Face McDougal Posted April 4, 2008 Share Posted April 4, 2008 (edited) ============================ July 20, 2008 No one could blame such a cock In death you’ve lost even your painful solitude, Are you really at peace as they say? And what about the child that has picked up The cross where he found you lying? He knows your weakness, it is now apart of his life. And your strengths, They don’t even exist in memory. The lies were clean, we were all very domesticated. It is a fine day; you were a truly remarkable friend And fiend and when it came time to further your species, A wonderful provider. What can I say? In your vain we should all disconnect, Get higher and write a philosophy of convenience And nearly embrace contradictions, it’s easier that way. The fruit of your loins; the pleasure was too great And a million fearless tadpoles met their fate In the great canals of a woman’s soulless cave. All but one. Did you inject heroin into your cock too? Enough about you though, let’s talk about My cock. My cock is healthy, often proud. My cock is simple, it need not lie… it wants To make a baby. No one could blame such a cock. ======================== April 3, 2008 Call a guy named Tom, Tom Who's got it now? I wanna show it to you Lord. I wanna show it to you Lord. I wanna show it to you Lord! Because everybody in the ew ew yeah, everybody's got it in their jeans and I've got vibrations in my groin today. Brothers and sisters gonna get a manicure and I've got vibrations in my groin today. ======================= March 28, 2008 What is a tiny black ant on sea sand? What is a tiny black ant on sea sand? The white crest of the tide drew back leaving behind a tiny black ant. A tiny black ant? Out here? So close to the mouths of red clay pillars, sea gulls, sand? The sun cracked her shell like a snare, guts fizzing like burning polyethylene. She'd take all the shortcuts she could but she can't, she's stuck a tiny dead ant on sea sand. ======================== March 12, 2008 but even the great basin bristlecone pine dies but then i turned over and lost to my own reflection, i'd seen it a thousand times before and each time marred, filtered through the distorted lens of self-image. what had i learned? leaned in over the sink i studied my face; a million whiteheads, what had i done? and the fine hairs that cover most of our bodies, they even come right up to my eyes.. didn't have to squint hard to see evidence of a unibrow with its five o'clock shadow, odd.. why shave it? and then i remembered being a kid, probably four. on the first morning of summer my dad poked in over the threshhold at around eight a.m. after just shaving off his winter beard. dad? i was so frightened, should i trust him now? i couldn't tell. 1818 hilltop dr. our home out my window through the trees over mahopac lake. it's been eleven years and now they've built in a two-car garage. i couldn't tell where i was going, so i just thought of that woman's breasts (the woman at the lake one time, she wore her bra instead of a bikini and it took to water almost too well, and dad flirted with her right in front of mom and talked about the average lifespan of parrots). now dad's dead, he died. but, i don't care, even the great basin bristlecone pine dies. i know of one of those trees, its name is methusala... alive over two thousand years before jesus christ and still alive today. i don't know exactly where you'd find one, but i hear they're hard to miss. i feel so easy and at peace, even if only one sock is on. it's quiet, dark for a change save for the light emitting from the computer monitor. i've been real good lately about not taking breathing for granted, it feels so good to breathe. whether through the nose or mouth, it's nice for now. is there anything so underrated as my chest swelling up with each breath i take? i don't think so. i don't. ======================== February 12, 2008 we all grow old with pain when you're a kid you ain't got no heart, and getting old is just no fun. when you're a kid that frolicks grown old to break, we all grow old with pain. i don't want to leave without the skies i now hold in my fists enclosed, or the golden meadows unseen the same. but it's you that i want to keep forever, it's for you that i cry, still i grow old with pain. ======================= February 12, 2008 in the wooded fields of home death don't make you hungry or make you cum no quicker in the wooded fields of home. no warmth for sparks through liver or knees; no bowl for pasta, no cup for drinks. ewan crawls on four legs, eats his plastic bags of an industrious man lived short. but if asked a question of that sort i might have made a case for the use of a period. =========================== January 26, 2008 cancer and the all things bad cancer and the all things bad clutching on the letting go of shade and left for another's noon. swings cascades o'er prickly ropes the unstable granite boulders the hollow spots--no water fills. cancer and the all things bad the children losing and miss their eyeless toys to no one parent. and the people downtown all jump off their towering polished marbles and suffocate in the glass of their car--weeping. cancer and the all things bad the phallus of an oak can break away and in an instant kill us all. there is no one to save us and there never has been. there is no reverence in physicality. there is no care. ========================== ========================== ========================== ========================== ========================== THE ARCHIVES the poems listed in the archives were written by me from the ages of 16 through 20. generally, the newest ones are on top, generally. