At 11/25/05 05:15 PM, Quisty wrote: It was supposed to be laisse avoir...
Still "Let Have" is not "let us have" which is equivalent to "Let's have" which would be Avons... the context you use it it in is "to let have"... which may only be slightly different, but makes a large impact in my mind... then again, my french is quite rusty... I havnt been fluent in two years.
For steamy... http://fr.wordrefere..nfr=steamy&dict=
Then you would have to use erotique...
I am not sure really, I am just calling upon what I know. And what I know best is that you cannot directly translate french to english. Notice my "chaude" goes after "sexe"... et cetera...
You could very well be right... I just wouldnt use a translator to figure it out, because direct translation screws up verbs and the appropriate adverbs et cetera.
Though this conversation has wanted mne to take french back up... : )
At 11/25/05 05:01 PM, Myst_Williams wrote: Lassier I thought meant "leave"...
I was thinking about it, and I do think laisser can be used in the context of "to permit" (equivelant to "let"), so the word choice is right, but not in the rightway... the avoir wouldnt work.
so with laisser would be in that context: Avons le sexe chaud...
which works because Avons means "let us have" in the proper context... so I think you mixed up verbs... or I did...
At 11/25/05 04:32 PM, Quisty wrote: Laisser avoir chaud embué sexe!
Really? doesnt embue mean clouded? Well, I guess that is close to steamy... it would sound funny if you used it on a girl though. lol. "Lets have hot clouded sex" : )
Lassier I thought meant "leave"...
Maybe my french is worse than I thought....
so, to my weak french that would mean... "Leave have hot clouded sex"
At 11/25/05 03:55 PM, XwaynecoltX wrote: which reminds me how does one say in french "LETS HAVE HOT STEAMY SEX"...?
I don't know very much slang or calloquiolisms in french so the best I can do is "We must have hot sex"... I think:
"Nous devons avoir sexe chaud"
Don't quote me... I stopped learning french in grade 10 lol ... the only reason I know anything still is because my aunt is french. It is sloppy, but it would work. : )
At 11/25/05 02:40 PM, XwaynecoltX wrote: Nice always nice when Myst_Williams visits the LNL with a good poem and such, nice work like always...
Thanks man.
At 11/25/05 02:41 PM, Quisty wrote: Hehe, nice ^_^ I didn't see it at the time, because I was posting. I posted right after you and went I hit send a big thing of poems was there. I was like, "OH COOL!" And they are cool ^_^
Merci Beacoup! = )
Ya, I noticed our timing was nearly the same, so I figured.
Woah, thats a lot of poetry...
Heed
he believed it would end
a death he was also a victim of
and with the reason of remorse
he grieved
purpose was fucking with society
he knew the truth
hope was the freezing ocean
he knocked on the ice
fate was the colour of downfall
his temple dripped
he wanted to fly without wings
fall to his fucking death
and leave that hatred behind
he was an angel
Clinical
Their hallways are colourless
and their symmetry ideal.
Their motions are honed
and their places situated.
White meets white.
Their parallel is identical
and their brood obsequious.
Their comfort is wholesome
And their being innocent.
Red meets red.
Corridor
A creaky staircase to the far east room
brings the mind-numb of signals
to a doom of unrest within your bones.
Through the walls lie screams and cries
that beg for knee-mercy
to be given that final try to sing
The darkest corners seem to never fade
but as vigorous motions are seen
many shadows have already decayed.
The beauty of silence is no longer
as your breath-moment
smothers your sodden gaze-wall
And watching the sudden entrances
your smile-heart condones
the artistic allusions to worship
The crackling candles burn in pairs
to further coerce the symbol
that situates two empty chairs
In the deepest corridor lies your partner
Cheek Mark
I sit uncomfortable in my booth
Eating my lunch on my break
When I catch the sight of a stranger
As I boyishly pig on my steak.
She was sun struck like a maiden,
And I could not help but stare.
I thought of the words I’d say,
And all the ways I could care.
She turned her face towards me,
And I noticed the mark on her cheek.
I looked down at my food,
And finished without another peek.
With time I assume she grew angered,
And sat across from me in my booth.
