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Documentary films are created in an inverted funnel of declining possibility.

quote by Bruce Jackson
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Book IV - Part 03 - The Senses And Mental Pictures

Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight.
From certain things flow odours evermore,
As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray
From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls
Around the coasts. Nor ever cease to flit
The varied voices, sounds athrough the air.
Then too there comes into the mouth at times
The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea
We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch
The wormword being mixed, its bitter stings.
To such degree from all things is each thing
Borne streamingly along, and sent about
To every region round; and Nature grants
Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow,
Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have,
And all the time are suffered to descry
And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound.
Besides, since shape examined by our hands
Within the dark is known to be the same
As that by eyes perceived within the light
And lustrous day, both touch and sight must be
By one like cause aroused. So, if we test
A square and get its stimulus on us
Within the dark, within the light what square
Can fall upon our sight, except a square
That images the things? Wherefore it seems
The source of seeing is in images,
Nor without these can anything be viewed.

Now these same films I name are borne about
And tossed and scattered into regions all.
But since we do perceive alone through eyes,
It follows hence that whitherso we turn
Our sight, all things do strike against it there
With form and hue. And just how far from us
Each thing may be away, the image yields
To us the power to see and chance to tell:
For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves ahead
And drives along the air that's in the space
Betwixt it and our eyes. And thus this air
All glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere,
Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswise
Passes across. Therefore it comes we see
How far from us each thing may be away,
And the more air there be that's driven before,
And too the longer be the brushing breeze
Against our eyes, the farther off removed
Each thing is seen to be: forsooth, this work
With mightily swift order all goes on,
So that upon one instant we may see

[...] Read more

poem by Lucretius
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Eternal Creation

The Parent’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to the child; but to irrefutably ensure that the infant was nourished with their breath and blood till the time it could unflinchingly fend for its symbiotic survival; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created them for,

The Sun’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to light; but to irrefutably ensure that the rays optimistically enlightened even the most infinitesimally lugubrious cranny of remorsefully cloistered earth; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Rose’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to fragrance; but to irrefutably ensure that the majestic resplendence ebulliently blossomed into the lives of countless haplessly beleaguered and bereaved; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Peak’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to victory; but to irrefutably ensure that the royal triumph peerlessly massacred even the most ethereal iota of devilishness form this Universe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

Nature’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to newness; but to irrefutably ensure that the evolution metamorphosed every bit of egregiously stagnating ghoulishness into a sky of rhapsodic freshness; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Cloud’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to rain; but to irrefutably ensure that the water stupendously ignited vivaciously iridescent life in every ingredient of hopelessly dying soil; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Conscience’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to truth; but to irrefutably ensure that the righteousness insuperably conquered every trace of diabolical lies on earth and the atmosphere; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Ocean’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to salt; but to irrefutably ensure that the tanginess wonderfully illuminated every treacherously spiceles and deliriously lackadaisical moment of life; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Poet’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to fantasy; but to irrefutably ensure that the dream spellbindingly impregnates the winds of Omnipotent romance into monotonously monstrous robots; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created him for,

The Lip’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to smiles; but to irrefutably ensure that the happiness altruistically perpetually perpetuates into every dwelling incarcerated in chains of murderous gloom; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Rainbow’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to vividness; but to irrefutably ensure that the color timelessly enshrouded every gruesomely befriended orphan; miserably deteriorating on the globe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The Shadow’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to tranquility; but to irrefutably ensure that the peacefulness granted celestial reprieve to every bizarrely estranged soul squandering on this Universe; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created it for,

The philanthropist’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to unity; but to irrefutably ensure that the oneness miraculously coalesced every spuriously staggering and cold-bloodedly fighting caste; creed and tribe into the unassailable religion of humanity; was what the Almighty Creator had eternally created him for,

The wind’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to freedom; but to irrefutably ensure that the liberation unequivocally freed every element of torturously enslaved earth till times immemorial; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

The night’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to sensuality; but to irrefutably ensure that the passion brilliantly transformed every speck of infertility into the chapters of everlastingly Omniscient procreation; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

The eyelash’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to flirtation; but to irrefutably ensure that the mischief serenely catapulted every fretfully frenetic organism into realms of impeccable childhood; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

The soldiers job just doesn’t end at giving birth to martyrdom; but to irrefutably ensure that the valor to timelessly serve the mothersoil; throbbed fearlessly in every chest; even centuries after his veritable death; was what the Almighty Creator had created him for,

The breath’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to life; but to irrefutably ensure that the exultation inexhaustibly transcended over; even the most inane anecdote of baseless corruption and demeaning death; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for,

And the heart’s job just doesn’t end at giving birth to Love; but to irrefutably ensure that the compassionate togetherness tirelessly bonded the entire planet into a paradise of Omnipresently unshakable strength; was what the Almighty Creator had created it for…

©copyright-2004, by nikhil parekh. All rights reserved.