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ today is a simple day. it is going on without you. once you knew, but now it is as if it never happened-- i empathize quite well. my friend, i would say, i love you! but not because i would mean it, i do not love any person. chopin, heroic now chopin. you are not special. but i love what you've done with the place. it is genius. but not for you. not for your music. i look into a soldier's eyes, i once knew of him and i guess i still sort of do. but now his eyes are different. i see in his eyes an obsession, and an obliviousness to all in which he is not involved. he cannot understand. that's okay. there are outcomes, we know now. my father struggles, as i do. he can't get the brain to accept. just as the natives to the ships, he cannot see death. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ there he goes taking shots and brushing against you and all your infinite wisdom. we're told you know so much about us but where were you in '87? where were you when skies were born of their impregnable pigeons (landing whereever they pleased)? there he goes taking shots and brushing against you and all your infinite wisdom. he loved you, baby and you ripped him apart. you let him see that we're just animals and he could be happy without you. idle trees with weak leaves, giving up is always hard until just after. and that car you had sitting there, in yonkers with italians and no philosophy... the sun shined brightly then, set stronger than the clouds. but you, baby, not making any sense at all just keeping to yourself hung about your dentures. there he goes he's dying old and telling fables. he's living a lie, though still he'll see heaven and he'll see it very soon-- it's in the sun, he's f*cked with all his infinite wisdom. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ the fat of her calf in a swallow of hairless skin hangs free, lovely, unfelt. i circle the hams of her legs and the breadth of her lactating organs and shiver without hope. and the fat of her calf like the fruits of her stalk runs down and down and down. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ i'm drowning and pedestrians are smiling. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Taxed again and headed home for an Autumn skyline drawn by trees and other things. 'Spirit-marks' highlight the Summer highlife, heads on a dock preaching, somber, sewn like threads into this evening, bare. We must always remember how this space felt between us all. The skies above show yellow spilling out behind the random branches to fall leaves which mark our citizen efforts. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ there's something i've observed about much more than myself. in the mirror i see an animal, and though stirred with wet swollen eyes and a trembling jaw, nothing more. i hear cheaply produced porn music behind many grunts and groans and the sound of a lamp being switched off coming from the bedroom. the porn (probably softcore) fades and i'm left with just that. these challenging observations are made at my expense and i'm left with my dick in my hand. so i turn off the computer (i didn't like the poem) and i go to bed. at dawn the phone ringing will send me, still sleeping, stumbling into the living room. "hello?" and then i'll spend the rest of the day smoking marijuana and hoping that whoever is calling right now is not someone "uncool". inevitably i'll squabble with her (diana) and at some point or another, possibly tomorrow, my mood will be jarred by some startling life observation that would without a doubt be thought of as trite by many far more intelligent than i. but that's okay. that's all okay. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ it came as a gift a childhood ago, this symbol i hadn't seen in years. i'd nearly forgotten. but its foil familiar, this cell came back to remind. cadbury creme egg, you've been missing so long. your green, your blue, your red evoke something i now cannot know. cadbury creme egg. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ i'm gonna be in big trouble some day. i'm gonna be in big trouble some day soon. i can feel it in my chest, i'm f*cked. i look down at my keyboard and let out a sigh at once contemplative and meloncholic. i hear her blowing her nose around the corner and when she stops i can hear the tv again. and my heart beating. and my thoughts again escape paralyzation from knowledge of death. a light is switched off and my eyes grow. i'm a living drunk. my walk through the day on the dark and thicklky laid pavement of a lower-class section was full of life. there were dogs on piles of trash muzzled and chained to the bottom of hollow trailers barking. literally trying with all the energy they had to come loose of the chains and get to me enjoying bird music though squinty eyed and sad when thoughtful. i once came upon a dead squirell on one of these thoughtful walks and i stared at it then. i thought, one of me is gone. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ her breasts were huge and swollen her nipples pink and horny a pin-up climbing the pool ladder to freedom. she explained to us then in the most feminine german: the men i worked with were kind they smiled and offered me cigarettes. (those cigarettes tasted awfully funny but how they did relax me on those dog days of summer). "fischen is for boy kochen is for woman!" and he screamed from his pulpit the bible in german with his signs with his pointing at the pews with his unacknowledged fury and impotence. "fischen is for boy! kochen! for woman!" the cerbral palsy girl was the executioner's example of "kochen" he held the sign against her twisted red body-- and look she's fashioned her friend doll in a similar palsy-manner. "fischen is for boy! recht minderwertig is girl!" the german bible suddenly becomes a lot more violent there's blood even. outside the pin-up girl with the huge and swollen breasts with the nipples pink and horny is free. she can't seem to shake stupid retreating into the german cathedral looking for a rapist to understand her through reading of her huge and swollen breasts pink and horny nipples and english subtitles. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ back when cars used gasoline and you had that camarillo brillo when death stirred restless only in the most obscure lumps of man-brain (and form-- what form?). i was there too but i didn't much like it-- those years of buddy-cops wearing suspenders in brand new color tvs with shiny guns in your apartment every week-- so i'm here write now. and i can't stand anything anymore really the timing is off. find a faster way to stop work and smoke bongs and listen to frank zappa and say the word "sh*t" with friends. i can't imagine what anything means but i'm sure it doesn't matter anyway. so time spent with the girl is time spent best even better when she's in there and i get to write and still think about her-- here she's come up. i enjoy things more when i think about them. existence is a disappointment retrospect is best. i'm in a lost time capsule enjoying what i piss in. i deliver pizzas in 1970s america listening to "camarillo brillo" from frank zappa in my ultra sh*tty motor-car and i get paid $2.10 an hour but i don't and it isn't 1970s america. that doesn't exist anymore. i live at a time in a place they've called it they've called me they've called you. the brass section wails and the piano is saying whatever hands tell it to and he's speaking in terms that i don't understand that i've never even heard. but dammit, it sounds like i will die in yonkers afterall! +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I am a cold frugal man, a thin and wispy line. My sheets are green and wrinkled and I haven't paid my window in awhile. When I ran the country looking for a room wherin I'd write, I found for me a foreign mule whom nodded my way right. Since then I've stayed here lying for I cannot sit to set it straight. It's as though the empty negatives are multiplying further. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ lunges out of portises and high rise buildings looking for a way out. lunges out of backseat dwellings cold without moisture settled into the microscopic crevices of the many rusty vestiges of cars whose owners ran away looking for an exit. though the plains are dry and yellow its nights are blue and ringing and steal minds far greater than mine. a family of rodents inhabit an abondoned car cold and rough from rust a shell of its year on the road when it drove the country on nothing more than gas and cheap cigarettes. the '87 buick was destined to live to die and then rot. and then the sun cracks the already faded paint and leaves it real thirsty-like. o of the year when i traversed this yellow day terrain with my poor passed auto and hummed and rumbled and flattened rodents and rocks and SAW THE FUTURE! o of that day when i saw the future and was so wrong, so wrong. --but i am better off than the rodents, right? There coasts an auto. And there are paved streets through dusty desert plains, flashes of poor oil garages willing to oblige, a constant orange sun perfect from so far-- settling down to cool my eyes. It's been a long way. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Mental bridges navigate through hearts and opened mind. Eternal wishes gravitate; the pauper’s water, wine. Nocturnal fog does captivate, the clearness therein lies as does the fat when stowed away with something more divine. Traffic in the stars lit bright which lull the kindness of your eyes, with angels in their hair and dust daubed purple on their brow. Spread bows of rain in-out-through space, take from fountains in the sky. And any place, find inner-calm and let the mountains die. Nerves set free let spark the fire no hindrance far nor wide, just let the calling set it straight and feed the yearning mind. Find your place in outer space, and float through yielding time. Find your own and care for now, and let the living be. Yes, “Let the living be“. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ This art is all evading like the picture in the painting, inspiration surely fading like the face of Mother Mary-- into labor out the savior like a self-important poet. Can you see the cave inside the ceiling where the quiet man stays sleeping? Can you finger such a feeling, as a spark just short of fire? It shines through the puddles of my dreaming, but goes thereafter. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As curious as the Irises’ petals do curl, as infant as the red bands from a bored blind sun… Rain don’t come and wane the flower away, so that I can feel Spring’s soft leather touching on upon my lips. An infrequent droplet so deadly, so pure. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Riding the shadows of trains to come, reading black lines from a sun undone. I gaze into the blue of a tired boy’s eyes as I struggle to make out a man’s face in the mirror. I never even existed. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The shadows fall, they lie down for the sun. Broken light tangles itself through the branches and rests on the dirt before lonely wood. The sun is eternal, its light shrouds the planes that birthed new life. Trickery, the illusion of being is reality of the fall. And they've got you all fooled... This Earth, this beautiful earth, the innocence of day, but the inevitability of night. Open waters, deserts unaccounted for, I walk the Nile just to understand and pray. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I feel my breath. Head in hands, I see through these digits and my urges blur. What is it to feel? Is it the loneliness in my stomach? Is it the preponderance of the mind's inhabiting thoughts? Is it to starve, drought, war, birth, fear? Or is to truly feel to not feel at all, and to yearn for humanity's sparse touch? It is my drive, and it is my hindrance. It is my peace, and it is my war. It is my love, and it is my loss. It is my god, and it is my sacrifice. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She drags my bones all through the night across a field of grain. And though I've heard she speaks of love, I float afar another plane. Nocturne of hers so drought and dark, as dark as whim can be. I see for her, the contrast stark, her warm naivete. And though I know of futile things I burn a hole into the night. And though the motion reads with wings this plane for now is lonely. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The day grows weary, the lids of a sun who has seen it all and will see it all again grow heavy. I draw the blinds and fix myself in bed. I hope tomorrow will get here late. What of the night? Too short, the haste of the moon to be outshone. Eleven, then two, next half-of-four. Then 'time'. The middle left cold and largely unfelt. I strive to feel that balance, the balance that comes with silence-- with life's oppressors on mute. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The answers lie sleeping in her eyes, sleeping like the ocean, existent but clandestine. I am but sand to her waters, I earn my kiss for the tide, pulled into the undertow and then released by her moons. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She stands as real as nature with her finger on the tree on the outskirts of the garden, green and naked like a dream. Statuesque and looking through the tangled vine, she forgives their contradictions and lets the widow pine. It's numb, like cold rain on a porcelain cheek. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The human puts beauty on hold for motion and never ends its subjection to compromise. Such life should not sustain for its overwhelming powers of love and yearning would die without the inevitable tragic loss. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ WHITE DWARF It's pitiable really, in the most gorgeous way yet. A life's remnants obscuring the night sky for longer than itself had shone. Merely a long-winded swan song, a reminder of its overwhelming mediocrity. Unworthy of a grand exit, it exhibits its carcuss for nearly all of eternity and whispers to any meandering spirit whom might chance it, "I once was a great artist". SUPER NOVA All that I cannot be I am much too human for that +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Fireflies mate butterflies inside this dreadful row to which the sermon certifies its willful ears do blow. A pant that goes with solid shoes of woman's loveless labor don't match the woes of common foes against the wilting saviour. Match your dime against the cost of something thought as less, but do it looking down. "Condemn your sorrows! Shed no tears along the winnings! Relinquish your morals and archaic etiquette for true divinity!" Lose wind your voice! loose-ended heart and break these perfect wings apart and when you're shrill and picked regret not what you have done. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A line of red forbearing fruits cries, green jungles shake their roots Men eyes hath filled a film less felt fills flies abhor this soldier's clot Change consumes, the striders high life burrows, wilts, and surely melts Sandy tide thus bulrush petals Fall the Marches, Call to April! +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Momentum steady drops the weight and turns a dreadful stop. Mask once red, so hid its face now fades, behind it barren. What once held light the shadow's lost to serve some murky egg and pass the marches to another and on to never end. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Such a cold wind came from her mouth and let me lay down in awe of it. And as the night let on to the trappings of George Gershwin on ice I fell in love madly. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Bad vibes--anxiety, on top of the city, the city's on top of me. Good vibes, I'm only lying-- I hate the world, the world hates me. Vibrations felt, the remnants of a man: his soul-- high flyin' over the city now. Such a ghost, so white-- transient 'lectronics. I'm gonna buy and I'm gonna win and that's just what I said to Her Majesty Jesus. Cold nuts--labotomy, I'm not sure what that means but it's inside of me. Can't die unless you've lived-- so I'll scare my children until they love me or at least fear me. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ the damaged parts of once solid man spoil it for all. my brain wants payment for the vein that burst my bubble-- the heart that got me here in the first place has failed me again. we all grow old with pain. those damaged parts i use to run-- my heart is failing, mind withering, liver spoiled. karma? was it something i did (or didn't do) many years ago out of thoughtlessness? we all grow old with pain. you can ration yourself out, like food i suppose.. but once you've ran out, you've ran out. we all grow old with pain. we all grow old with pain. OH ANEURYSM... ANUERYSM.. COULD YOU HAVE NOT WAITED FOR THE FILM TO END? FOR MY HEAD TO BOW FROM THE GLISTEN OF THE HOUR-LONG STARE BETWEEN MY WIFE AND I? COULD YOU JUST NOT COME AT ALL? WHY'D YOU RUIN MY CIGARETTE BREAK? I DEMAND AN ANSWER, YOU IRREVERENT FUCK! +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ i'm a gloomy air balloon filled with an anti-matter cool wind. i'm floating over miles of fire. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ flash. a day advanced by mischievous self-loathing and irrevocable atheism. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ precepts wear and crumble like a dying mountain leaving its peak to a rising upheaval. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ he lurks there in the corner there hiding his lights from grown-ups feeling obscene in the dark with his penis on. he dreams there in the bathtub there feeding soap to his pores awake eyes burning clean then in bed tired monster's scribe. he says nothing he never does unless spoken to. but in there in his room at day He is king. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ thump! that's the sound of richard killing a man in a snow storm in michigan with the '85 pontiac he told he paid a grand for because he doesn't believe in car payments hell, the a.c. don't work but he got a good deal on it... and it's michigan anyhow he can handle a 2-50 system for two or three months out of the year-- that's two windows rolled down goin' 50 miles per hour +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ hair as silk flowing streams of it over her heart silk bathed in calcium rays projecting life in circles around life kissing her there silk smooth free from heavy and oppressive thoughts images of silk. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ I pick the atoms of a space rock apart from my old rockingship chair and share my books with a space creature whom I met on the darkside of a black hole and watch his mind wither away before me like a terrified infant crawling back and deeper inside bumping into corners of the universe which don't exist except inside a Mother's Love. Singing about the red giant that ate his father for death. And now my legs are done and my brains are mush like astronaut food. Boy, I sure got a lot to do back home. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ i see them through my window late at night, their shadows tall like gods from fire. they're burning cash and taking the lord's name in vain. they've been out there all night and they're getting nowhere fast as daylight approaches. they are american heroes and their stories will be dead by morning. they don't care until their next paycheck kills the cause and they're stuck like assholes on the freeway with a f*cked car and a new philosophy: submission for food. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ the phone rings i put my book down "who is it", i ask diana gestures for me to hold on i'm impatient "who is that?" "hold-on", she mouths now... why couldn't she have mouthed: aunt bean +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ we deep thirsty ones digging holes to find water while it rains on our backs we exhaust and succumb with cracked and bloody throats and die and rot into the jungle floor +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ink and paper went to waste when i thought i was a poet, a serious artiste. now i know better. the best work i'll ever do is right here getting written and i'm happy to know that i've never been better. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ the milkman every wednesday morning. he's a beautiful man with his eight, half-inch-thick, perfect jars-- i see my smiling eyes in the reflective glass and all the glorious white calcium at once. i kiss him. i love him. i wish only to be in his presence. for what is two dimes for all this milk? what a generous bringer of life, all in his bottles. the bill collector beckons me with his startling ringing and his frightening tone. trained to intimidate, he threatens me. "f*ck you and your voodoo!" i wanted to yell, but i hadn't the nerve. instead i offered, "next time" meakly and cursed him later. what an inconsiderate prick with his calls at all ungodly hours. but once the bill collector started bringing the milk and the milkman came for his due, i turned on one the other. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ i cannot do except to define the plots of your music, to absorb it for my own thought. i cannot think without the voice of television running in the foreground, distracting me from what i really feel. i cannot turn off except to sleep and even then this plane is lost to myself. i cannot help wanting to be undone, to not exist and to not be a part and i cannot be anything but afraid to die. i watch my commercials and i order my pizza, i get my delivery and eat and everything is fine. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ i know love for your golden floors--- floors of wheat, two feet standing, hold close our grain and harbor magnificent bugs (gleaming with the sun-- the Star of No God)--- all living things. meadow, i know your earth, though its contents evolve and grow hair in the night. and see now how we're served with night? and so i fear the darkness though i curiously close in on you--- your gravity is a force no matter the time of day. o gayest meadow that i've known, when shall we part? at one or the other's destruction or perhaps long before? might i chance another meadow (or perhaps a brief and lucid garden) as once you were chanced? shall we conquer death? +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ a dragon lives in the brain. and i live in the disorient that it brings all red and smiling with great white teeth and celebratory between the ears. my thoughts aspire from confetti adorned canals and fire from islands long rejected from the brain i am today. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ the other short lives which with mine are tied do not exist in my own world. not unlike you--- unknown and breathing with a long yawn which does not cease even for dreams. you are carted through the dungeons of my day within time which does not belong to you. my reminders account no effect and you're courted smiling with the most terrible breath. you've founded in you someone else. you dismiss the travel. you dismiss its breakdowns and startups. you dismiss everything. me and you. death and heaven. life is much too long and nothing exists outside of your own world. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ a country a town a cafe a nook a table and two chairs stares at one sits in the other gray the room breathes entraps him with not more sound than a relentless dark droning the train is coming for him, his health, his death shaking! screaming! disorient! in a fit his newsboy cap flies away with his sanity as he gasps and his age-addled fingers tear skin for heart collapse! no longer do they eat, no now they're in a moment no longer animals but spectators CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUTCH and now friend lion out for the first bite of the day HE is animal WE are spectator HE is animal death ensues all for pharmocology who'd a thunk? my eyes scan the paper for worthy consumption same ol same ol when is something going to grip me? when will MY crazy old man who i love to the depths fall victim to my lion? woe is me, woe is me another one for the recycling binaintitashame +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Such a cold wind came out from her mouth, it let me lay down in awe of it. And as the night, it let on to the trappings of George Gerswhin on ice... I fell in love madly. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ What monster sinned upon this canvas, daubing fretful life upon us? What daftness calls for the torture of a deity? Connecting skies to waters unmercifully. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Edited January 2, 2009 by Face McDougal Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Face McDougal Posted April 8, 2008 Author Share Posted April 8, 2008 Bump just to show off the finalized thread. I'll notify of further updates in the UPDATES thread. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
longkissgoodnight Posted April 8, 2008 Share Posted April 8, 2008 Hey Face Mcdougal - (aka Candarelli): how come you told a lot of people that Candarelli has died? It says here: "This thread serves as a library for most of my work" and on those links is Candarelli - so you are the same person. Why did you do it? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
saltinespike Posted April 8, 2008 Share Posted April 8, 2008 Oh my goddd. Drop it, dude; we already had this whole conversation. We don't need a whole new discussion in his poetry thread. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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