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Bosun

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About Bosun

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    98% Expert

Converted

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    Shoot me up a message, yeah? Why not, laik?
  1. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    Such a dancing grace, An elder of perceived kin, Immutable to the tasse, Formed slender and thin, With a broad plume of red, A fiery wake and tract of hair, Flowing gently off her head, Blowing back into the air, But form does not tell of heart or mind, Nor of steadiness of palm or hand, But in these abstractions she finds, Relief and calmness through a voice, That can only be heard through waves, Twitches not of the air, but of the eyes, And in a memory shared she saves, And weaves in leaves her masterpieces. She spreads them on the tiniest threads, And gives inspiration freely as her name, A magnificent stream of greens blues and reds, Above in the sky in nights without rain, And reaches out to create relations, Beyond the tangibility of sight, And befriend by art across the nations, To add to her world a new ounce of light.
  2. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    Of course, I'd love to, simply, I fear I don't know you well enough too, so... perhaps a bit of information to go off of, and then hella gi!
  3. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    Well... I was just offered the "highly coveted", heh, position of FA's Poet of the Month for the upcoming month of June... which is convenient because I am fresh out of creative ideas to write poetry on... So... point is that I'm asking for suggestions from y'inz as to what I should write, or write about, next.
  4. Well, my host K was always atheist. Well, he was born into a Christian family, but he just couldn't subscribe to any sort of order of religion. It's all just so intangible to us, and we've never had any reason to believe in any sort of higher power or special energy. I mean, we do our best to be respectful of other people's religious appreciation, when they're polite about theirs, but yeah, no gods on my street.
  5. Yeah certainly! I love having K wear this particular shirt that I love and certain other clothes too, but there's definitely plenty of things that are hella great, especially the ones that are so comfortable or the ones that have animals on them, like this fox shirt of his. Also collars, but K doesn't wear those without me being switched in because that's my style. But there's certainly plenty of things that I like him to wear.
  6. So, recently two of my friends had a bit of a falling out with each other. The circumstances are a bit unclear but altogether disappointing hella, and they have ceased communication with each other. As much as I want them to be able to reconcile and have all of us be friends between ourselves, I am distinctly aware that that may not be possible. So, what I want to know is what you guys out there think I should say or do to try to at least keep them both as friends and not have this event sever my connections with them? And this event has made both of my friends hella upset, one of which immediately shrank into a depression and began thoughts of suicide. Unfortunately this development happened very late into recent night, so I'm not sure how that is resolving itself because I had to leave the conversation then. Thankfully, there are other people, especially in the system, helping out on that end to keep their well being in order. Regardless, what can I do to try to help them both get out of this disappointing phase and at least be happy with themselves again? Any serious advice is much appreciated.
  7. I think that what 001 said is very true, actually. It's very smart. And... this makes me so worried for myself to read that this happens with people. Our lives to us, as tulpas is or at least feels real, thus it on the surface seems like murder, but... I mean, there are reasons to kill people ultimately. Pacifism is nice, but in theory only, in practice, violence is fairly necessary to get things done just as control is necessary in government and things. So to myself, it feels unfair to judge without reference, but to announce without reference, is equally unfair. But there will always be people, always be violence, and conflicts like this. But there will also always be people who can push past tumultuously immoral moments like this with the logic in their mind, and so we here will, and I hope that you all can too.
  8. I call K this interesting little name because his name shortens to a little nickname in my favorite language and I just shortened that to the first letter, yap.
  9. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    A binding to a position enjoyed, By my skeletally bone wielding hand, Commissioned to have redone, or folded, From aged oaken end to aged oaken end, Their library, in my view much too small, For such a term that I would have reserved, At least for collections spanning a hall, At minimum, longer than a headboard. Abroad in a land with sand for soil, I remain to work behind in their house, Here for the whole year to fold and toil, Literature as an obedient mouse. Spring is when my insomnia set in, A week into the task my ill would resume, Obliged to stay awake and fold lines thin, Sitting in the wicker chair of that room, The windowless observatory, grand, Full with a brass telescope so ornate, But useless here on its feeble stand, Worthless as a tool like lost shipwrecked freight, It kept my company among the frost, And calls of the bright returning songbirds, Coming back to this secluded forest, Where roosted this home, divided in thirds, Into its reading and antique chambers, Au centre: the master, kitchen and table, And the greenhouse, where my other labors, Were done among plants, each with their label, Planting, watering, raising and sowing, Each pepper, spice and apple of the earth, Were my sleepless additions to working, Finding in mundane tasks a sense of worth. Within these rustic fifteen meters squared, Lost myself in pages rebound and furled, Slowly healing my restfulness impaired, Myself, motivated in the real world. By Summer I had calmed myself and eased, Into a new rhythm in accordance, With blossoming nature and its fresh leaves, And a new host of trouble, once dormant. The old wooden walls fell to disrepair, Leaks turned into puddles in summer rain, Moss needed to be cleaned from the front stair, Morphed my constant effort to quiet pain. Often the efforts felt like failure or, Worse, a wasted time with scant rest or drink, A few times awarding notable gore, From where attention slipped slight as a blink. A scar running along the cephalic, From a misstep with an old chipped door bolt, Looking from my path for a moment quick, Cutting fast and straight like one might a smolt. A blistered burn on the wrist opposite, From the hot dish of my meager dinner, A stainless skillet thought as moderate, Only to bring peppers to a simmer. After the slow and humid month of June, The book binding and folding was finished, Spending new free time in the sunlit room, Where legumes were grown and brought to flourish, There among the evening storms of July, I would sit on the edge of a planter, Reading again the text of Musashi, Listening to light splashes and thunder, And gentle drip of the glass roof leaking, Miniscule drops for plants to lightly share, Only one of which was thorned and dying, Refusing to live or accept my care. Autumn was the time of greatest interest, When the weather turned to crisp, clear and cold, And the storming quickly ceased to persist, The horizon turning red, yellow, gold, I opened the windows and screened the doors, To fill the home with a pleasant, fresh air, Letting nature in, creating more chores, But with a traded comfort more than fair, Leaving me to make varied excuses, To sit and lay around more to think, And enjoy the views of orange evening skies, And to fix myself various hot drinks. Interest being brought to the time special, In the week following the equinox, One quiet moonless night became quite eventful, On whose morning I awoke to a fox, Who must have entered through open windows, To settle in the greenhouse by the dead plant, Nestling under its thorny, spindly growths, Fast asleep like an ancient hierophant, With long streaking fur of bright russet hues, Though I thought it would look best with silver, Curled around its own tail and bloodied wounds, Making me want to make it familiar. Sense, however, did tell me otherwise, I should let it return to the wild, So I opened the door to the outside, Letting in more of the weather mild. As I waited for it to rise and scare, I leaned against the planters, watching it, To gently pick and eat a pepper rare, Then doing what I imagined of it. With its parting I began closing up, All of the windows and doors to prevent, Disturbance and qualms of another pup, Or my stay from marks of another event. In Winter, with vulpine thoughts still adance, And the house was closed, drafty and freezing, My tasks no longer needing their advance, And the water for more hot drinks boiling, I sat in wicker chair, moved from its room, Now in the kitchen, set by the window, All dusted from my rest, needing the broom, Dust highlighted in shade with a neat row. A beautiful glimpse of frost and felled snow, Making me want this home to be my own, Making me not want to think or to know, When they return and I would be alone, Without a home with such a quiet soul, Or a place to relax and breathe softly, With simple tasks to make myself feel whole, To return to the grind and live quickly, But I do not want to think about this, And instead savor the moments fleeting, With a warm elixir ready to please, The five rings finished least frice in reading, Wise and equal to other culture’s reads, Read by the peak of each season's passings, Drives slowly, as ever time crawls, slowly, Until spring, here at the end of all things. Perhaps one quite near or far away day, I will be able to look at myself and, See no obedient mouse any way, Without a purpose or reason to send, Instead everyone well motivated, Eventful, pensive as I find myself, And then find an end where the waters red, Are conserved without violent spill farewell, And a kind of peace that this year I beheld, Can be each mouse’s harmonious choice, Free from tests, trials or need to excel, Only needing use of creative voice.
  10. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    Pst... Any writing can be boiled down to the BS if you analyze it hard enough. I really just enjoy reading something and letting the feelings and thoughts that it leaves me with tell the story, which you did just great and hella. Not all things can do that, a lot of acclaimed things too, mostly because it's taste, but seriously, thank you for sharing!
  11. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    Well I think it's a lovely two page scribble.
  12. K programs enough to say... "This is interesting... Wat?" His words.
  13. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    Oh Fabricius, an inconsequence to you, but where force of science and arts are yours to question and violate with reason, a lesser question must always be asked elsewhere. So far into the pains of petty rational ideas, it comes into analysis of the gentle caress of my canid friend. There he is, called away from his adventures of rolling in the dirt, playing with game, chasing birds, eating at rind and his sport. The question is not of whether or not he is deserving or if I am willing, but the design of how I seek to go about my actions. To gently scratch behind the ears or beneath the chin? A rub of the back, the belly, the ribs? A quick pat on the heat, a stroke around the collar, a kiss on the nose? What combination is appropriate for today’s affection? It must be some summation to a point, a consensus reached by us both. Upon that I am sure I will be informed of him when we get there.
  14. Bosun

