I'm alive

Sorry about not blogging in for so long. But I'm blogging most of my writtings anymore, instead just put up random stuff. I will however give an address for some new writings I will be putting on the web called Johnson the Reaper. It's my own work so enjoy,
     the returnie,
                 I

Stuff.

Not much happening, but I'll give all of you a nice little video, here. Internal poetry day was on thursday, so the monthly poetry was on then. I'll put on the four poems I wrote for it:

They wander around the world,

Ditzy like a moth,

And wonder why we treat them like confused children,

They mispronounce words,

Or even worse,

Make their own!

It’s pavement, not side walk.

You annoy us so much,

SO be gone ye scum,

You Tourist from the land of America

Nightmares and tears,

Life is short, time is loss,

And then no body tells me,

Until to late,

That poetry is today and not tomorrow!

Night creatures and shallow fate,

Dark things march upon the worlds of man,

But these dark things are no much,

In the horrors of the universal balance,

Then to the abominations of humanities has inflicted

Just so they can apparently raise us to be the best,

But the it’s all a hoax, a fascist facade,

But the only other fate,

Is to be viewed as a commoner by society,

But less then commoner,

To be a peon, in a land of quadratic equational masters,

Who really needs to know what a graph looks like in numbers,

So how to speak in languages all but dead,

But still society marches us towards the points,

And still doesn’t show us the point,

Of what they teach in secondary school.

As common as muck.

As fleeting as shadow.

Eight legs, Eight eyes,

They scatter at my hand,

And wander undaunted,

To them, giants run away,

But I can not see,

What is wrong,

With the common spider!

(They’re better then lawyers for one!)

Did you enjoy those? Yes, good. No, buzz off. Here is the saturdy writing:

And insomnia is the ghost of a scream. The clock tick-tocked on the wall, and all other things where silent> Not that Philip cared, life had already driven mad. Not insane mad but angry mad. He looked around his room, alone, again. His double bed was all but empty, he was to small to fill even half of it. He groaned at the horror of it, so he sat up and walked to the window and stared into the empty city. SOme lights where on and most where off. A car screeched around the corner. A blimp hooved above it all, the words:

Loyal thought is good thought,

Loyal lies are white lies,

Loyal truth is THE truth.

Another blimp moved past, only revealed by it's shadow passing of the first. Phillip smiled, the whole world obeyed the law, and in every shadow another enemy. It was all a lie of course, to stop the populice from thinking. The last time any populice had really thought they got Napoleon as their emperor. Phillip giggled at the thought.

"What you laugh at, Shorty?"  Hissed a voiced from behind him. Phillip turned his head as a hand shot forth to his troat and pinned him to the window pane. He looked into the eyes of the attacker, the only part of his character's figure revealed beyond the clothes he, or she, wore. Phillip cursed under his breath as he felt a fist slam into and shot him through the window. Maybe he should be afraid of the shadows.

That one was based first on one book idea I've got, then a 1984 rip off and then a completly different book idea, which was is an odd way to write a story that would take about an A4 page. The second piece was based on some images of story cubes.

Johnny Johnny Jonhniton was a artist, thats all Frankie knew about him. Frankie kept bees on the top floor of the five story building. But seeing his room for the first time was completly different to what Frankie thought Johnny would have.  It had lamps made of turtle shells instead of lightbulbs. The floor was replaced his concrete in some places, with footprints scattered all over it. Pyramids of maskes scattered here and there, one made of scuba maskes, one halloween, and another just alien maskes. Frankie gulped, he wondered where Johnnie was.

"What are you doing here?" Said Johnny's voice, Frankie looked around to see where he was.

"Up here, Fattie!" Yelled Johnny, Frankie looked up. Johnny was hanging from the ceiling  from his wristes just above Philip, a frown on his face.

"What are you doing up there?" Asked Phillip.

"What are you doing down there?" Johnny Roared.

"Got your milk, and your door was open."

"It's only 8 am." Yelled Johnny, the midday bell rang on the church across the street. "Oh" Cursed Johnny. Frankie shook his head and walked away leaving the milk behind, stepping over crates with compass markings and miniture tear shaped fountains. He heard Johnny land on the floor behund him.

"Enjoy your day, you fat intruder." Roared Johnny, Frankie just shrugged.

Horrified!

