View Full Version : Splinters of Surrealism and Driftwood

Darth Eggplant
06-27-2003, 05:10 AM

Consider This,
We live in a Time where
the Physical
Shadows the Spiritual,
where the State
has replaced the Church,
and Money has become
the Obtainable God.

Consider this,
we live in a World where Fish
are not considered cute,
where you can be born into any home,
and be of any Sex;
and have any kind of Sex you want
while Dolphins think about it.

Consider this,
we live in a World never cold;
it is like a Tear,
and Tears are never cold.
Tears are always warm,
there are only cold cheeks
for Tears to run down.
A World where Love is my danger,
and I do not care.

Consider now;
I have asked you
to do a great deal of considering
about Three totally different things,
but consider this:
all three are the same.
Consider Life
which is far from a simple thing.
Consider in a World of Modern Technology,
this land of Nuked-out Metropolise's
where the Black Blood has stopped flowing
and the Poets like Dinosaurs
have made the long trek into oblivion.
What would Life be like?
What would the Twenty-First Century be like
through the eyes of One of the last Poets of America?
And consider Life; Through my Minds Eye.

Feeding The Animals

Went to sleep,
I dreamt of the Killing Machine.
Fed the Animals on my porch
heard a noise, heard Her approach
with no feelings I said,"Hi"
looked away into the sky
clouds hovered in turned to grey
I looked away from blackening day;

In a field stretching into horizons;
never ceasing, never stopping
rain came drip dropping on my head.
The rain was blood
the rain was red.
I ran to the only warm shelter,
a tenement house on the outskirts of Skelter
it was so cozy small from outside,
the inside hall stretched forty miles
I walked alone.

Noise level grew,
found myself in the Human Zoo.
Everyone I had ever met, seen or knew
was here with me in the Killing Machine;
a Dream Disguise
harmlessly I got in line.
Did not know what was up?
All I knew was surprise.
The wait was long as I shuffled along
in this huge snaking Amusement line.
I drew close, heard the shrill whistle;
People rushed and dressed in Surgical Gowns.
They took positions as casserole dishes
on conveyor belts; brought forth Beautiful People,
Blonde haired and strong totally naked:
Not one Doctor assaulted a lady.

The Referees grew tense
then came the next whistle
the Surgeons started hacking off all the heads.
Using razors, Tools of the Times
they reshaped Flesh and Bone
to suit their own Principles.
The timer went off,
the Winners received Gold Medals
as pulpy casserole dishes were drawn away.
I looked in horror at Reverend Chain Smoker;
he smiled and told me
he had competed already twice today.

I left the line up to retreat to the corner,
a pen of Animals were caged there.
I fed them grass pellets straight from the kitchen,
until the Keepers came and took them away.
I followed closely while the games they continued
I lost track of the Animals I chased;
Technicians took me and put me into line
insisted that I participate,
I Refused.
I was hazy, totally revulsed
they brought me to the Clinic with care
Doctors in White, Big Chested Nurses
explained to me all was Harmless Fun
Good Therapy
I would not Believe it.
Sighing; they showed me
the grizzly Human Factory.
The Victims were just Actors,
the Mutilations just Holograms
no one got hurt;
like in the Movies.
The Fun was Good Natured and Tame.
I was not Resolved,
it felt Morbid:
so the Doctors held me back in Sick Bay.
They tried to calm me or Seduce me was it;
with Sexual Favours from the Blonde Nurse French
I would not Co-operate, so back outside I was placed
back in the line up now Nine to Five;
Twenty-Four Hours straight.
I saw my Parents I saw my Teachers,
I watched them all continue to hack and chop
still Animals feeding in distant pens;
being taken away to feed the Actors.

