Toil and succour

[Agnes]

Would I have to kiss it?"

Kiss it once. Kiss it twice.
Kiss it hard. Kiss it nice.
Kiss it up. Kiss it down.
Kiss its grin. Kiss its frown.
Kiss it 'til it turns blue.
Kiss it, then let it kiss you.

The question is: How much can you take?

[Jabberwhacky]

The stoic Aurelius meditates:
'Nothing happens to anyone here
that he's not fitted by Nature to bear';
Paul in The End ratiocinates,
'and in the end the love you take
is always equal to the love you make'.

In affairs of life, small or great
it matters more how much you give
from birth to when you cease to live,
than who paid what at a past date.

" Who paid what?"

[Agnes]

Who paid what?


"Who paid what?" the old man whispered
into the air. He looked half dead. Staring
at the sky, his eyes, though faded and rheumy,
looked wise and confident there'd be an answer.


The question is: What is the answer?

[olson29]

Dance with her, love her, love it all.
Love the moment and stay wise, Guard understanding.
"Life is truly simple, yet we insist on making it complicated."
Stay wise, laugh when it is wisest to the wisest degree.
Stay aware. In tune.
Do it, that's it; all of this. Stand as you are, be what you want to be.
Fuck the pity. We only have time... setting.
Sets inside this time. Bathe in optimal air water mind,
The perception does not break down like matter.
Love the moment and make the sets, excavate rapt sets.
Kiss her, the woman in you, the soul, grow
Know in you. If you know pain, you will never feel pain.
All of it happens even before it happens, or does it?
Hear the music in silence.
Slide your tears inside your body.
It does not stop, nope ah.
What of peace? And failed plans? What of acceptance? And your love?
Get rid of your bad spirits and fill your spirit, with the holy spirit.
"All of my bad experiences in life have become blessings, I am in gratitude!"
How wrong are we, when we listen to our intuition rather than desire.
The grace in the stupidity, the beauty in ugly
The reckless ricluse in the human jungle.
Somewhere nature does what it does, accept it or accept it.
River rocks. Tree catches. Ocean can not stay still. Sounds are not heard.
Answers... lie somehwre on that median of truth,
Somewhere In different places.
Spaces make.
Be what you want to be, There is music
In that most liquid
Core of the soul. Closer even when beyond away.

[Agnes]

If you don't leave a question, we get to bury you to your neck beside an ant hill and pour syrup over your head.

[Jabberwhacky]

lemme do that, lemme do that , oh PLEASE let me do that !!

[olson29]

hah, just got back from playing soccer and I realised it, ya'll are funny.

What do you believe in?

[Jabberwhacky]

What do you believe in....

I could lucidly cozen:
"Strong Son of God immortal love
Who we that have not seen thy face
By faith and faith alone embrace
Believing where we cannot prove."
But that is not my zen;

I believe there
is great wisdom in anal-haq
and that ahm-brahma-asmi
uttered more as a threnody
is not solipsistic, and luck,
as love, is rare.

"Why is Love so rare?"

[Agnes]

Why is Love so rare?


Love is what keeps
the world spinning.
Love of money,
love of cars,
love of women,
love of bars,
love of fighting,
love of woe,
love of cookies,
love of dough,
love of music,
love of strife,
love of husband,
love of wife,
love of fashion
love of cats,
love of football,
love of bats,
love of reading,
love of sleep,
love of kingdom,
love of keep,
love of laughing,
love of tears,
love of bitching,
love of fears,
love of eating,
love of lust,
love of dying,
love of dust,
love is nothing.
Love is all.

The question is: How many carrots does it take to make a rabbit orange?

[Jabberwhacky]

Magician: Or the Rabbit out of the hat

My thaumaturgy fails me I despair,
such failures in my line are rare,
I've tried many carrots, many sticks
But darn it all, pshaw and fiddlesticks!
From the hat well extracted but 'tis strange
Why the bunny'll never turn into an orange!

It could be ekphrasis or portmanteau,
What makes this magic work for you?

[Agnes]

What makes this magic work for you?

It's a matter of style, my friend.

Pink pantaloons and cotton socks,
a hula skirt and army boots,
a green beret, a buckskin vest,
a bright red wig, and nails to match,
false eyelashes and seven rings,
three gold teeth and a faux fox scarf,
bangled, bangled, bangled arms,
a long necklace of shrunken heads--
all of these and muskrat perfume
will make the magic work for you.


The question is: Can you musk a rat?

[Jabberwhacky]

Smells, Guns 'n' Roses

Your eyes kohl-lined devoid of feeling,
bayonet unsheathed, presenting arms;
Sense is this urge within appealing,
Instinct keeps me out of harm's
way; I may not be able to musk a rat dear,
but, by Bacchus! I will surely musket 'ere.

Wile. E is the only remaining coyote,
Which rodent would you rather be?

[Agnes]

Which rodent would you rather be?

I am a groundhog, can't you tell?
I'm round and chubby. I'm a sneak.
I like my cubby hole--sleep well
all winter. When Spring comes I peek.
I am a groundhog; I eat well.
Your peas and greens is what I seek.

The question is: How do scarecrows die?

[Jabberwhacky]

Coat guano-spattered, and eye
as blank as all-encompassing sky;
loneliness? But t'would be a lie,
Sheer boredom, good ol' ennui,
How else would a scarecrow die?

I ask since you are not convinced still,
If rhyme does not kill you, what will?

[Agnes]

If rhyme does not kill you, what will?

Meter can kill
or drive you mad.
Syllables will
just make you sad.


The question is: Where do poets keep their riddles?