After checking my email account today I forgot to log out so I went to youtube, and then bam! I'm logged into youtube, it's really worring how much google now owns on the net, gmail, blogger, youtube, and now google circles or what ever. It's scary, an internet empire. But aleast they don't own cracked, yet. But anyways, you not here to for my social commentary on the fall of humanity's independence to a corporate run super red state, your here for my writings, so here they are:

All three are based on one of six themes, the first one is based on the theme on romance, the second is historical and third is horror and comedy.
1) "It is 4am in the city. There is no one about. Sé walked around the alley ways humming all the time. For once life was good, no women to ruin it. He saw nothing wrong with women per-say but every time he had a date, bad stuff happened, and he always got broken bones. In the two weeks since he had let her, he had got that great job in the bank, a snazzy car in a bet, that ten tonne elephant was out of his penthouse and."
How do you get an elephant into a penthouse?" Asked Sean, Miles sighed.
"You know kid, I'm just trying to tell you the love story between your papa and you ma'am." Growled the bartender. "In sixty years I've been bar tending, I've never been desturbed in telling a story, not since I blackmailed the sea monkey guy. Anway Sé was walking down an alley onto the open street. Now it's the middle of night so he doesn't check for on coming traffic. Now as tough as you paps is he couldn't take a knock to the head via a ten tonne truck. Now out of the truck stepped out this beautiful red head, and as she stared into your father's eyes."
"So thats my mum I geuss." blurted out Séan, but the bartender shook his head.
"All that woman did was set off the events that caused your father and mother to meet. But it all so silly you could never make it into a Romcom movie." Continued the bar tender. "Possibly a bad romantic novel writen by some git face teenager forced to write it for some reason or other, BUT NOT A MOVIE."

2) It's 4 am in the city. There is no-one about. Except in one small ware house where a man is tied upside down while three other men looked on, two with baseball bats standing by a third who was seated.
"Well this is a nice way to treat guestes!" Commented the hanged man, the seated man shooked his head.
"Guestes don;t spy on their hostes for rival gang bosses. It's bad enough Chircargo already had Bug Moran and Al Capone leaving me little space for poor little me." Replied the seated man.
"So you think I'am a rival gangster." Commented the hanged man, the three men nodded.
"Or FBI." Yelled on of the clud wielding men, the gang boss and the other clubsman stared at him.
"I said Fed, not FBI. For a made man your pretty thick." Said the gangboss. The hanged man swung from side to side.
"Why do you kiddo?" Asked the other clubsman.
"I'm bored of waiting for you to murder me, I want my pinyata like death a little more fun for you." Replied the hanged man.
"OH, we're not going to kill you" Remarked the crime boss, a slight grin on his face. "We're going to make you sing."

3) It is 4am in the city. There is no-one about. Ronnie jumped from building to building, running from, what ever that thing was, this it! It jumped after him and the night hid it's form, only hes flash light showed the way. He jumped another building, he heard it's footsteps. An he ran on, knowing he had to stop somewhere, eventul. So he jumped the last gap, the other end of the building opened on to the street. He jumper half way, and then nearly fell down, he clung to the wall and looked backed, his flash light was dropped. It jumped the casasm, he pulled himself up. He looked down, the flash light showing the chimeric horror of his past. It had pale skin, red eyes, black fur, and worst of all, two scarves.
"Daddy, why don't you want to play with me and mister snuggles?" Asked the child as she raised her toy. Ronnie screamed, the universe's two scariest horrors, a teddy bear and a child  of his line, with matching scarves.
  Ronnie shot out of bed, and checked the clock. His sweet ran down his body, it was 12:00 am. He saw his wife walking into the room carring a steamy mug.
"What's wrong mi'darling?" Asked his wife.
"I had a nightmare, we had a child." His wife gasped. "And she had a teddy bear," His wife gasped again. "And they has matching scarves!" His wife gasped a third time and fell unconscience in shock.  Ronnie sighed as the liquid spread on the floor. Being a vampire ment you had to be careful with carpet.

 The that's all dude,
                         Jamie.

The Neutrino Attack!

