil and tar The barges drift With the turning tide Red sails Wide To leeward, swing on the heavy spar. The barges wash Drifting logs Down Greenwich reach Past the Isle of Dogs. Weialala leia Wallala leialala Elizabeth and Leicester Beating oars The stern was formed A gilded shell Red and gold The brisk swell Rippled both shores Southwest wind Carried down stream The peal of bells White towers Weialala leia Wallala leialala “Trams and dusty trees. Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.” “My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart Under my feet. After the event He wept. He promised a ‘new start.’ I made no comment. What should I resent?” “On Margate Sands. I can connect Nothing with nothing. The broken fingernails of dirty hands. My people humble people who expect Nothing.” la la To Carthage then I came Burning burning burning burning O Lord Thou pluckest me out O Lord Thou pluckest burning IV. Death by Water Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead, Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell And the profit and loss. A current under sea Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell He passed the stages of his age and youth Entering the whirlpool. Gentile or Jew O you who turn the wheel and look to windward, Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you. V. What the Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:07 |
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f art
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:08 |
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Idiot Syncratic posted:f Bravo!
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:08 |
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E1M1 posted:The Waste Land I'd sooner listen to Swans than read all of that shite.
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:13 |
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no one cares about poetry, nor should they
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:24 |
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Wayside Bazaar posted:I'd sooner listen to Swans than read all of that shite. For my next act, I'm going to post all of infinite jest (including footnotes)
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:35 |
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My Terrible, but Beautiful Love I am all alone, I can not take this. No one at all can know what I go through. So long since I have felt a time of bliss, Never in my life, have I felt this blue. I beg my heart to just let me die here. I wish I could go to my friends and cry. Will not shed tears, for I will not be near. I must leave this cold world and say good bye. Fade fast, as I kill this pain caused from him. I love it how each pill slows my mind down, Feel it, I am so dead, it's all for Jim. My pain is gone, do you think he will frown? I wake to meet his eyes, I am not dead. Did not mean to hurt me, we are in love. -Kelsey Knoblauch so bad
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:43 |
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E1M1 posted:For my next act, I'm going to post all of infinite jest (including footnotes) MODS!
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# ? Jun 6, 2014 23:52 |
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The boys i mean are not refined They go with girls who buck and bite They do not give a gently caress for luck They hump them thirteen times a night One hangs a hat upon her tit One carves a cross on her behind They do not give a poo poo for wit The boys i mean are not refined They come with girls who bite and buck Who cannot read and cannot write Who laugh like they would fall apart And masturbate with dynamite The boys i mean are not refined They cannot chat of that and this They do not give a fart for art They kill like you would take a piss They speak whatever's on their mind They do whatever's in their pants The boys i mean are not refined They shake the mountains when they dance
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 00:32 |
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roses are red violets are blue they don't think it be like it is but it do
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 00:41 |
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E1M1 posted:The Waste Land better nate than lever
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 00:52 |
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GBS sucked it was bad then there was a change to it no it just kinda sucks
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 00:55 |
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I took a look at GBS today after about a year away. GBS has changed. It's not about photoshop, or arguments. It's not even about fun, jokes, or enlightened discussion. It's an endless series of low content posts, made by shitposters and idiots. GBS, and its vast consumption of human time, has become a irrational, hosed up neo-BYOB. GBS has changed. Shitposters post with lovely signatures, use lovely avatars. Idiocy inside their brains enhances and regulates their actions. Punctuation removal. Capitalization removal. Emotion removal. Content removal. Everything is stripped down and minimalized. GBS has changed. The age of goldmining is now the age of garbage, averting catastrophe from gassing. And he who gets gold controls the board. GBS has changed. When posts are made without thought... GBS becomes routine.
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 00:57 |
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Milk, Milk, Lemonade, Round the corner, Fudge is Made.
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 00:59 |
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Fireless Phoenix posted:I took a look at GBS today after about a year away. Cry for help?
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 00:59 |
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Fireless Phoenix posted:I took a look at GBS today after about a year away.
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:00 |
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PromethiumX posted:poo poo posting faggots a good case-in-point this lovely assed thread u made stop posting asap
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:05 |
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Excerpt from Walt Whitman's "A Woman Waits for Me ": It is I, you women—I make my way, I am stern, acrid, large, undissuadable—but I love you, I do not hurt you any more than is necessary for you, I pour the stuff to start sons and daughters fit for These States—I press with slow rude muscle, I brace myself effectually—I listen to no entreaties, I dare not withdraw till I deposit what has so long accumulated within me.
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:12 |
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Fireless Phoenix posted:I took a look at GBS today after about a year away. I'm waking up to ash and dust I wipe my brow and I sweat my rust I'm breathing in the chemicals I'm breaking in, shaping up, then checking out on the prison bus This is it, the apocalypse Whoa I'm waking up, I feel it in my bones Enough to make my systems blow Welcome to the new age, to the new age Welcome to the new age, to the new age Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh, whoa, oh, oh, oh, I'm radioactive, radioactive Whoa, oh, oh, oh, oh, whoa, oh, oh, oh, I'm radioactive, radioactive http://www.reddit.com/ ^ heard this site is the place to be right now, not my cup of though
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:12 |
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Wayside Bazaar posted:leaves of grass is p good No, it definitely is not. Wordy quasi-Taoist deistic romantic transcendentalist bullshit. I loving hate Walt Whitman. Call me a Philistine, but I'm still fond of the Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. XXV Alike for those who for To-day prepare, And those that after some To-morrow stare, A Muezzin from the Tower of Darkness cries "Fools! your Reward is neither Here nor There." XXVI Why, all the Saints and Sages who discuss'd Of the Two Worlds so wisely--they are thrust Like foolish Prophets forth; their Words to Scorn Are scatter'd, and their Mouths are stopt with Dust. XXVII Myself when young did eagerly frequent Doctor and Saint, and heard great argument About it and about : but evermore Came out by the same door where in I went. XXVIII With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow, And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow; And this was all the Harvest that I reap'd-- "I came like Water, and like Wind I go." http://classics.mit.edu/Khayyam/rubaiyat.html
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:28 |
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Goons in a forum like wet dog poo poo on a log - Ezra Pound
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:43 |
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ElGroucho posted:Goons in a forum worst haiku i ever read
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:46 |
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Along the database the poo poo posts break The slam whales sink beneath the lake The gay dicks lengthen In GBS Strange is the sight of serious postin guys And strange pics circle through your eyes But stranger still is Lost GBS Dongs that the twinks shall bring Amongst pants and other Goku things Are posted unread in Dim GBS Post of my bowl, click on my thread Gas OP, and banned, as posts unread Shall dry and die in Lost GBS
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 01:53 |
E1M1 posted:For my next act, I'm going to post all of infinite jest (including footnotes)
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 02:39 |
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Prallax Litovsk posted:Excerpt from Walt Whitman's "A Woman Waits for Me ": spoiler alert: that nigga was gay
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 05:20 |
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i know ur probably kidding but he offed himself ffs, whoever is banking off his royalties is kicking back happily profiting off his suicide...i believe the artist would rather, once they are deceased, have their work be freely available and have as many people as possible be exposed to their work rather than have as many people making as much money as possible off of their work (so long as their surviving family is reasonably provided for). if u dont share this opinion than u are just a bloodsucker and or corporate shill.
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 05:42 |
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# ? Jun 9, 2024 17:38 |
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Here I sit all broken hearted gently caress you, I'll loving kill you human being
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# ? Jun 7, 2014 05:46 |