A Smell of Ozone,
a Spark in the Machine
the Dream was Real
the Dream was over,
the killing went on
no more Actors all were butchered.
The Animals in the pens were really Myself:
the Doctors and Nurses turned into Animals,
Animals eating Humans;
Animals feeding themselves,
panic became real
the People did flee
but no one left Skelter House.
Mouselings abused us
Pigs kicked and used us
Chickens and Cows gorged themselves
the rain stopped flowing;
Humanity stopped flowing.
And the fields grew diminutive.
I was back at my house;

The clouds were passing
the girl was strutting
She was not Real
She was just a Cat
the People all faded;
fed to the Animals
Animals Corrupted,
turned to images of Ourselves
I stirred and woke from my Day-Nightmare;

Was in the woods now
Feeding Myself
Feeding the Animals
Sparks in the Ozone
the Dream is still on,
I can hardly wait:
till I wake up.

*with all the talented artists out there designing
beautiful sig banners and avitars, here's a great
way to express yourself in another creative way.*

06-27-2003, 05:31 AM
Neat-o! I still think your crazy Eggy :) But nice!

Lunatic Jedi
06-27-2003, 05:32 AM





I'm scared of you now. :eek:

Zoom Rabbit
06-27-2003, 09:31 AM
Eggy: Welcome to the club.


Lunatic Jedi
06-27-2003, 09:39 AM
Sadly, Zoomie is the only member of the "Martha Stewart fixation" club. :p

Hmm... maybe "sadly" isn't the right word for it...

Darth Eggplant
06-27-2003, 05:01 PM
I happen to know for a fact that swamp president and Mod extrodiare Darth Groovy is a Bard. a Minstrel man. mayhaps
he will post some of his sonnets he has composed for a song.

also while here a new poem. weeee!!!!!


Maria lives in the Land of Green Mice
with Dragons and Castles made from Strawberry Ice.

She welcomes you to the Land of Mice
where everyone is Happy
and everyone is Nice.

In the Land of Maria's Green Mice,
everyone is Dirty
and covered with Lice.

Maria lives in the Land of Green Mice
cooking for them daily
Psychedelic Mushrooms and Rice.

Maria goes to bed in the Land of Green Mice
she sleeps in the Daytime
and Parties all Night.

Deep in the Land of Green Mice
Cocaine is Free
and no one drinks Scotch without ice.

Maria Died in the Land of Green Mice
of Overdose and Burn out,
and Orgies with

Zoom Rabbit
06-27-2003, 06:34 PM
The club of which I speak is the supreme brotherhood of swampies whose bizarre postings have *scared* people. I doubt he shares a fascination for Martha Stewart--she's my bitch.

No, Groovy, I'm afraid I don't write much in verse. It's been more than a decade, and it probably isn't worth digging out. What I do write is pseudo-allegorical new age spiritual 'sutras' in the eastern old-school style. :D Here's one that has nothing to do with carpets:

The Carpet-Weaver's Sutra

Thus have I heard--

That the ancient art of hand-weaving the carpet is one that is passed from master to apprentice over many years. The master knows things about carpet-weaving that he cannot express with words, so he must guide the apprentice to the point where he can realize the same things for himself. In this way the art is passed down, which cannot be expressed with words, and the apprentice becomes a master in his own right.

This makes perfect sense to the master, but confounds the apprentice.

One day, after he had trained his apprentice for many years in the tedious complexities of dyeing and spinning thread, the master decided that it was time to begin teaching him about carpets. "Come sit down with me, and I will teach you what is a carpet."

The boy sat obediently. "But master, I already know what a carpet is! After all, we are sitting on one now."

"Really?" The master clucked his tongue. He held up a spool of thread the boy had dyed and wound just the day before. "If you were to take the carpet and unravel it, it would look just like this spool of unwoven thread. True?"

"Yes. But that spool of thread isn't a carpet yet."

"Ah. But on this spool is a carpet that will be...and if we unraveled the carpet, the resulting spool of thread would be a carpet that had been. It is only now, when it is a carpet, that we do not see it as thread."


The master laughed. "But you are also right!" He stood up, grabbed the carpet and held it out, tugging at the corners. "This thing, this square bolt of cloth, is a carpet."

