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jurialmunkey
07-15-2006, 11:12 PM
from dictionary.com
ar·rant
adj.
Completely such; thoroughgoing: an arrant fool; the arrant luxury of the ocean liner.

from Merriam-Webster online
ar·rant
adj.
Etymology: alteration of errant
: being notoriously without moderation : EXTREME <we are arrant knaves, all; believe none of us -- Shakespeare>
- ar·rant·ly adv.

sketchyjoe
07-16-2006, 02:42 AM
PSYCHOPOMP STOMP

The jackhearts are seeking rude radio retribution
The wounded darts are looking for a bizarre absolution
The devil's in the detail but the rebel isn't in the retail
He's hiding in the space between the notes

The dog-eared gems are drinking deep desire
The us and thems are weeping for the rundown messiah
She calls a spade a spade and gets called a renegade
So she shoots softly reciting tattooed quotes

In the pearls of the strange and the ermine mange
Concerned only with the madness of matador matters
There lie the ones who dance in quintessence
With barbed wire manuscripts and simple crypts
Refreshed by the loving touch of ocean spatter
There lives a half-life of half-hearted phosphorescence

The rifle rearguards are lined, praying for the brutal cue
The vapid vulture wildcards want a way to destroy you
When you can slay a dragon but won't stay on the wagon
You need to jump 'fore you cross redemption bridge

The abstract battalions are waiting on a hellish sign
The forsaken stallions are blades cutting up the borderline
The artillery's jammed so raid the distillery of the damned
And we'll stumble silhouetted on to that winding ridge

With cannonball propriety and whispered notoriety
Across our legacy we burn and pop and stomp
There we march steadfastly towards obsolescence
Sentenced to our worst fears of advancing years
Hand in gnarled hand with the arrant psychopomps
There lives the fight against inevitable senescence

pixiesfanyo
07-17-2006, 12:50 PM
jurial is gay.

guitar_is_life1992
07-18-2006, 11:03 AM
(ok think i got this defined right if not let me know please i found that the defintion was believe or trust none of us so im going with that)


NO AWNSERS





People today,were all so weighed with hate
Why can't we put the guns away
Brother to brother we can stand
If this world would just relax the hand
There's no awnser anymore
We look to the sky
No awnsers so we get high
We try to make it
Instead we take it
Its an arrant world today!
feel the pain set in as we all try
but we hve no brothers on the ground or in the sky
Its arrant world today!
And we stand here with no awnsers
feeling all the hate

SubtleDagger
07-20-2006, 12:39 AM
Weddings And Funerals

As headlights swiftly pass me by
I want to open up these eyes
That fall so heavily below
The memories in my head that grow
Like death row empathy, and then
To reach out softly, take your hand
And tell you your life meant something
While these highways never end.

My thoughts run errant red lights to
The heart of what I dreamt of you,
Your face reflecting mine, the time
Fallen in lifelessness, while I'm
Struggling to find the air to breathe
And working hard to grit my teeth
To think of anything besides
Your nostalgic photographs.

And as the horns drown out your laugh,
I sleep upon your epitaphs
And dirges, lying down in your
Old clothing, passing hours for
The years that I have left ahead
To face without you in this bed;
Though this car may someday steer me home
You're always in my past.

RunAmokRampant
07-20-2006, 04:07 AM
Solitude’s Edge
(A tribute to Gwen Harwood)

The cliff faces spell ‘Test fate’ and I
also walk on the edge. I may not walk so
assuredly as Gwen or as securely but I
also leave behind my mask painted for the flow.

To leave a message is to throw the bottle overboard
and sing for reefs and land. Solitude in the gaping ocean
is frightful. The black waves of night snicker and glow
in Neptune’s servitude. Fear is my resignation

and finally the south westerly leads the schooner to “Land Ahoy!”
Through parched lips I croak to the sea
“Your arrant freedom has me lost, I’m only a boy!”
and I turn my blistered back on the water. Am I not man enough?

I greet the shore with sun burnt exasperation.
There is no soft sand, just a sharp, tall margin
of cliff face touching the puffy grey skies.
The journey never seems to end with the founding
of land: An illusion omitted from the mediocre storyteller.

I abandon the safety of the schooner to climb the face.
Reaching the top I spot the painted mask of which I abhor,
which beckons. The sea senses my confusion and asks
for hearty forgiveness. I stay on the cliff edge where
neither of the two can quell.

And I’m still here tight roping across,
with umbrella and all, not worrying about the land
or sea, flesh or spirit, congestion or freedom.
Walking on the edge, living in the middle, playing
Duck, duck, goose in the centre. Am I not boy enough?

We’ve never met, nor have our lives overlapped
Long enough for me to shed the fat off my soul.
To do so is to appreciate poetry from the dead and restful
And wonder how they felt left
on the edge of isolation.

RunAmokRampant
07-25-2006, 05:02 AM
Closed