/lit/ - Literature

Drifting girl in my room of Scandinavian descent... having never been here, are there any questions?
You have an attachment to me, I know!
To me you are...
a lamb I want to cook and chew.
Leave, then! Go to them! Hide from me, you blasted whore!
It is not my fault you can not handle my expressions in relation to your ignorant mind.
-
-
Apply yourself, inferior creature!
I am inclined to spit on you.
To lead you to a spike and impale you cunt to tongue.
Show me more of your fucking body!
Mental inferior, the only path you walk is my hotel carpet.
With tears you will be on pressed knee.
I hypothesise your forced degeneracy.
Asmodean attributes of voluptuous trickery.
-
Offer me more!
Am I not hitting you?
Are your tears not filled with salt?
I have not yet had my fill of princesses and whores.
Colour-blur, grow steps toward me.
Vegetated soul, be how I dream.
Be recognisable to me (and only to me).
Rub by my thigh your lamby cheeks.
First slightly do you tongue my member.
Girly, Girly, take my seed.
For minutes you are fumbling.
In to my eyes you drift your gaze.
Other eyes, in this moment of absolute degeneracy,
are we not innocent cats having a tumble?
A ray of light illuminates your armpit, flesh and areola.
More rays reveal your messy locks jettisoned across a pink-cheeked face.
Can you sit on me, floating mammary?
-
Hypothesise your impaled extension.
Allow me inside your collections of walls that block an empty space.

I lie here in Wursten, ich liege im Kraut
Of vaginas ich schreibe Poesie
I fap to mein Führer of mein language I'm proud
because I know zwei Worten
das ist doppelt mehr wie Sie

I am a corridor
which you may walk down
wie ein maedchen
holding on to mommy's hand.

Putting out a thumb to passing dreams of a car, you and your people undergo the (rather unprofessional, to be honest) interrogation of the remnants of my scribblings. While making excuses may be a sign of a guilty conscience, perhaps you would have time to hear my hypothesis as to how your condition came about, and not mine. The effect would certainly be your upset.

If we were to enter in to the landscape of the relationship between a literary geisha and her snot-faced troglodyte orbiters we would find, as Baudelaire suggests, at first infatuation and then murderous desire to kill the blasted whore. The physiognomy which scribbles creates a delayed face, breast, abdomen, teeth, lip, eyeball, iris, lock et cetera. These things arise extra to retinal activity. Mental assets shared through otherwise arbitrary assemblages of greek symbols. When they (orbiters who base their assumptions on incomplete axioms) provide incomplete criticism, I fail to take them seriously. It would appear to me that these people are not human, but rather, some thing more vulgar, like a rat.

I am a corridor
which you may walk down
wie ein maedchen
holding on to mommy's hand.

Come and go
But please don't fucking play around.

-

Extension ist wie ein perpetual annoyance to closed eyes.
It pulls us from our snoozing,
providing our focus with a Ravensburger puzzle with the image of a Nymph.
The Jigsaw is not actually the reach of all possible endeavours,
but we feel bad and Jigsaws are fun.
You can either sleep or solve the Jigsaw,
messing it up after it is completed,
trying not to remember where the pieces go.

>>7072542
I prefer to use a different language as opposed to saying "like a" and other overused trash like that.
Deal with it.

twinshia stop disrespecting the medium I've spent my life on you autist

sprechen sie deutsche oder.... google translate?

Paralysed by slower people
Turning yellow in their foam
I request a leave permission
To pursue a greater goal
-
If you stop my vain adventures
And attempt my sight divert
I'll call you a crusty harlot
Which you've always been at heart
-
Without people to divert me
The path is no longer barred
Power to transform convert me
Ability keep me from all harm
-
Toward change my only virtue
That I seek at opened eye
Find me colour-blurs excite me
Find me confreres who don't lie
-
Aender the decrepit vision
That before me lays her flesh
Label her a rancid harlot
Label her a blasted whore
-
Phenomena in actuality
As your true superiour
Anomalise the hands that halt me
Bring closer their inevitable fall
-
Aender my stochastic thinking
Onward to a rational thought
Offer me a superiour alternative
Nothing that involves a climb
-
-
In another world you are my dog.

>>7072622
Mein Deutsch ist nicht flussig, aber ich kann Deutsche bucher lesen.