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Don't Relapse To Recap

Get out of bed and stop retreading...
Chases loved created.
Get out of bed and stop retreading...
Chases loved created.

Don't relapse to recap them.
Chases loved created.

That which is 'not',
Leave it.
That which is 'not',
Leave it be.

Get out of bed and stop retreading...
Chases loved created.
Get out of bed and stop retreading...
Chases loved created.

Don't relapse to recap them.
Chases loved created.

That which is 'not',
Leave it.
That which is 'not',
Leave it be.

Eliminate don't calculate.
Choose another way to face...
A path to take to speed your pace.

Don't relapse to recap them.
Chases loved created.
Don't relapse to recap them.
Chases loved created.

That which is 'not',
Leave it.
That which is 'not',
Leave it be.

Get out of bed and stop retreading...
Chases loved created.
Get out of bed and stop retreading...
Chases loved created.

Don't relapse to recap them.
Chases loved created.

That which is 'not',
Leave it.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Its A Possibility

This song was first released on the one world album. it is the only album it has been released on.
For all the times that youve wondered why
The world turned out this way
And all of the times that youve asked yourself
About the games that people play
About the politics of hunger
And the politics of need
How the politics of power
Seem to be the politics of greed
For all of the times that youve struggled in an effort
To work your way back upstream
And all of the times youve held on to it
When most of us had lost the dream
And for all of the ones who have walked with you
By your side or way back home
Maybe much more than any of us
You know that no one is really alone
Because the heart is still a hunter
Its like a beacon in the night
And though the heart is just a lover
Its never afraid to fight
We are fighting for more than survival
We are working for more than peace
We are giving ourselves to each other
Making sure all injustice is will someday cease
You can take a look around you
And you can see how far weve come
All the separate parts
All the hundreds of hearts
That are beating together as one
Its a possibility
For many tomorrows
Its a possibility
Of a world to be made for everyone
Its a possibility
No more suffering and sorrow
Its a possibility
Its in everyone
Its a possibility
For many tomorrows
Its a possibility
Of a world to be made for everyone
Its a possibility
No more suffering and no more sorrow
Its a possibility
Its in everyone
Words and music by john denver

song performed by John Denver
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And God Created Woman

In a deep sleep I fell
And the music starts 2 swell
One of my ribs he took and it shall be
Bone of my bones (bone of my bones)
And God created woman
And we were naked and did not care
Theres a time 2 take and a time 2 share
2 in love, all around and all aware
Flesh of my flesh (flesh of my flesh)
And God created woman
Temptation sweet and so much (sweet and so much)
Surely die if neither one of us shall ye touch (shall ye touch)
Then again we could die from the rush (rush)
Heart of my heart (heart of my heart)
And God created woman (woman)
Woman
My-my-my-my-my-my woman
In my darkest hour I find
Many serpents who have lied (lied)
Given half the chance still Id run 2 your side (run 2 your side)
Love of my love (love of my love)
And God created woman (woman)
And if I never see u again
Its alright 4 I am guilty of no sin
They can have u, Ill have your love in the end
Soul of my soul (soul of my soul)
And God created woman
(God created woman)
(God created woman) (woman)
Flesh of my flesh
(God created woman) (soul)
(God created, God created woman)
(God created, God created woman)
(God created woman)

song performed by Prince
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Yes Yes

when God created love he didn't help most
when God created dogs He didn't help dogs
when God created plants that was average
when God created hate we had a standard utility
when God created me He created me
when God created the monkey He was asleep
when He created the giraffe He was drunk
when He created narcotics He was high
and when He created suicide He was low

when He created you lying in bed
He knew what He was doing
He was drunk and He was high
and He created the mountians and the sea and fire at the same time

He made some mistakes
but when He created you lying in bed
He came all over His Blessed Universe.

