Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

i just found this in my files... i think it was a reply I made to some thread on here where i stole a buncha your thoughts and blended them together. I can't remember. at any rate, i have no clue what it means. Maybe you can figure it out.

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another platform

i never crossed the sunset ride from montreal or perendello, the bomb exploded before cortez could ever check my cadence or feet... meter like that sometimes ain't so good to repeat especially with mortar misery franchised like skyline drives sold on every t-shirt from bedhead and main, and the same knees i kneel down on are the same as the ones i bow to forget-me-nots somehow, even though i didn't deposit them on graves myself, sunshine ray treats rare on a window pane.... you might think i'm insane but i don't fucking give a royal stained glass gibbon shit.... slipper never fit, slipper never fit... i've hugged the bottom of river basins in an attempt to bring back the dead but ghosts ride on sidecars of bikes i never rode instead and i ain't gonna drown in an email filled with scrambled words because you can't drink in nuances or idiocy or any iota of dignity while trying to inhale meaning and nothin' ain't nothin' when it comes to figuring out syllables and such, in as much as i ever attempted but i'm tellin' ya, i have resented construction and deconstruction just as much as i have attempted to present a viable view of the dealing of cards so gimme your ace and i'll do my best to deal it off the top or bottom of the deck, whichever you prefer, not that i'm a shady character or anything or have any ins with the house dudes 'cause the deal is this, cards get laid the way cards get laid... i take my 7, you take yours, play the odds or is it 5? words are just words are just words are just words and it don't matter whether you're in nashville, seattle, roanoke or freaking montana or timbucktu, egypt, moscow or tibet... fuck you means fuck you no matter where you come from so read my lips, ok, here's as good as good can get... a dream can be a good dream and it ain't no prison to imagine it, it's heaven being there no matter whether you care which corner anybody comes from or not, no matter whether you're drunk, sober, or fantasizin about escape since no matter where you go you can follow yourself there with a ride or surf, curse the daylight outa the earth, reckon with sunshine blinding your eyes, try to weed out garden beds or lie down in 'em with the goddamn spiderwebs and creepy crawling fuckin' below-ground critters, make friends or stomp the shit out of 'em until they die so i don't know about you and i'm still trying to figure out if i know about an eye for an eye but what i say is maybe it's all about mulling it over for a bit, sticking your finger out the fucking window until another train goes by, making yourself comfortable in the club car to watch the world transport itself sideways until you fall asleep then wake up on another platform

I'm not sure what it means, exactly. But it hits pretty close to home.... the road, (among other things), as a series of interconnected, interchangable "platforms", where only the scenic details change slightly with each one......

Well my friend to me it says writing is more than words or rhyme of meter it is heart and feeling as is life but be careful the words you use because words are words and mean what they say and some are dull and some sharp as a razor like in life. You can mortally wound a person's soul with words. I found this to be an amazing piece of writing and you used the word fuck beautifully to express yourself and add emotion and power to your words which is a great talent. "C"

writing as I found digs deep into my passions, and I see that in your work. When I start a project, I never have a true path, or platform. When I'm done, or think so-I say damn, did I just write that.

yeah...i find i must be careful when jumping off one platform to another...one reason is my shoes keep falling off ...or is that two reasons? I like the way u write about it , that's all i know.

........train ride to the flow, a bonafide action show or maybe a llil ~GO! I dunno, ya said it all on a roll and we hopped on board that train leaving the platform with a swift kick and a chance to lick all the loved ones and have the dog lap our face as we were almost late and had to race to the train in this early morning rain with the stain of the feeling that sent more than one heart reeling and ended up echoing down to the water line..............

Another virgin text box opened. Words track across it like black footsteps on virgin snow. If only I could figure out how to put white fonts on a white background I would be a writer too.

Rave on
My dearest friends are total strangers; they wish me freedom and self de-construction.
Obsidian words are so black
No meter or rhyme in me cause I am brain dead with music, and poetry arises from the spirit of music as I have read somewhere*. All got running through my head right now is pain and the whine of two computers running with their cases open

On an unrelated personal note:

Monarch pass Colorado made it to about ten thousand feet before that big bitch lost traction and started to slide back down the mountain. I knew I was in deep shit when the tire tracks in front of me disappeared. Biggest snow flakes I have ever seen. Floating down so beautifully. An uncanny feeling. The farmer on the western slope told me not to go up the mountain if the mountaintop was in the clouds. But I was afraid, and that shamed me so I tried to act brave and went anyway.

I love spiders, and spider webs too.
I fuk BLACK WIDOWS EVERY CHANCE I GET.
Which is about once every twenty-five years
Yabba dabba do.

More spontaneous gibberish, has any one ever told you that for a dumb chick you sound like a genius? A fan of yours for many years, I visualize Sappho walking on the shore of a wine dark sea, her black robes whipping in the wind. Her words drown out the clamorous surf. edited once

Got dam it Doreen I been trying to edit it and I keep making it worse, please pardon typos and fuddling slips. Work on some more later. But it was so good i could not resist taking a crack at a reply.

*The Birth Of Tragedy From The Spirit Of Music-by Frederick Ray Nitzke of the Green Bay Packers