Nicht schlecht, Herr Specht! Sagte der Baum und fiel um.
Dream: Cute Simulation GameWhile wasting time in front of the ISP-hosted underground amusement park/university I explain to two elderly Russian women (they are surprised that I speak Russian), that against my own expectations the underground amusement park is not a rip-off and that there even is a delicious confection, which one can have for free and in unlimited quantities. I give them a piece each.
The following takes place on a small square grassland in front of the entrance to the underground amusement park. I play a game with four cute miniature people (each of them the size of a finger), who harvest wood from two trees and re-plant them after complete exploitation. They walk freely without being bound to roads. Along with wood, they collect fruit from fruit trees. I consider letting them plant two fields of crops for harvesting. Their housing and storage consists of one building made from wood only, so they probably do not require rock as a building material.
One of the people manages to get stuck on a pat
DosentomatenTomaten in Dosen
Brauch' ich für Soßen
Für Penne, Nudeln und Spaghetti
Ketschup ist eklig
Was essbares daraus zu machen
Ich brauche keine Pizzen
Ich brauch kein Glutamin
Hollari, Hollari, Hollero
Ich züchte selber Nudeln
Und esse sie dann Roh
Hollari, Hollari, Hollero
PoetreeNOTE: The poem should have the shape of a tree. If it looks messy, your monitor is too narrow. Press "Ctrl" and "-" until it fits into your monitor, or follow the link in the author's comments. Thank you!
In darkness sweet I dream I sleep; my fate to wait till time is ripe
A tender leaf curled in the seed, an idea that would be freed
I dream of bra
Into the LightThe moon tonight is, simply, a white note
adrift, spinning. It patiently tracks the breeze
on the edge of genesis, floating in motes
of static. On the surface, it seems at ease.
Light filters through oak leaves and coats
its thrall, the summer heat's slow weave
through the river's margins to the throat
of the sea. Small fish leap up to tease
the moon tonight. Simply, this white note
rotates its body like thread released
from reel, alters its position over nodes
October EyesSuch gentle colors drip across your freckled shoulder blades.
A quilt of puddled watercolors soaked in auburn shades.
Spun of golden rivulets and rinsed in autumn skies,
So many endless currents swimming through your lonesome eyes.
Brushing under fingertips and over shattered songs,
Unraveling like morning glaze against my paling palms.
With beauty like October hills and hollow as the skies,
The water drops against the earth will be our lullaby.
The Maxberg Archaeopteryx
I waited in a tiny house without a light or door,
That each progressing day was slightly smaller than before,
Until I felt the sudden urge to break and struggle free.
I came into the world in only natal feathers dressed,
Among my likewise siblings in an interwoven nest,
Atop a shrub amid a land surrounded by the sea.
Each day my father came to us with smaller lives to eat,
As slowly I grew larger and my feathers more complete.
Along my longest finger formed a broad and glossy wing.
With wings to press me forward I could climb an upright wall,
And now the nest where I had dwelt was also strangely small,
And I could not ignore the larger island's beckoning.
My wings had grown sufficient to support my weight in air,
And prey could now be chased and won without my father's care.
Observing my lagoon-encircled kingdom from above,
Another hunger came to me beyond the quest for food,
To recreate on my behalf my natal nest and brood,
And prove to a companion my deserving of her love.
My EnglandI care not for neon lights
or garish 'stylish' clothes t' buy,
I only want the sun t' shine
in fair o' pleasant England.
I care not for new Ipads
or nipping out to take a drag,
I only want t' grab a bag
and hike in my own England.
Plastic smiles and distant hugs
I think for now I've had enough,
I only want the land I love
the moors and woods of England.
Silver bark and golden leaves
Birds sing soar in autumn breeze,
I only want the grasses green
in glowing dusk of England.
Now I'm old and still I sigh
at admirals red and foxgloves high.
Yes, I feel there's no place like
my homey fields of England.
Werewolf PleaOh great mother
Night be your brother
Hear my plea
Make a wolf of me!
Grant me paws
Sharp talons and claws
Grant me a pelt
Only the sun can melt
Grant me fangs
Pointed that hang
Grant me eyes
Sharp that cut through lies
Grant me a howl
A powerful growl
Grant me a tail
One that will not fail
Heres where I stand
Over this great land
Wild and free
This is my true destiny
Not ForgottenBe peaceful, sleeping dragon, and sleep well,
And may your slumber bring you pleasant dreams.
Reality is harsher than it seems,
But dreaming visions do not have to tell
That when you go to sleep tonight you never shall arise.
The downy quilt of ash will keep you warm,
And also grant you rest without an end,
Your silence from the eons to defend,
And perfectly preserve your sleeping form,
So you are not forgotten, for your shut-forever eyes.
Take heart, devoted parent, guard your nest,
And may your care protect it from the storm.
Be steadfast as you watch the land transform,
And thus is your fidelity expressed,
Although your dedication's goal you never shall attain.
When rapid flows of sand begins to rise,
You still preserve your unborn progeny,
As you are joined with them eternally,
Recording what your honor must comprise,
So you are not forgotten, though your nurture was in vain.
Be bold, courageous hunter, seek your prey,
Although it is a dark and stormy night,
And on the sliding hill
It came in tasteful gestures on a shouldered backward breeze.
Ghosts of smiling children rocked the rusting set of swings.
Plucking yellow daisy tops, in streams the stones did sink.
While birds of cream and navy rode above a gust of pink.
The sun rays pressed their fingers through the isle of cobwebbed clouds.
Spitting shafts of sunlight lift the humming branches' sound.
The sipping of the soil weaned as dewdrops fell in threes.
In this brutte of cradled roots I lay beneath the trees.
Blood spills throughout this dark plain,
As skulls continue to rise up a towers crane,
The vermillion bird falls from the sky,
Where into dust itll disappear into pry.
The flames of distrust have been extinguished,
As the bird's heart fights to distinguish,
Rising up from the dust, as it readies insurrection,
Waiting for the moment of its dire resurrection.
The vermillion bird rises up from the dust,
Awaiting for a movement beyond the days dusk
As it spans its wings over the dark shadows,