I looked up for a slight moment.
Then instead murmured to my food.
“Why is it you look away?”
she asked me, knowing very well.
“You know we cannot speak”
I replied, trying not to tell.
“Is it the mark on me that scares you?
Is it this right here in my face?”
“We both know it is illegal
For me to talk to you in a public place.”
“Then let us go somewhere more private
We can be alone someplace else.”
“As much as I would like to
That is not really allowed as well.”
She looked at me almost crying,
And I looked at her disgusted with myself,
But I could not break the law
As much as I hated the mark itself.
“So let the government weed you out.
It is not like a care a damn!”
“Please, don’t make this more than it is
Whether or not you are Uncle Sam’s.”
She gave a little giggle and smiled.
I hated being afraid and a pawn.
I did not want to be left inferior.
I did not want to die to Neo-Paragon.
“Let’s go,” I said with a smile,
My home is just a few blocks.”
We walked out the front doors,
And it was then that I took two shots.
Neo-Paragon
you see the people conform
their tired legs tracking the city
as their eyes stare towards the ground
and their hearts towards the heavens
though secret is their faith
you see the marked
the government supports them
their heads are held high
and their hearts are patriotic
though secret is their loves
that mark above their cheek bone
that single symbol of class
the government created drones
supposedly perfect in everyway
though empathy will be their downfall
the officer approaches you
his hand towards his side
he grabs your face and tilts it
and throws you to the ground
you unfortunate soul
Woah, thats a lot of poetry...
Heed
he believed it would end
a death he was also a victim of
and with the reason of remorse
he grieved
purpose was fucking with society
he knew the truth
hope was the freezing ocean
he knocked on the ice
fate was the colour of downfall
his temple dripped
he wanted to fly without wings
fall to his fucking death
and leave that hatred behind
he was an angel
Clinical
Their hallways are colourless
and their symmetry ideal.
Their motions are honed
and their places situated.
White meets white.
Their parallel is identical
and their brood obsequious.
Their comfort is wholesome
And their being innocent.
Red meets red.
Corridor
A creaky staircase to the far east room
brings the mind-numb of signals
to a doom of unrest within your bones.
Through the walls lie screams and cries
that beg for knee-mercy
to be given that final try to sing
The darkest corners seem to never fade
but as vigorous motions are seen
many shadows have already decayed.
The beauty of silence is no longer
as your breath-moment
smothers your sodden gaze-wall
And watching the sudden entrances
your smile-heart condones
the artistic allusions to worship
The crackling candles burn in pairs
to further coerce the symbol
that situates two empty chairs
In the deepest corridor lies your partner
Cheek Mark
I sit uncomfortable in my booth
Eating my lunch on my break
When I catch the sight of a stranger
As I boyishly pig on my steak.
She was sun struck like a maiden,
And I could not help but stare.
I thought of the words I’d say,
And all the ways I could care.
She turned her face towards me,
And I noticed the mark on her cheek.
I looked down at my food,
And finished without another peek.
With time I assume she grew angered,
And sat across from me in my booth.
I looked up for a slight moment.
Then instead murmured to my food.
“Why is it you look away?”
she asked me, knowing very well.
“You know we cannot speak”
I replied, trying not to tell.
“Is it the mark on me that scares you?
Is it this right here in my face?”
“We both know it is illegal
For me to talk to you in a public place.”
“Then let us go somewhere more private
We can be alone someplace else.”
“As much as I would like to
That is not really allowed as well.”
She looked at me almost crying,
And I looked at her disgusted with myself,
But I could not break the law
As much as I hated the mark itself.
“So let the government weed you out.
It is not like a care a damn!”
“Please, don’t make this more than it is
Whether or not you are Uncle Sam’s.”
She gave a little giggle and smiled.
I hated being afraid and a pawn.
I did not want to be left inferior.
I did not want to die to Neo-Paragon.
“Let’s go,” I said with a smile,
My home is just a few blocks.”
We walked out the front doors,
And it was then that I took two shots.