Submitted by .eve.

poem by Charles Bukowski
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Captain Dobbin

CAPTAIN Dobbin, having retired from the South Seas
In the dumb tides of , with a handful of shells,
A few poisoned arrows, a cask of pearls,
And five thousand pounds in the colonial funds,
Now sails the street in a brick villa, 'Laburnum Villa',
In whose blank windows the harbour hangs
Like a fog against the glass,
Golden and smoky, or stoned with a white glitter,
And boats go by, suspended in the pane,
Blue Funnel, Red Funnel, Messageries Maritimes,
Lugged down the port like sea-beasts taken alive
That scrape their bellies on sharp sands,
Of which particulars Captain Dobbin keeps
A ledger sticky with ink,
Entries of time and weather, state of the moon,
Nature of cargo and captain's name,
For some mysterious and awful purpose
Never divulged.
For at night, when the stars mock themselves with lanterns,
So late the chimes blow loud and faint
Like a hand shutting and unshutting over the bells,
Captain Dobbin, having observed from bed
The lights, like a great fiery snake, of the Comorin
Going to sea, will note the hour
For subsequent recording in his gazette.
But the sea is really closer to him than this,
Closer to him than a dead, lovely woman,
For he keeps bits of it, like old letters,
Salt tied up in bundles
Or pressed flat,
What you might call a lock of the sea's hair,
So Captain Dobbin keeps his dwarfed memento,
His urn-burial, a chest of mummied waves,
Gales fixed in print, and the sweet dangerous countries
Of shark and casuarina-tree,
Stolen and put in coloured maps,
Like a flask of seawater, or a bottled ship,
A schooner caught in a glass bottle;
But Captain Dobbin keeps them in books,
Crags of varnished leather
Pimply with gilt, by learned mariners
And masters of hydrostatics, or the childish tales
Of simple heroes, taken by Turks or dropsy.
So nightly he sails from shelf to shelf
Or to the quadrants, dangling with rusty screws,
Or the hanging-gardens of old charts,
So old they bear the authentic protractor-lines,
Traced in faint ink, as fine as Chinese hairs.
Over the flat and painted atlas-leaves
His reading-glass would tremble,

[...] Read more

poem by Kenneth Slessor
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Air Of Diabelli's

CALL it to mind, O my love.
Dear were your eyes as the day,
Bright as the day and the sky;
Like the stream of gold and the sky above,
Dear were your eyes in the grey.
We have lived, my love, O, we have lived, my love!
Now along the silent river, azure
Through the sky's inverted image,
Softly swam the boat that bore our love,
Swiftly ran the shallow of our love
Through the heaven's inverted image,
In the reedy mazes round the river.
See along the silent river,

See of old the lover's shallop steer.
Berried brake and reedy island,
Heaven below and only heaven above.
Through the sky's inverted image
Swiftly swam the boat that bore our love.
Berried brake and reedy island,
Mirrored flower and shallop gliding by.
All the earth and all the sky were ours,
Silent sat the wafted lovers,
Bound with grain and watched by all the sky,
Hand to hand and eye to . . . eye.

Days of April, airs of Eden,
Call to mind how bright the vanished angel hours,
Golden hours of evening,
When our boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
O darling, call them to mind; love the past, my love.
Days of April, airs of Eden.
How the glory died through golden hours,
And the shining moon arising;
How the boat drew homeward filled with flowers.
Age and winter close us slowly in.

Level river, cloudless heaven,
Islanded reed mazes, silver weirs;
How the silent boat with silver
Threads the inverted forest as she goes,
Broke the trembling green of mirrored trees.
O, remember, and remember
How the berries hung in garlands.

Still in the river see the shallop floats.
Hark! Chimes the falling oar.
Still in the mind
Hark to the song of the past!
Dream, and they pass in their dreams.

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Louis Stevenson
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Paradise Lost: Book 07

Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
Following, above the Olympian hill I soar,
Above the flight of Pegasean wing!
The meaning, not the name, I call: for thou
Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top
Of old Olympus dwellest; but, heavenly-born,
Before the hills appeared, or fountain flowed,
Thou with eternal Wisdom didst converse,
Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play
In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased
With thy celestial song. Up led by thee
Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air,
Thy tempering: with like safety guided down
Return me to my native element:
Lest from this flying steed unreined, (as once
Bellerophon, though from a lower clime,)
Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall,
Erroneous there to wander, and forlorn.
Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound
Within the visible diurnal sphere;
Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole,
More safe I sing with mortal voice, unchanged
To hoarse or mute, though fallen on evil days,
On evil days though fallen, and evil tongues;
In darkness, and with dangers compassed round,
And solitude; yet not alone, while thou
Visitest my slumbers nightly, or when morn
Purples the east: still govern thou my song,
Urania, and fit audience find, though few.
But drive far off the barbarous dissonance
Of Bacchus and his revellers, the race
Of that wild rout that tore the Thracian bard
In Rhodope, where woods and rocks had ears
To rapture, till the savage clamour drowned
Both harp and voice; nor could the Muse defend
Her son. So fail not thou, who thee implores:
For thou art heavenly, she an empty dream.
Say, Goddess, what ensued when Raphael,
The affable Arch-Angel, had forewarned
Adam, by dire example, to beware
Apostasy, by what befel in Heaven
To those apostates; lest the like befall
In Paradise to Adam or his race,
Charged not to touch the interdicted tree,
If they transgress, and slight that sole command,
So easily obeyed amid the choice
Of all tastes else to please their appetite,
Though wandering. He, with his consorted Eve,

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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The Devil's Loco

I live by an ancient railway track
Near the village of Nether Stonely,
Though the trains were left in the distant past,
And the ribbon of track is lonely,
The rails are rusted, covered in weeds
And lead to an old stone tunnel,
That squads of Victorian engineers
Once sealed to the height of a funnel.

As lads, we'd clamber up to the top
And peer through the gap left up there,
Into the pitch of the blackness, where
You could still get a whiff of sulphur.
We'd shout ‘Hello! ' there, into the dark,
And listen to hear the echo
Bounce off the curve of the soot-black walls
That seemed to be whispering ‘Loco! '

The legend went that a local lad
In '93, in the winter,
Had followed his dog as it chased a hare,
They'd all been seen to go in there,
A tank, a 2.4.2 went in
To the dark of the old stone tunnel,
With sparks and smoke obscuring the view
As sulphur poured from its funnel.

It didn't come out from the other side,
The boy never reappeared,
The company suddenly closed off the line
With that bevy of engineers,
The loco was written right off from the books,
They said it had gone to the knackers,
And secretive meetings were held at the docks
With directors, and all of their backers!

I slipped right over that wall at ten,
But nobody would believe me,
And felt my way through the darkness then
As my eyes, they thought to deceive me,
A loco, cold, and covered in rust
Stood silent there in the tunnel,
And under the front, a skeleton crushed,
As dead as the old train's funnel!

On winter days when a fog or haze
Comes down, I can hear it barking,
A dog in chase of a hare, and then
The sound of a young boy laughing,
And then the rumble and chuff of a train

[...] Read more

poem by David Lewis Paget
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The Andamooka Storm

The saltbush stirred in a sullen breeze
At the Coober Pedy Mine,
Where the ground was baked to a shallow crust
With the surface cracked, and lined,
For it hadn't rained for a seven month,
And the sky was clear and blue,
While a spirit crept from the Opal stone,
At Andamooka, too.

At Mintabie, the wind crept out
Of a hole in the sacred ground,
It swirled and it swept across the land
As the spirit scowled and frowned,
It formed a cone and it swept around
To the Andamooka side,
And joined with the Coober Pedy wind
Like a bridegroom to a bride.

The cone spread out three hundred miles,
It growled as it whirled in grace,
And the dust it stirred streamed skywards up
Like a funnel in outer space,
While the men below in the Opal Mines
Hid deep in the dugout's lair,
Lay flat on the floor and held their ears
From the scream of the storm out there!

While less than a hundred miles away
In the depths of a grim old ruin,
Sat a slip of a girl with a surly mouth
At a table, in the gloom,
For piled up high on the table lay
The fruits of her father's life,
The greens and the golds of the Opal stones
That he'd worked for, with his wife.

But the girl sat quite alone in there,
And could it be, she smiled,
These sacks of rocks, not the only things
That lay by the demon child,
For by her hand lay a hammer, stained
With the colour of earth and mud,
And something that glistened and dried on it,
The red of her parents' blood!