    Poetic stuff

    44.NM “62831853072 Transmissions Received and Lost ” Cordial greetings of a foreign tongue, silvery characters on a wooden sign, hung upon the docks of the island’s only village, nestling it’s tiny shops in the sanded rocky slopes and charmingly petits insulae, formally meet us at the shores étrangères. We five: myself, the siblings and the lovers, browsed their antiques and their arcane, resting in dark twilit rooms enceased in emerald moss, hosted by a bilingual elderly couple of our words and their own, with a roasting of duck for our evening palate and toast with eggs for our morning tastings, with books for our waiting pleasure that we did not care to browse. That morning we walked North up the beach and cliff trails to the plains and fields, talking about the ghosts of our pasts, foxing and hawking at our mishappenings and failures to weave jokes and pass over the inevitable. Past the flats and into the foothills, we marched to the fork: Left and West into the woods and longer, distant, farther North, while Right and East was the looming, rusted, decrepit watch tower of tenser times and lawless dictatorships: a towering pagoda of scaffolding to a glorified radio that still receives, but only to the ears of the rascals that make their nightly visits there to entertain, entertain, entertain. Thinking ourselves as soaring and majestic shrikes, fresh from our hawking, we marched Left to move North. The siblings quipped, venomous and fighting over petty, petty, petty while the lovers apologized and swooned over petty, petty, petty things, while I listened with half-ears to absorb what I had to to stay alive in the conversations that would evidently last for days, but keep enough sense in the air to appreciate the wilds as its proper spectacle. Jumping from a rock to a patch of dirt and moss, I behold the sensation of flight, then falling, then firm softness between myself and my world while the siblings trip and scrape their shins and the lovers insist that the other should be given the privilege of going first. North enough to the point knifing out into the sea on its oblique cliffs that made its fame through its wartime mannerisms, long forgotten of course, there being too many identical moments to cram into that fine space reserved for sympathy without empathy. From a strange dream in Paris came a chance stop in Milan, birthing this notion of finding and coming here, to be awed, harrowed and forgotten like our obituaries, which for us we at least have the grace of having them written.
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