"So the thread is carpet, and the carpet is carpet?"

"It gets better." He walked over to his computer, took the mouse in hand and called up his website. "Here on my home page are some designs of the carpets I have for sale." He enlarged one of the images. "Here is a digital photo of the carpet we were just sitting on. As far as the whole world is concerned...this image is the carpet. It stands for the carpet, in a form which can be shunted and bounced around the internet much more easily than the actual carpet can be."

The apprentice scratched his head. "Master, I'm confused. You say that thread is the carpet, the carpet is carpet, and now the design on the carpet is the carpet! If I keep listening to you, I will become a carpet."

"Some day you will understand, carpet-boy. Until then, just remember this:

'The carpet is its essence, that from which it came and will return.

'The carpet is its form, that which it defines with its essence.

'The carpet is its design, that which emerges from the form and can be identified as concrete in its own right.

'The carpet is all of these things, and all of them together make a carpet. Whenever one makes a carpet, one must remember all three. To forget one of them is to misunderstand the art of carpet-weaving."


Darth Eggplant
06-28-2003, 03:06 AM
:D I think Zoomy if you roll Martha up in the carpet just like Cleopatra you can sneak your honey past the Praetorian guard.

*very good Zoomy
perhaps others will join us
here in this patch of the briar.*


Stretching like a giant blanket of deception,
Religion covers the Earth.
Comprised of intricate strands
each fragile and unique,
yet part of the Tapestry itself.
Woven by one weaver or perhaps by two;
in some cases more than three.
The weaving was done in such a way
as to create a translucent shimmer
which makes the cloth invisible,
yet it is all colours.
This blanket is owned by each Nation,
a gift for all Mankind;
yet each claims that the gift is theirs
and that all others possess a cheap reproduction
of the original cloth. T
he cloth varies from tribe to tribe,
not only in size, but in design and colour.
The Church of Rome has a blanket;
White, Purple and Gold.
While the Stripped Prayer cloth of the Israelites
tosses about uneasily in the deserts of Sinai.
Hanging majestically in the East,
guarded by Ming Dragons
the Sky Blue cloth drapes the alters of Buddha;
And unfurled against the arid desert heat
the banners of Muslim Nomads praise
Allah, and his Prophet Mohammed.
Yet each cloth shares the whole picture,
with the other fabrics.
Blankets of Peace they are,
made by divine craftsmen to ward off evil
to bring Spiritual Harmony;
designed out of Love to be used for Love,
by all the tribes of the World.

Sad it is to see this wonderful blanket
scarred and tattered after such a short time.
Used as a Banner of War, and Profit:
against itself and its makers
one of the earliest tears it received
was in Rome during the birth of Christianity.
Yet; Christianity further tore the breach
with the Crusades and with the Inquisition.
Now Judaism and Christianity
are shredded by the Jihad.
The wounds now are numerous,
too many to count, too costly to fix.
In America there is no more cloth
for the blanket is gone:
Ask them about the deception,
they'll tell you where their blanket has gone
even more they will show you;
part of the blanket is there on Wall Street
they needed more Ticker Tape.
Scanty portions of it cling in gravity defying outfits
of their Super Model Culture.
And the rest is spread out along the beaches
of both coasts bearing proudly; Holiday Inn.

Now flung across the Earth
the giant blanket of perfection is no longer that.
Nations fight over it, or forget it
nations no longer care who owns
the reproductions, or the originals.
Many strands are snapped,
some are tangled with others
the weaving has been undone.
What was once translucent is now black.
Religion lies in the bottom of black pools
which form words on pages.
Spirituality lives on in the hearts of some men,
but Religion is Dead,
A Dying Animal;
Religion is Extinct.

Lunatic Jedi
06-28-2003, 03:17 AM
Um, Eggy, the ending to your last poem kinda scared the crap of me. Especially the "orgies with rats" part. :eyeraise:

06-28-2003, 05:05 AM
Ewww!!! Hehe another one from Eggy! w00t!