She strained and heaved at the sacks of rocks
And dragged them out to the car,
Then looked across at the mound of earth
That covered a gaping scar,
She dragged the last sack to the porch

[...] Read more

poem by David Lewis Paget
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The key fact missed most often by social scientists utilizing documentary films for data, is this: documentary films are not found or reported things; they're made things.

quote by Bruce Jackson
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Paradise Lost: Book 05

Now Morn, her rosy steps in the eastern clime
Advancing, sowed the earth with orient pearl,
When Adam waked, so customed; for his sleep
Was aery-light, from pure digestion bred,
And temperate vapours bland, which the only sound
Of leaves and fuming rills, Aurora's fan,
Lightly dispersed, and the shrill matin song
Of birds on every bough; so much the more
His wonder was to find unwakened Eve
With tresses discomposed, and glowing cheek,
As through unquiet rest: He, on his side
Leaning half raised, with looks of cordial love
Hung over her enamoured, and beheld
Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep,
Shot forth peculiar graces; then with voice
Mild, as when Zephyrus on Flora breathes,
Her hand soft touching, whispered thus. Awake,
My fairest, my espoused, my latest found,
Heaven's last best gift, my ever new delight!
Awake: The morning shines, and the fresh field
Calls us; we lose the prime, to mark how spring
Our tender plants, how blows the citron grove,
What drops the myrrh, and what the balmy reed,
How nature paints her colours, how the bee
Sits on the bloom extracting liquid sweet.
Such whispering waked her, but with startled eye
On Adam, whom embracing, thus she spake.
O sole in whom my thoughts find all repose,
My glory, my perfection! glad I see
Thy face, and morn returned; for I this night
(Such night till this I never passed) have dreamed,
If dreamed, not, as I oft am wont, of thee,
Works of day past, or morrow's next design,
But of offence and trouble, which my mind
Knew never till this irksome night: Methought,
Close at mine ear one called me forth to walk
With gentle voice; I thought it thine: It said,
'Why sleepest thou, Eve? now is the pleasant time,
'The cool, the silent, save where silence yields
'To the night-warbling bird, that now awake
'Tunes sweetest his love-laboured song; now reigns
'Full-orbed the moon, and with more pleasing light
'Shadowy sets off the face of things; in vain,
'If none regard; Heaven wakes with all his eyes,
'Whom to behold but thee, Nature's desire?
'In whose sight all things joy, with ravishment
'Attracted by thy beauty still to gaze.'
I rose as at thy call, but found thee not;
To find thee I directed then my walk;
And on, methought, alone I passed through ways

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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Laws

Laws created to curb the rise of domestic violence.
Laws created to curb the rise of racial tensions.
Laws created to curb interpretations,
Of what is and what is not politically correct.
But those who are corrupted and create the laws...
Can not see their own flaws,
That initiate the mess.

Laws created to curb a racial profiling on the rise.
Laws created to curb a greed that has affected lives.
Laws that limit freedoms to blatantly discriminate...
Those who do this anyway,
No matter what the laws are to perpetuate a hate.

Laws created to curb the rise of domestic violence.
Laws created to curb the rise of racial tensions.
Laws created to curb interpretations,
Of what is and what is not politically correct.
But those who are corrupted and create the laws...
Can not see their own flaws,
That initiate the mess.

And those upset by these laws,
Want more of them and yet neglect!
Like 'Commandments' given no respect.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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God Spoke And It Was

God Himself created the heavens, the earth, and all that man can see,
He spoke all into existence and will sustain it all through eternity.

As The Spirit hovered over the earth, God said “Let there be light”,
As He spoke it was created and there was day and there was night.

He said “Let there be a separation of the waters below and up high”,
He saw the expanse that He created said it is good and called it sky.

He said “Let all the waters be gathered to one place” and it will be,
This created a dry area He called land and the waters He called seas.

He said “Let the land produce various plants, trees, and vegetation”,
He saw all He created, said it is good on the third day of creation.

After God produced all the vegetation, He said “Let there be lights”,
So He created a light for the days and a lesser light for the nights.

He then spoke regarding creatures in the land, the seas, and the sky,
So He added to His creation creatures that could walk, swim, and fly.

As God continued He said to Christ “Let's make man in our own image”,
So He created man from simple dust and put him in a special lineage.

For God blessed man who He called Adam and put him over His creation,
However God's special fellowship ended when man fell into temptation.

But today God has spoken through His Son Jesus, who brings Salvation,
Even creation waits to be liberated by Christ with eager expectation.