I presume some of you have heard the news, they finally made a neutrino move faster then the speed of light which means that you can stick your tongue out to this old man! Bur what does this actually mean for man kind? Probally nothing much for a while, scientistes would probally deny it or get horribly confused. Not much happening in my life but here is my writing:
These first two poems are based on personal pet hates:

They call it a book,
But a bibliophile would have not love for it,
They call it a form of society,
all about sharing,
but you can't truly share that matters to both heart and mind,
that which it breeds the ill breeds,
Of fear, shame, despair, anguish, pride, envy, anger,
those mental pulse, that to which the heart beats,
tha which contorts the mask of humans,
and while we speak of that,
they demand of you to show your mask,
that is in their name,
but to tell everybody your age, loves, hates and location,
so the beast can hunt you, but not a beast of claws,
but one that takes your secrets and your choices,
and treats it like a whore,
selling them to artistes of the coin,
but all the while the net encroaches,
on the social and communication webs,
they trap you like a fly,
and everything is linked to this book of maskes,
to fill the throne of zucker's mountain,
but what is this?
It's Mark Zuckerbergs' Facebook.

What is so funny? What makes you laugh?
You're a fool, so I won't speak reason too you,
As Solomon did advise,
your sense of humour show to me,
you lack focus or interlect,
and when our actions are counted,
your jokes will not please anybody,
and will drag you down,
so go pester somebody else,
somebody who shares your taste,
for your crappy humour,
and for you wretched  artwork,
we get it, brainiac, you're a boy,
and I don't think,
that any meritocracy,
would value you,
so silence fool,
before I throw you into the devil's pool,
and let  you drown,
because I didn't pity.

This last one is a short piece called spindrift, although it has nothing to do with that:
Thelonious tapped his pencil on the desk. The three men sat across from him, looking like indentical clones of the same thirty year old man but with different coloured hair, one black, one red and one platnium green.  For some reason Thelonious thought that the last man's hair should have been blonde, but their suits where indentical cool, Thelonious wanted their tailor's number.
"You're a necromancer, right?" Asked the first one,
"Yes." Calmly replied Thelonious, he wanted to grin to his glee. They all frowned and the third one slammed his fist on the table.
"Stop being so non-chalant kid. We are the Johnathon Inquistiroial triad of the glorious Necromancer order's grave digger beureau!" Growled the man.
"I would, but you are interigating me in a common room of a children's hospital." Thelonious smirked.
"Shut up" growled the second one.

Sorry about that one, I didn't quite finish it. But here are some nice enough cracked articles. But since this week's had a breath taking event I had a thought, did the dinosaurs really die of a meteor? If you have any theories other then the meteor one, please leave a comment! Not much else,
the sorrow shadow,
               I, myself and wikipedia.

Not much 'appening

Not much 'appening. I'll put up this weeks writing:
The first one was putting twenty random nouns to twenty random adjectives and then choosing ten to put into a pros piece, they'll be underlined:
Every rain drop soaked through the gear and the like in the fortess. Marcus walked through the passages of the fortress, dubbed dreamy necromancer 17, like a lost child. It made odd sense to build a necromatic fortress in an offshore oil refinery, but did they hace to take a small dingy to get to the middle of North Sea?
Even that Cold Car was better then this place, only the counicl chamber was more inforgiving then that machine. Two necromancers, one in hippy clothes and the other in a scuba suit, passed by Marcus. Marcus let them pass before checking around himself to check for anybody else before kicking  a small panel on the bottom of a wall, he heard a click and looked around himself, he couldn't see anything and then he heard another click. He felt the ground open up beneith him and the rush of air across his face as he fell down. When he finally landed on the crash pad he groaned for a second and then pushed himself up and walked to the doorway and through the illusion of a perfectly sealed door, he felt a tingle as he did so, and he entered the council chamber, a secret room deep beneith the sea, the home of the Spectral Eight. The eight highest necromancers in existance, only one was actually in the room but the other seven where represented by holograms; Hating Sword: lord of North America; Fiery Jewel: Warden of Antartica; Lonely Scar:  Maiden of Eurussia; Crimson Night: Councilor of South America; Fifth Mirror:  Voice of Australia and Paciffic: Doomed Griffin: Thane of Asia; Gleeish Mask: Choosen of Africa, and The Nameless One, High master of All Necromancers. One of them handed him an envolope, he didn't know which one as they all wore black hooded robes. Tehy where incredible secretive, so secretive in fact that less then a percent of all high level Necromancers knew the location of the council chambers, so what ever was in the envolope was important.

