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chriseastmids — loves not enough in itself

Published: 2015-07-19 20:41:26 +0000 UTC; Views: 410; Favourites: 36; Downloads: 0
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Consequently I've a tendency to be unhappy you see the thoughts in my head all the words that were said all the blues and reds get to me.  There was a time when all on my mind was love, now I find that most of the time .... Love's not enough in itself

 

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Comments: 9

Amanda-Graham [2015-07-29 03:34:33 +0000 UTC]

Hey Christian,

i've featured this amazing image of yours here - .bruises and missing bread..bruises and missing bread.

.
a poem is just this
a self referential list
.
.
i would be
  a work of steel and plastics

  polymer wrapped gold and copper

  singing with gears and ratcheting levers

  dancing gestures
.
i would be
  skeletal quiet calm

  long gone

  ancient under glass or ground

  observed and ignored

  passed by
.
i would be
  unfound

  boxed upon a shelf

  hidden in a busy space

  stacked among similar states

  of others
.
i would be
  a memory

  a scent of where someone went

  a soft yearning

  a touch

  a brief blur

  things just forgotten


if it creates any problem please Note me.

Mandy

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chriseastmids In reply to Amanda-Graham [2015-07-29 05:38:27 +0000 UTC]

you know its never a problem ... i love your features

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Dogbytes [2015-07-20 04:50:49 +0000 UTC]

Very nice indeed, Chris.

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chriseastmids In reply to Dogbytes [2015-07-20 06:19:59 +0000 UTC]

thanks so much John

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HalfFormedThoughts [2015-07-19 21:04:35 +0000 UTC]

Forgotten door and empty eyes of lonely and beautiful building in the middle of nowhere...

..''Twelve o'clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions,
Every street lamp that I pass
Beats like a fatalistic drum,
And through the spaces of the dark
Midnight shakes the memory
As a madman shakes a dead geranium...

    The memory throws up high and dry

    A crowd of twisted things;

    A twisted branch upon the beach

    Eaten smooth, and polished

    As if the world gave up

    The secret of its skeleton,

    Stiff and white

    A broken spring in a factory yard,

    Rust that clings to the form that the strength has left

    Hard and curled and ready to snap...''

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chriseastmids In reply to HalfFormedThoughts [2015-07-19 21:16:37 +0000 UTC]

T.S Eliot .... wonderful poem

The reminiscence comes Of sunless dry geraniums And dust in crevices, Smells of chestnuts in the streets, and female smells in shuttered rooms, And cigarettes in corridors And cocktail smells in bars ....

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HalfFormedThoughts In reply to chriseastmids [2015-07-19 21:17:31 +0000 UTC]

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chriseastmids In reply to HalfFormedThoughts [2015-07-20 04:07:21 +0000 UTC]

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HalfFormedThoughts In reply to chriseastmids [2015-07-20 16:49:21 +0000 UTC]

 

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