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“The writer of prose can only step aside when the poet passes.”
William Somerset Maugham
*Note - These are the natural colors. No added saturation used here.
au lieu de meditation - fall in sleep,
reality, event of daily fret exhausting
mind, despite refreshing Time of all
illusions as former subject shifted into
darkness & in Mind embracing
weight of gravity invoked by singing Bird
in distant Forest, surviving snow & fallen
frost instead refreshing warmth & light,
from printed travel catalog & charm
as bliss of ticket visit paradise, et-cetera,
defined by syntax of hyperbola,
alliterations, linguistic luster to induce
means-sounds, deepest feel of heat from
intermezzo, as blanket covering orchestral
drums of strings trough pause & brightness
of racing fugues construing dreams, & fully
reconstructing mean-content of every single
frame, & images by notes presumed as Opera,
but in reality - composing mythological
cascade exciting deeply seated vibes
& visions reverberated in vertebrae,
& tearing over-working eyes, & skin as
memory of frosted bites of Winds beneath
tactile receptors, around frontal lobes
squished in manner a-la beret, exactly tight
denoting Galea aponeurotica domain,
ascending & cascading by whispered
overtures, librettos signed by Donizetti's
hand & slide of curtain, & stream of
thunder bolts ignited by First Concerto ,
among temptation to join illusions of
of Eighteenth Century, or Summer
Garden before sunset. Alas.
The physics of theatrical affection mixed
with nonsense-dream - traditional conflict
& never be resolved by any of nocturne
phantoms of morphing sound & humongous
depth of Grande royale, with influx
by emotional express along duality off
Time-&-Space transcended journey...
Consider sum mistaken artifacts as
painting by invisible pigment on cortical
activity - habitual effect production
during rest, been equal to apical aspect
delineating conscious existence of
deepest structures of the brain,
by echoing accords from long existed
Opera to your perception, et-cetera,
from sensual conflict between
space-boundary of scripted partytura,
its rhythms, symbols, pitches - sketch to
replicate entire Universe from bare print,
or simply mediate desired instrument's
claviature (by fingers!) revives graphism
of every Key to utterly convey Ideals,
or - singularity linguistic means through
Alter ego, while Human's brain
securing past & its mnemonic chain
revitalizing sense & shaping source
of own will, intrinsically will powered
to revive reflections scattered by
memento, crux of incidents, & words,
& scenes, & shadows dispersing
uniformly as Time dissolved in past,
but causing active and plasticity relay
distinctive marks stored by neuron(s),
as posted date from old postcard -
Almighty dedicated gift to us, enjoy,
as scientific matrix for Homo
Sapience, Almighty's grant,
enjoy this matrix upon blizzard, &
snow, Almighty's gift & sense of
fact manipulating sum of sensory
aspects from April, August's turning
ticking clocks as fragmentation and
essence of floral pollen, dust, feathers
and flock of memories of folios in
tangible grotesque ignoring frame
of references paralleled with pain &
pirouettes of Light projected & sharp
defining fractured dreams, attempts
sustaining entropy & Times re-counting
forgotten letters without stamps
to sent to nest of birds from every
Sunrise in trenches shelled by
clouds of shrapneling blasts, within
brutality attacks at battle-field
of dawn, as charts from Books, or
picturesque booklet in sharp touché
far from above its foggy distance
leveled by lumen-less horizon -
chaotic line adjoined by fallen bodies
of dying soldiers, & ricocheting sound
to capital from shady bridges walking
steps to Opera, & Odeon, & cozy
Comédie-Française defined by prose
unfinished by certain writer, French
by name, by utter chronicle recording
dim & faint collapsing fragrances
as spectral paint depicted
sounds, bells, & fly of pigeons at
Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés,
sum fading colors, days & nights
suspended in refuge of frost &
blaze of sealed & tightened space,
in his Paris, its suffering refuge
& naked reality before his eyes,
all veiled by allergy's of iron clad
from every paroxysmal breath
in siege of windows clogged & doors
against attack by pollen: as if acacia,
jasmine, lilacs erupted not a bliss &
calm, but waves of burning harm
to suffocate & causing tremor,
& flickering accords by vocal cords
projecting images of mind to
palpitation of inquest in pages
analyzing love by convoluted
manuscripts, as if vocabulary
permeated floral warmth,
or substance of perfumes,
or causes, reflecting essence of
streaming Life, by scripting
memories, artistic search
elaborating prose by prosody
of fluid Time...
[ = PURPLE PROSE = ]
Offering a cultural revolution to Second Life's gay social scene.
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57/365
Whilst ordinarily I love sitting down with five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred pages of prose, whether fact or fiction or somewhere in between, there are days, much like today, where all I want is to curl up with a book of poetry. I remember being the only one in my GCSE English class who would get excited by a page of poetry because I love the way the words seem to fit together, and show what they mean without having to spell it out. Poetry has this ability to outline something without ever stating it. I like that. But then, whenever I was analysing a piece of poetry, I would always feel slightly, I do not know, guilty or ashamed, perhaps. Because what if the poems were not meant to be over-analysed? What if I was reading further into them than the author wanted? What if, by reading too far into them, I spoiled them?
(Author’s note: Despite my heavy workload and some stressful stuff going on, here is a prose limited series in the works of Star Wars: Fate, even if I had started the first issue previously. The short series will tie into the main one and also this is my first finished Mecabricks project to date, which is quite unconventional to have a photo like that. I do hope you all enjoy reading, and have a happy late May 4th/Revenge of the 5th/Return of the 6th!)