The next one was a similar exercise but with Verbs and Nouns, and senteces not a whole piece, three also had Hiakus made for them:
1) The fire cried with drops of metal as it ripped an teared apart the forge.
2) The blood dreamed it was never cursed, for as it spilled in that battle between the man and the witch, the stone rotted rather then let the blood run along it's surface.
3) As the tempest flew over head it spat lightning and lashed at the men with rain.
4)The Leech familiar grew as it drained the blood from the hawk which mutated as a result into a cross of  a dinosaur, platapus and a bunny rabbit covered in feathers.
5) The ghost mutalted the boy with hands that danced in and out of sight that in life belonged to a champion who corrupted all before being scorn by a wyvern sage, by it large jaws of diamond hard fangs.

Hiakus:
Here the champion,
by his lying stories true,
corrupts all the youth

The tempest flew high,
but it was not in ill wraith,
As not a drop fell

As my wretched word,
Flew from my own wretched maw,
Rot forth all the stone

That's all folk,
          The Shadow Poet,
                                    Me.

Schoolentine

I don't know why just wrote that name, not much going here. My writing course has however returned to life, and some newbies have taken an earlier slot, so us literary journymen. So here the writings:

The first is an idiom based poem I call:
Word Play
Can't teach an old dog to be a poor mans doctor,
Hold your doctors away for a day,
As one fool recognises a gift horse,
And a lead ballon should never call a kettle black,
cus' thats just damn racist!

This reminds me of a Monty Python sketch that is very, um, political incorrect!

This othe one is pure theivery, it is based on the priniciple of the poem My Love Has Fared Inland, by Medbh McGuckian, that is taking all the lines for the poem from an autobiography. We were made to do a similar thing, but with different biographies, I got Cash- the autobiography of Johnny Cash, the numbers show the page I got that line from:
I was convinced it was there,  -192
I was about ready to kill him, -174
I love playing for country people, with their graciousness and quiet appreciation, -117
and he had real enthusiasm, -86
I even had a title, Late and Alone, -276
but it really caught my attention, -163
and having girls all over me, -74
we call it unit one. My cacoon, -51
The next time I saw him, -94
Perphaps in the late 50's or early 60's, -154
I can't remember how long I had been up, when I wrecked him the first time, -162
I've gone and got it sevral time since that first attack, -199
So he found trumpet players, came on up, arranged the song and ran the session, -217
Terrible news came today, -280
Long Bihn at the time was 'hot' with patrols and sweeps, -236
 going out and enemy rockt and mortar rounds coming in. -236

Not much else; but here are so good internet games for you guys.

 The beastless,
                   I.

New Year of School, New Year of Pain

Hey y'all, Summer is over and, wait, did we even have a summer this year? There was more rain then days were days of natural blue. Not much going on but as a returnie to school I must complain about homework, and work and space mutants, for something or other, but space mutants must be complained about or else the sewer mutants will rise up in a devolution revolution! Sorry about that just been futurama recent, new episodes and all. Writing hasn't started yet but I've got to go to a Meitheal graduation ceremony, which means I will official start Meitheal work. I haven't done much work for the summer but I've got some poems for you guys from the last two Kinsale Poetry Evenings that I wrote:

Macabre boredom, Serial Sorrow,

The end to this age of nothing is nigh,

And now I am doomed,

But from when I had nothing ta’do,

I’ll soon get too much to care,

So I despises the rising hours of fearful hate,

For September is nearly here.

Frostbite Ode

I’m in an odd little mood,

But I think I’m perfectly sane,

All I want is frost bite,

It’s cold bites and certain death,

I’ll even take Acid burns, stab wounds and man eating insects,

Anything but these damn sunburns!

A man made forest sitting on the sea,

The dream of many a man,

But they sleep standing in this idle hour that no man sleeps.

By an ancient and mystic grace, a noble beast of the night,

By the glory of the sun he walks by the grace of a ballerina,

He laid asleep all day to collect that grace,

A walk like a model’s show,

Here is a miniature tiger, A panther in tabby,

A feline friend and companion.

When you are in hell,

Just to torture you,

Another year of pain.

How I wish to throw them into a gutter

And fry them in butter,

For my pies,

A meat like no other,

Fills My teacher and gravy pie.

One for boredom,

Two for homework,

Three for break to lunch (unless double),

Four for detention,

Five for plasticisation

Six for a full day (With the doubles)

Seven for,

AW damn it,

Do have to say anymore horrors,

That teachers bring?

  Yours truly,

          The Abyss One,

                               Jamie.