Neo-Paragon
you see the people conform
their tired legs tracking the city
as their eyes stare towards the ground
and their hearts towards the heavens
though secret is their faith
you see the marked
the government supports them
their heads are held high
and their hearts are patriotic
though secret is their loves
that mark above their cheek bone
that single symbol of class
the government created drones
supposedly perfect in everyway
though empathy will be their downfall
the officer approaches you
his hand towards his side
he grabs your face and tilts it
and throws you to the ground
you unfortunate soul
Woah... I had to catch up on a lot of writing. Some of which is really good. I am glad to see this place too busy for my exam schedule to keep up with... haha... : )
At 11/22/05 01:40 PM, Mick_the_champion wrote: Yeah, I'll crack it out during the week unless anyone is in a rush?
Nah, I just wasnt sure what was going on. I have so many essays coming out of my ass right now... that a rush is one thing I am not in.
I am confused as to where we are on this collab. Is it still going?
At 11/19/05 06:44 PM, Andersson wrote: Hahaha, yeah "right". XD
lol... life is just busy in uni.
Seems like we flee eachother. XP
ya, I know. It is getting rediculous. Maybe its the time zones that is screwing us up. I am going on now if you are.
At 11/19/05 05:25 AM, Andersson wrote: Alright, no problem. =)
I thought we could get started with some writing... =]
Ya.... I will be online quite a bit today I think. So maybe I will catch you on.
At 11/18/05 06:42 PM, Andersson wrote: Ah, the please e-mail me aswell. It could be fun. =)
Will do.
And sorry I missed you earlier... I was eating and showering et cetera... as I am going out in like 20 mins.
At 11/18/05 04:56 PM, DirtySyko wrote: Naw, I don't want to join in the middle. I'll let you guys finish it, whenever that may be, and if you guys start another one I'll gladly get involved.
Alright. Well, whenever it ends... I will email you - just incase you dont stop by in time.
At 11/18/05 05:07 PM, Quisty wrote: Going away to Michigan this weekend. We are going Christmas shopping, because America has more and there is no taxes. We get our turkeys there too, because they are usually on sale for American Thanksgiving. We get them for our Christmas...
Well, have fun! At least you arn't doing homework all weekend like me. Actually, that is a lie. I have a two parties to attend to tonight, but then sat is shot... and probably sunday too.
Homework aggrivates me.. and aggrivation inspires me to write... so expect poetry next week lol. : )
At 11/18/05 03:15 PM, Quisty wrote: How is everyone?
Sick of homework, but glad it is the weekend. I am well... just tired... and with too much to do.
How about you?
At 11/18/05 04:39 PM, DirtySyko wrote: I know I asked this last time I was here, but I must ask again. Is that multi-author post story still going on?
It is in fact still going, but if you are willing to catch up. You could always join (I don't mind... so aslong as the others dont)... though, I will admit, it is not going so smoothly right now... so we may end up switching it up.
I haven't wrote anything for a while and I need to start writing something. I figured if you guys stopped doing the story, we could start up a new one.
That could be the case. : )
At 11/18/05 08:05 AM, -repent- wrote: ...but really maybe during that time not many people knew about NG so it didn't really have a variety of people, but now when you made our very own "Writer's Guild" there was more variety of people who were interested in writing so you kind of got lucky in my opion.
Possibly, but the club did not start all that long ago... and the amount of frequent BBS posters hasnt rised a whole lot in the last couple years. So who knows why.
BOOOO I don't like the egyptians either. Romans I think could have been a greater nation than it already was if it didn't focus all on their arts and some many other artistic tings that they were setting themselfs up for an easy invasion. Now the Roman are the greates I think they once held 25% of the worlds land that's not easy to do...well not any more.
The egyptians had some good concepts, and some good architecture, but otherwise... they are boring. The romans were kind of cool, and probably had the best lot, but most of their art is either copies of greek art or inspired fully by greek art. So I would have to say for art... greek wins. For society... romans win. Though, I do feel that their art was significant... and they should not have deverted their attention from it... though... they should have been able to fight of the Goths ... but by that point they were already falling... so you cant blame them I guess.
At 11/18/05 08:21 AM, Coop83 wrote: The best thing I like about the Guild is the fact it can happily co-exist with the LNL, which is also a poetry / abstract writing haven.