Lunatic Jedi
06-28-2003, 05:21 AM
I think "Ewww" will soon become synonomous with your name, Eggy. :p

Zoom Rabbit
06-28-2003, 07:41 AM
So true, Eggy...so true. ;) This is why I wholeheartedly encourage others to follow a personal spiritual path rather than go to a building once a week to hear about it from others.

We should, however, note that religion is a field of flowers soaked in kerosene as far as Lucasforums goes. Very pretty to look at, but if anyone lights a match... ;)

So. :max: No smoking.

Here is a punk rock song that I wrote at XWA about a year ago. :D It's called 'Pop-up Daddy, You Suck.'

Pop-pop daddy, you suck!
Pop-up baddie, you really suck!
Oh I wanna cut your head off, yeah yeah!
Yeah, I wanna cut your head off, yeah yeah!
But you're not real
And pain you can't feel
Pop-up daddy, oh I wanna CUT YOUR HEAD OFF!
Take this!

*(Blistering, jangly guitar solo)*

Pop-up daddy, you suck!
You want my attention? Good luck!
'Cause I'm gonna cut your head off--whee, yeah!
You'll love my cutting head off, you betcha!
To hell you must go
If I nuke ya, you'll glow
Pop-up daddy...oh I wanna CUT YOUR HEAD OFF!
Eat it, bitch!

*(Smashes amp and kicks over the drums.)*

Lunatic Jedi
06-28-2003, 08:55 AM
Wow. That... uh... made no sense... :eyeraise:

06-28-2003, 10:38 AM
Hehe who's your pop up daddie?

06-28-2003, 03:59 PM
Originally posted by Lunatic Jedi
Wow. That... uh... made no sense... :eyeraise:

I agree with Lunatic, very wierd thread. :p

Darth Eggplant
06-28-2003, 04:57 PM
*sits in a dark corner with sunglasses on snaping for the Zoomster. Pop Up daddy you Suck! I will have to keep that one for posterity. however since we are being cyber punks, here's one back at ya; eeeewwwwwggplant.


Small town boys
with their new found toy
orange short radiant hair
peering over style free glasses,
leather bracelets bedecked with care
shouting obscenities in the air when they can
crying Anarchy all over the land
working still Nine to Five for the Man,
little boys;

Waking up,
growing false fangs
then shaving them
losing locks in the air
bobbing, leering
sings unclearly
hiding their heads in the sand
finding themselves alone
when they can
hanging out with other
Sinister Eggmen.
Thrashing wildly about,
that's the end
little Eggman;

For Homemade leather
replaced by Store Bought leather
is no more safety pins
but trendy fashions,
old tye dyed jeans
Boys of London clothes
from a magazine
short spiked hair
with cream and care
not part of the scene,
just a pose
for members of the silent minority
now a big majority
all the false hopes of Eggmen,
fearing imported clones from over sea
doing the best they can to be originals
yet failing;

For yolk is so cliche
rebel Eggmen have gone today
rebel eggmen wearing suits
making you bunch pay
marketing the gear they wore as teens
telling you, that its your dream
oh yes, they laugh
at all you Sinister Eggmen;

For Hippies made their stand
breaking windows
and Black Swastika's
cold grown Punker Bands
the day of hard core Punk
has gone on by
only small town,
middle class boys carry on
ex-boy scouts screaming
along with the fading songs
of the Sinister Eggmen.

Zoom Rabbit
06-28-2003, 06:10 PM
Lunatic Jedi: Is this the first time one of my posts hasn't made sense to you? You scare me. ;)

I guess the 'pop-up daddy' song only makes sense if you're one of the few of us who still haven't installed anti pop-up software. :dozey: If you are one, then you feel my rage. (Just now as I was typing in 'punquerotomy,' I looked up to see that a Navy recruiting ad had popped up while I was entering the letters, and none of them had made it into the posting field. AAAARRRGGH!)

Sinister eggmen scare me deeply. :D This is why I am a walrus. *Goo goo g'joob!*