(Copyright © 01/2003)

poem by Bob Gotti
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Stream Line Consciousness

Big brother voyeur blimps unidentified spies
uncle sam peeping toms patrolling skies
bird brain police intelligence
remote viewing homeland pest control
pentagon private eye monitoring the public's every move
mass produced micro chips intercepting prayers patrolling citizens from heaven
Bentham's Panopticon NSA
super computer surveillance cameras
world police spying Manhattan streets

'Athens plummets Euro death spiral
suicide rates soar deepening into despair'

haaretz..the post.. the times
blogs tribunes dailies all in a mad gab
headlong headline attention grabbing scramble

'Yugoslavia - Iraq - Egypt - Yemen - Iran - Syria - United States'
bilderberg building blocks New American Century post apocalyptic prophecy

'foreign mercenaries …national guard...DOD
homeland security to amass covert munitions stockpile
Americans on guard anxieties mounting surrounding
the stripping of amendments 1st if you swing to your left
2nd if you stand on the right
whispers of martial law circulate Anarchical reverberations
emanate from internet Alt culture epicenters
bottle necking global tensions'

'common feeling of deepening disappointment...
heightened expectations...
people expecting an explosive situation over the
next few weeks'

...riot police respond 'to preserve public order'
public roads barricaded to 'protect security of citizens'

'blatant act of censorship
western mainstream media staying away
from Myanmar massacres of Mohammedan Angels
further showing strong anti Muslim bias'

'Media blackout Burmese army
seeking coverage under propaganda blankets'

from the middle east throughout the western world
planet consciousness blurring lines between conspiracy/reality
conflicting global network narratives multiply violent scenarios daily
Victims in a world wide scramble
Government Banking Military

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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Paradise Lost: Book 03

Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven firstborn,
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
May I express thee unblam'd? since God is light,
And never but in unapproached light
Dwelt from eternity, dwelt then in thee
Bright effluence of bright essence increate.
Or hear"st thou rather pure ethereal stream,
Whose fountain who shall tell? before the sun,
Before the Heavens thou wert, and at the voice
Of God, as with a mantle, didst invest ***
The rising world of waters dark and deep,
Won from the void and formless infinite.
Thee I re-visit now with bolder wing,
Escap'd the Stygian pool, though long detain'd
In that obscure sojourn, while in my flight
Through utter and through middle darkness borne,
With other notes than to the Orphean lyre
I sung of Chaos and eternal Night;
Taught by the heavenly Muse to venture down
The dark descent, and up to re-ascend,
Though hard and rare: Thee I revisit safe,
And feel thy sovran vital lamp; but thou
Revisit'st not these eyes, that roll in vain
To find thy piercing ray, and find no dawn;
So thick a drop serene hath quench'd their orbs,
Or dim suffusion veil'd. Yet not the more
Cease I to wander, where the Muses haunt,
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; but chief
Thee, Sion, and the flowery brooks beneath,
That wash thy hallow'd feet, and warbling flow,
Nightly I visit: nor sometimes forget
So were I equall'd with them in renown,
Thy sovran command, that Man should find grace;
Blind Thamyris, and blind Maeonides,
And Tiresias, and Phineus, prophets old:
Then feed on thoughts, that voluntary move
Harmonious numbers; as the wakeful bird
Sings darkling, and in shadiest covert hid
Tunes her nocturnal note. Thus with the year
Seasons return; but not to me returns
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men
Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair
Presented with a universal blank
Of nature's works to me expung'd and ras'd,
And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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Naked Bodies...

naked bodies...

great love...

darkest world...

shinny bodies only...

met because of GOD needs

the man i am of yours..

the great lover...

strong one whom you need..

here we are together..

alone no with us...

only me and you...

there where we can make all what our hearts and bodies needs...

all desires all lust we will get...

there we are...

where that GOD sent both us...

to be there naked...

naked...

naked as the day we were born...

when GOD created us...

created into our souls a great lust...

lust that never go away from inside...

lust that could give more happiness to the both...

[...] Read more

poem by Hazem Al Jaber
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Liberty is the possibility of doubting, the possibility of making a mistake, the possibility of searching and experimenting, the possibility of saying No to any authority--literary, artistic, philosophic, religious, social and even political.

Ignazio Silone in The God That Failed (1950)
Added by Lucian Velea
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Liberty is the possibility of doubting, the possibility of making a mistake, the possibility of searching and experimenting, the possibility of saying No to any authority - literary, artistic, philosophic, religious, social and even political.

quote by Ignazio Silone
Added by Lucian Velea
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