That is true. I wonder if it was like that at the time this club started. hmm...
We are free in here to share ideas and critique each other's work as and when we want. If you don't particularly like a certain style of writing, or just can't be bothered, you don't have to review it. I think I may well start reviewing more, since I've freed up some more time during lunch hour :D
Awesome! : )
At 11/18/05 11:34 AM, Mick_the_champion wrote: Any chance I can get a link to Gum's site?
Shit, I forget it.
At 11/18/05 11:38 AM, Coop83 wrote: He's taken it off his sig, sorry. Maybe Myst Willaims would eb good enough to email you his collective file
Heh... I would, but i havnt updated since my last part. I was going to use gum's thread to re-update soon.
At 11/12/05 10:51 PM, ZenGaijin wrote: Polux wanted me to let you guys know that part 12.1 will be out Monday.
So, uhh... Wednesday roles by...
You know what I just noticed?
Scrounging through the C&C Section in between studying for my art history test tomorrow... I was noticing the page numbers of all the clubs. I then remember when someone (I forget whom now) said that a writing club had been tried four times in the time he had been on NG (two by him) and all failed... none surpassed page 25 (or something along those lines)... And then, when we hit page 30... how triumphant it felt to have so many apsiring writers all dedicated to help one another improve. Now... at page 140 some odd... we are like a "Senior Club" in the C&C section. One of the few "Elite" clubs past the 100 mark... it is just cool.
And we seem to get a lot more different visitors more often because of the credability the page number gives us. Back in the 30s it was like the same 5 people in here all the time - no one else. A few of which are still here (you guys know who you are)...
That is all I noticed... so basically... we fucking rule... and (let me get this e-talk thing down) we pwn writing on NG. Aside from that... I have more studying to do so I can 'pwn' my art history test. Arn't the greeks and romans creative? "Oh yes, they have pretty art and influenced us all..." ... "Fucking egyptians" ... "HEY!" ... *studies*
Another Poem:
To Civilize
In mid-crossfire they all adjourn
Leaving their efforts to comply;
Neither side is willing to learn;
In passing time, regrets will rise.
The adjacent people unite;
They seek unity among all,
And sweep across prepared to fight;
The lesser two begin to fall.
Another Poem:
To Civilize
In mid-crossfire they all adjourn
Leaving their efforts to comply;
Neither side is willing to learn;
In passing time, regrets will rise.
The adjacent people unite;
They seek unity among all,
And sweep across prepared to fight;
The lesser two begin to fall.
At 11/16/05 12:38 PM, --Chaos-- wrote: i have faith in you :P i've seen your stuff on deviant art so i know you'll do fine (unless your prof is a person who has standards wayyyy top high) by the way, did ytou like the story so far?
I like it. The whole BBS story concept I am not a huge fan of, but overall it is pleasing to read. No real criticism along the lines of plot or story... just make sure you edit et cetera, and try your best to keep a mood and flow going throughout. Keep up the good work.
At 11/16/05 12:39 AM, Quisty wrote: Sweeeet. Glad to see you posting a poem! I hope you aren't always too busy :P No, it's ok, but don't dissapear! Your work on NG is pretty cool to read ^_^
I am trying not to. My visits are just becoming more scarice is all. At least Until the term is over.
At 11/16/05 01:16 AM, XwaynecoltX wrote: Nice poem Myst_Williams...
Thanks
~X~
And congrats on the level up yesterday... and oh... today too!
At 11/16/05 02:31 AM, --Chaos-- wrote: welcome back myst, were the projects hard?
Difficult enough that I am unsure of where I stand in the grading department, but I usually do quite well with essays. So hopefully the trend continues. As for the art... my prof is all over the place... who knows what I will get this time.
I've been away and busy... but heres a poem XD
Escape, the End
A blanket of mist circles the room;
a deep-pink trails under the couch;
alcohol stains the thick air;
broken glass waterfalls the table;
chicken balls, and noodles
sit idly by, though half encountered
and mixed within the plates
of pizza and football greasy wings.
The thicker smoke from my lips
blows through the misty shroud.
I want to be there, within that cloud.