A sleep passing by seen only by one from an ethereal abode slithered like serpents invading the wind letting not-stone of various mental fortresses. From the Z's that siphoned through unbeknownst (apart from ghostly boys, one nor two, drifting in the dreamlike aether).

Birthing from that nocturnal way which grew per osmosis further on with out care hide some non-living youth, singular nor plural, hitchhiking in through doors which entered in some other place, not unlike ours but different and of a higher substance.

The midwife pulling, from thence came the unborn but still throbbing foetus: A creature of sleep inclined toward other more mental paths with the attributes of a not yet grown potato recognisable only by its slightly anomalous seed, trying hopelessly for photosynthesis yonder in to other areas, ceaselessly lapping up any rays of sun it can gather, not noticing the other characters in the room, nor having any emotional attachment to them, hiding its ignorance some what before their prying eyes, fish innards with no personality, lacking any signs of youth or original thought, a single set of eyes in perpetual state of paralysis, slowly turning yellow and crusty, with out the ability to change, only the ability to find confreres and label actually shining phenomena as anomalous, catching the train of thought that happens to be driving through working class mediocrity, in to ruins of ruins of ruins and so on, ceaselessly driving through said areas of nothing in particular, the doors of enlightenment in actuality remaining forever closed, not meaning they can not be opened; they just will not be, existing simply as decoration with in eyesight to be used as paraphernalia of pretence, some how passing for enlightenment in actuality, other paths thus being deemed completely useless, never available to be put in place, nor becoming available to those who forget to keep it in mind, unlike those who have, our studious surrenders (not sophists) watching and patient, transformed or become what must in order to attain higher knowledge of which there is plenty to he who seeks it, be it a creature of any kind, that it may become some thing transcendent and raise itself from this to that aether.

An entity of unknown capabilities, presumably here to deliver the child, but not necessarily good at doing it appeared in the doorway. Some thing was revealing its self here. This entity of veiled appearance existed for the moment that I moved my gaze as the only thing in the universe.

This entity was its self not unpretty: If I remember, it was a young girl.

Slowly this phenomenon was appearing to be not what it was before: It became an object of desire, the memory of it constantly calling back its own echo before it even appeared, an entity of perfect attributes existing with youthful and girly looks before me, slowly introducing its self with a female name and the most wonderful matte wrappings.

Its age or a notion of its age was in a hidden state.
There was something there, but precisely what it was: uncertain.
Eyelids half closed over wet grey and white fish innards.
It was the eyelids which made the first impression.
White: The phenomenon was in actuality more cadmium and pink, but her whiteness was intriguing.
A plastic tube containing a slightly opaque liquid met with her lips which brought her idea from mysterious to alluring.
There was an increased redness to it which contrasted with the lighter areas of her antlitz defining a symbol of otherworldly acceleration.
I imagined she had looked at me when her position had changed.
Illusion: but that is all it ever was.
A red lip. A lolling lid of an eye. A waterfall of hair. Whiteness. But also a creeping sadness in her expression: "There is no one here who is merging with my presence". She has contained herself, but not in just this moment: In seconds I have imagined her past and aligned it with my own: Sitting in a US cafeteria reservedly ignoring any passing entertainments: presumably sated by her own spiritual superiority. What she is or I have appropriated her to have been stands in such horrible contrast with my past of laziness, ugliness and a creeping intellectual mediocrity: I have to absorb her but the circumstances do not allow it. If any one could identify the expanse that exists (not visually) it would be for me a sort of personal pandaemonium. Between us sits physically only a swimming pool, her father and a "jurassic park" t-shirt which she wears so casually and provides with her reserved blick the film with so much more depth than was previously attributed it.
Her whiteness. Her redness. Her ability to draw in new paraphernalia. Her atmosphere. Her uniqueness. There are sedatives in a physical sense and addictions: but here is my itch which keeps me happily schizophrenic.
I do not want it but in comparison to other phenomena, her gestalt viewed from a distance provided me with a symbol and dream of colours which over the expanding dreamscape of plans and projects I could draw in to: It is the illness which provides (in its apprehension) a vaccine and eventual fortschritt.
The plateau exists where the entities who have overcome ugliness and intellectual mediocrity stand statue like before oscillating strands of acceleration.
I am only velocity with endless capability.
During my motion which consisted of various metamorphoses, I pretended or created the illusion of her gaze.
Its occasion provided me with the catalyst for spiritual rebirth. There was some thing growing there: A foetus.
I returned in to momentary melancholy with her whiteness burning my irises from a distance as I looked back at the abode.
It slowly dissipated and I wondered if perhaps she had only been seized by a spectre momentarily.
But at the time I had not yet realised: The spectre had not originated with in her but with in me.
She was flesh and "jurassic park" t-shirt, but her idea belonged to me.