***
Cox stares to me as he readies his dual blaster pistols. He’s always carried it close. His breath is nervous, full of panic. Arms shaking under that armor of his, because he knows the next thing we’re all going through is a fate worse than death.
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like this! None of this, none at all,” he says. “I…can’t do this to my fellow brothers.”
“What choice do we have, Cox?! If Klal says we stick to the damn plan, we do it!” Rune scolds. “The 442nd is no more; we shouldn’t even be on Mimban! Our brothers…our brothers are gone.”
“Both of you keep it down.” I say. “You don’t want to alert the droids near the exit, sufficient to say that’s where the army is head now. While Tretta’s still out, we’re going to keep it low until he’s done conversing with the locals.”
Three years ago I’ve heard about the 501st, a Jedi and a Gungan who went here, and they managed to repel off the Separatists. But Mimban shouldn’t have had a second campaign. It was a mistake. I thought there wasn’t another one until this point.
With my men had turned against me, then the Republic must have fallen. I cannot acknowledge the fact my head’s still spinning at the fact of so much has gone on, from witnessing my apprentice being gunned down in front of me mere hours ago.
“General, we need to break transmission, I cannot do this any longer; the more we stall means that they’ll be able to trace us.” Rune says to me. He dumps his helmet on to the ground. “I cannot associate with anyone in this mask.”
“Alright, but we’re not going out yet.” Cox checks his pistols. “I’m gonna run out so we keep this low then. And General, here’s your padawan’s lightsaber…I hope you should store it right away.”
“Thank you.” I reply. I feel the emotions rapidly running through me, but this isn’t a good time to let it take over.
Eventually Tretta gets a hold of the other villagers, who have been alerted to let us go through the escape routes. We go through a nearby trench, crossing under slowly…
***
Our group gathers at rendezvous point, preparing for the takeoff. Tretta comes forward with his rifles. I can feel his stern look under the mask.
“I managed to find a shuttle, but there’s a small blockade in front of us, gents. Cox, see if you still have some extra EMPs left.” Tretta glances at us.
“I do. Not much charges left, but it’ll work. Hopefully. How’d the villagers say?”
“The tribal chief should be aware, the villagers said we’re gonna get dirty for the escape. Doused in mud if you will.” Tretta explains in his cold tone. “General, I’ll lead the way.”
We enter the swamps as one of the helpful villagers points their fingers towards our direction. Once we arrive near the platform, the number of battle droids have surrounded the area. It does not seem like an easy task, to the contrary.
Rune prepares his rifle as he throws a rock at the droids, as they react with returning fire. One super battle droid fires a rocket but Rune’s perfect shot blows up the ones next to him in capacity.
“Hey! Intruders!” As the battle droid commander shouts. Rune hands me a EMP as I force push it towards him, disabling its functions. Cox uses his dual pistols to fire at the stronger ones while taking over with Tretta at his side. The plan works but enemies seem to be overrunning from the sides.
I ignite my lightsaber and my padawan’s, both cyan and blue colours flickering in the air, deflecting the blaster bolts. One of the shots seem to have hit Cox as Tretta drags him to a wall for further cover.
“We’re running out of grenades! We have to leave!” Tretta shouts. He throws his last one at the droid manning a turret.
“General, the ship is over there! Leave on your own while you still can!” Cox says to me. “I can’t make it out like this.”
“Not today.” I reply. With all the Force attuned to me, I tap into my anger, as I crush the droids and their weapons with my fists. “We leave as a whole. The shuttle is just right there.”
Rune runs towards the transport shuttle while still using his rifle. He stands near the hanger, possibly anticipating droids in it, which turns out to be a Magnaguard. I run over as I throw in my last bomb at the droids, igniting my own lightsaber right through the Magnaguard’s chest, destroying its processor.
“Sir, now’s a good time!” Rune says as he stumbles with the controls. “Damn...alright, we’re gonna take off!”
The ship begins to rise from the platform as Rune gets ahold of the controls, blasting the droids from the shuttle’s turrets. I open the hangar door, using the Force to pull both Cox and Tretta into the bay....
***
“Commander? A moment?”
“Yes, speak up.”
“The Jedi is gone. We found his compatriots, three clones who left with him.”
“Then we shell execute the conspirators who escaped with him. It’s treason again the Republic. Our mission is done here on Mimban, sergeant. We will continue the protocol given to us by the chancellor. Keep scanning for the coordinates and the last position they left—I want Klal dead.”
“Yes, sir.”
#maythe4thbewithyou #revengeofthe5th #returnofthe6th #happystarwarsday
I Stood and Looked Across the Hillsides
One after another with ridges, draws, small hilltops and valleys shaping the land
The skies met the Earth as I looked to the far distant horizon
Colors of reds and greens across the hillsides of Custer and a state park.
Another work of short poetry or prose to complement the image captured one afternoon in Custer State Park while on the Wildlife Loop Road. With the clouds hanging low from the off and on drizzle and overcast skies, I decided to angle my camera slightly downward, capturing a look across the landscape and minimizing any of the overcast skies. I found this brought out a better depth across the landscape and allowed me to then focus on the colors of trees and grasses to my front. A note on the reds in those evergreens: some of it is part of an infestation of pine beetles that is slowly creeping into that part of the Black Hills and Dakotas in Custer State Park and recent fires from last December.