My welding hands hold tightly
to the fresh metallic shaft
between my scaly palms.
The cushion beneath me
engulfs my entire body and energy.
Sliding black metal across my neck,
I follow the motion down my chest
until it rests on the arm of my comfort.
My hand slowly releases the omnipotence
I possessed, and I look upwards –
a piece of stucco ceiling falls into my eye.
Jesus lies across the windowsill.
The creak of the lazy boy startles the cat
and she bolts for the bedroom
with her hair on the end of her ninth life.
I rise; I am The Scraper,
for I have plenty to clean.
I hear the traffic jam on the outside,
and fade towards the open window.
Slowly twisting it closed,
I kick the Carling to the left.
A puddle forms between my toes.
I want to swim in the sea.
Voices fade into my consciousness
“The Traffic is rim to rim… everywhere.”
The television lights reflect
off the particles in the atmosphere.
My fingers burn a scar in my mind.
The cigarette falls to the carpet floor.
As I turn towards my table,
the butt crushes beneath my foot.
The kitchen whistles and cries.
I climb through my reform site,
and pull the plug of the kettle.
My fish tank is a grungy green,
but agreeing is the ambiance.
Matthew Good tells the plan;
I want to be a spaceman.
I lift my shirt and tie my arm.
My body rushes with heat
as poisoned blood travels
and counts the seconds of my life.
I lean with my arms on my knees.
With one cock of my head,
and my hair slicked back,
I get up and leave the apartment.
My fingers slide and bump
across the wallpaper and paint.
The hall is long, and I stumble
to make it to that repeating song.
Little kids should not be playing.
I point down, the button glows orange
where I belong, closer to the black man.
I drop to the floor; my finger on the wall.
The doors repel and, by the hair,
I drag myself onto the elevator.
The song plays. I need ground.
Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding.
I use the handrail to lift again.
It is becoming too much for my head.
The doors circle, as do I
three-four times, and step into the light.
The road circles too.
I long to be Constantine the Great.
I thrust my hands into my jeans,
the American Eagle watching,
and I focus out, not seeing a thing,
but images of what life can be
outside the grief and through the mist.
Feathered ends slowly pass,
as grainy life-forms ignore the rest
of all that is a blur, but so easily
the most important part of their being.
Like the colour of the wind
and the scent of stars crossing,
there is an emotion beyond this,
but you need it as the qualification.
I will never find my salvation.
I shoulder a passing businessman
and he eyes my appearance.
He watches me step out onto the road
just as I notice the traffic pick up.
He stares as the cars change lanes
and swerve around me.
I look up towards my apartment.
I see him sitting on my windowsill,
and his hand is against his head
with two fingers on his temple.
His thumb is towards the heavens.
The honking cars have him disappear.
The walnut suite man calls out,
"What are you doing?
Get off of the road.”
I ignore him and spin around
Watching the vehicles spin along.
“Do you want to die?”
I pause. I look at him.
He steps out onto the road.
Hesitantly he jogs towards me.
“Fine,” he says, “take me.”
I wave my hand at him,
and walk into the opposite traffic.
My legs crush beneath me.
My head cracks against the glass.
I feel my arm bend below.
I spiral towards the ground.
As my head hits the cement,
the feathered world weakens black.
I look at the white wall to my left.
The puking echoes in my stomach.
There are flowers beside the phone.
My legs and arm are unable to move.
I am as scholarly as my kitten.
I run my fingers down the support bars,
across the wooden desk corner,
and down the metal pole on wheels.
There is an IV beside my bed,
and the T.V. man says,
“Rest in Peace.”
Has it been my turn o nthe collab yet? It has been so long I have forgotten the order... I should probably go check that page that was made... hmmm...
Anyway... sorry I was gone... fucking essay... then a fucking art project. I had to pull an all nighter on the latter. But I am back.. and less homeworky.. and less stressed. Stressed spelled backwards is Desserts... I was told that today. Never noticed. Nai Bother... I never really liked either of them.
Oh ya... a Poem:
Escape, the End
A blanket of mist circles the room;
a deep-pink trails under the couch;
alcohol stains the thick air;
broken glass waterfalls the table;
chicken balls, and noodles
sit idly by, though half encountered
and mixed within the plates
of pizza and football greasy wings.