There is a spectre which others appropriate with me.
The location at which I currently reside is not available to those who I have falsely attributed objective importance.
A glitch with which I am sometimes being intermeshed sits, stands and paces.
Across the room, past chair leg and floor rug, the shadows caused by a passing automobile spasm chaotically against a white screen of interior tapestry.
A glitch in perpetual state of metamorphosis exists purely for itself.
Nearer the source of aforementioned shadows sits an apparatus containing digital information.

-

My cross legged Gestalt hovered some where near the more yellow coloured wall of an Hungarian girl’s interior room.
I was half invited. The people were acquaintances at a stretch.

As I morphed in to a more ready pose,
my left hand rested against the papery material which was pretending to be a wall.
The people in the room appeared overly self important and I got the impression if I talked to any of them they would begin spouting either marxist or feminist rhetoric,
so I observed the notion float yonder.
My invitation was a sort of spectre which possessed everyone in the room.
They were posers who pretended to be inclusive,
but were in fact exclusive faux-inclusivists, for lack of a better term.
I observed a desire to leave.

The aforementioned metamorphosis reached a climax in its merging of hand and doorknob.
My left hand was almost sweating as it worked, like a cat clawing at a closed door.
I saw some eyes drift toward my Gestalt, like a spacial aneurysm.

I am not of this world.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RSPcC5N5hZs

dude there are enough shitty pieces that no one ever reads or critiques
just post in the critique thread so we can ignore you all at once

Charles Baudelaire/ Jackson Mathews


I have no desire either to demonstrate,
to astonish, to amuse,
or to persuade.

I have my nerves and my vertigo.
I aspire to absolute rest and unbroken night.
[...]To know nothing, to teach nothing,
to will nothing, to feel nothing,
to sleep and still to sleep,
this today is my only wish.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_Ec2ISDxU9w

>>7072763
Someone had noticed me on the paranormal board and suggested I return to posting here but evidently it was a mistake.

Das ist scheißße

On the real tho you have a good vocabulary but you don't have to use it all at once. The art of writing is the art of knowing what to CHOOSE. Sometimes a simpler or cruder word flows better.

Charles Baudelaire/ Roy Campbell


Dear reader, peaceful and bucolic,
Ingenuous, sober, hierophantic,
Lay by this book so corybantic,
So Saturnine, and melancholic.

If elsewhere than in Satan's school
You learned your syntax and your grammar,
lay by! You'll think I rave and stammer
And am a stark, hysteric fool.

But if, not yielding to their charm,
Your eye can plumb the gulfs of harm-
Then learn to love me, read my verses.

Inquiring sufferer, who seek
Your paradise, to you I speak:
Pity me!... else, receive my curses!

>>7072827
I will keep that in mind.
Thank you.

GO, my songs, to the lonely and the unsatisfied,
Go also to the nerve-wracked, go to the enslaved-by-convention,
Bear to them my contempt for their oppressors.
Go as a great wave of cool water,
Bear my contempt of oppressors.

Speak against unconscious oppression,
Speak against the tyranny of the unimaginative,
Speak against bonds.

Go to the bourgeoise who is dying of her ennuis,
Go to the women in suburbs.

Go to the hideously wedded,
Go to them whose failure is concealed,
Go to the unluckily mated,
Go to the bought wife,
Go to the woman entailed.

Go to those who have delicate lust,
Go to those whose delicate desires are thwarted,
Go like a blight upon the dulness of the world;
Go with your edge against this,
Strengthen the subtle cords,
Bring confidence upon the algae and the tentacles of the soul.

Go in a friendly manner,
Go with an open speech.
Be eager to find new evils and new good,
Be against all forms of oppression.
Go to those who are thickened with middle age,
To those who have lost their interest.

Go to the adolescent who are smothered in family—
Oh how hideous it is
To see three generations of one house gathered together!
It is like an old tree with shoots,
And with some branches rotted and falling.

Go out and defy opinion,
Go against this vegetable bondage of the blood.
Speak for the free kinship of the mind and spirit.
Go, against all forms of oppression.


Ezra Pound/ Commission

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YYfOFUZZX2o