The thicker smoke from my lips
blows through the misty shroud.
I want to be there, within that cloud.
My welding hands hold tightly
to the fresh metallic shaft
between my scaly palms.
The cushion beneath me
engulfs my entire body and energy.
Sliding black metal across my neck,
I follow the motion down my chest
until it rests on the arm of my comfort.
My hand slowly releases the omnipotence
I possessed, and I look upwards –
a piece of stucco ceiling falls into my eye.
Jesus lies across the windowsill.
The creak of the lazy boy startles the cat
and she bolts for the bedroom
with her hair on the end of her ninth life.
I rise; I am The Scraper,
for I have plenty to clean.
I hear the traffic jam on the outside,
and fade towards the open window.
Slowly twisting it closed,
I kick the Carling to the left.
A puddle forms between my toes.
I want to swim in the sea.
Voices fade into my consciousness
“The Traffic is rim to rim… everywhere.”
The television lights reflect
off the particles in the atmosphere.
My fingers burn a scar in my mind.
The cigarette falls to the carpet floor.
As I turn towards my table,
the butt crushes beneath my foot.
The kitchen whistles and cries.
I climb through my reform site,
and pull the plug of the kettle.
My fish tank is a grungy green,
but agreeing is the ambiance.
Matthew Good tells the plan;
I want to be a spaceman.
I lift my shirt and tie my arm.
My body rushes with heat
as poisoned blood travels
and counts the seconds of my life.
I lean with my arms on my knees.
With one cock of my head,
and my hair slicked back,
I get up and leave the apartment.
My fingers slide and bump
across the wallpaper and paint.
The hall is long, and I stumble
to make it to that repeating song.
Little kids should not be playing.
I point down, the button glows orange
where I belong, closer to the black man.
I drop to the floor; my finger on the wall.
The doors repel and, by the hair,
I drag myself onto the elevator.
The song plays. I need ground.
Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding.
I use the handrail to lift again.
It is becoming too much for my head.
The doors circle, as do I
three-four times, and step into the light.
The road circles too.
I long to be Constantine the Great.
I thrust my hands into my jeans,
the American Eagle watching,
and I focus out, not seeing a thing,
but images of what life can be
outside the grief and through the mist.
Feathered ends slowly pass,
as grainy life-forms ignore the rest
of all that is a blur, but so easily
the most important part of their being.
Like the colour of the wind
and the scent of stars crossing,
there is an emotion beyond this,
but you need it as the qualification.
I will never find my salvation.
I shoulder a passing businessman
and he eyes my appearance.
He watches me step out onto the road
just as I notice the traffic pick up.
He stares as the cars change lanes
and swerve around me.
I look up towards my apartment.
I see him sitting on my windowsill,
and his hand is against his head
with two fingers on his temple.
His thumb is towards the heavens.
The honking cars have him disappear.
The walnut suite man calls out,
"What are you doing?
Get off of the road.”
I ignore him and spin around
Watching the vehicles spin along.
“Do you want to die?”
I pause. I look at him.
He steps out onto the road.
Hesitantly he jogs towards me.
“Fine,” he says, “take me.”
I wave my hand at him,
and walk into the opposite traffic.
My legs crush beneath me.
My head cracks against the glass.
I feel my arm bend below.
I spiral towards the ground.
As my head hits the cement,
the feathered world weakens black.
I look at the white wall to my left.
The puking echoes in my stomach.
There are flowers beside the phone.
My legs and arm are unable to move.
I am as scholarly as my kitten.
I run my fingers down the support bars,
across the wooden desk corner,
and down the metal pole on wheels.
There is an IV beside my bed,
and the T.V. man says,
“Rest in Peace.”
At 11/10/05 02:06 PM, DADDY_PRIMETIME wrote: Third album...you should borrow from a friend.
haha... not only do I agree... but that was funny the way you got that across. : )
I think this post is awesome!!!
greatly decieved... no?
At 11/10/05 01:39 PM, VirginLungs wrote: So yeah, that was a bit mad...
Hehe... I miss high school.
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