C M Rasys

I often tell people that I don’t eat raisins because I had a bad experience, but I don’t always tell them what that experience was. In fact, sometimes merely telling people of my experience makes them not eat raisins as well. But what horrible thing happened to make me stop eating such a seemingly harmless food?

Did you know? All the world’s a river, I and others, the rocks and refuse, The masses the flow and ebb, and you? You’re the glisten, the shine, the glow, the glinting refraction, the bouncing reflection, the whole world turned upside-down in an endless azure splotched with wisps of vapor and verisimilitude. Did you hear? All my mind’s a fire, Distaste and derision the cracks and pops, Discord and doubt the hiss and the flare, and you?

Sometimes it’s her hair, or her eyes, or lips. Sometimes it’s the way she tilts her head when she talks. Sometimes it’s her breasts, or her ass. Sometimes it’s the way she walks when she knows you’re watching. Sometimes it’s hearing her speak your name. Sometimes it’s her long legs, or her creamy skin. Sometimes it’s the words she uses when she talks, or those ideas that nobody else ever has.

There is a place, far from here, where the wind whispers rhymes hewn from the words of God. Where the rocks gleam with the spit of man, massed piles of granite and obsidian rejects, strewn about like marbles from the sky. A place where all the birds are stripped bare of feathers and limbs and crawl through the grass like beaked-worms. The trees all bleed milky dew with a scent of berries mixed with old blood, attracting insects that stick and die, wings twitching in the wind.

Stan’s the man from Pakistan,

Devised a plan to get with Anne

Involving flans, lambs, and highly polished jars of jam.

As I said once to the rotting dead of past, What stories are told by lips of mold at last? Battles and defeat, a wanton retreat, a stabbing cuirass? Said He to I, “No, I died, so simple and crass.” A love forlorn? A heart a torn perhaps? Suicide pact? “Nay” said Him, to my chagrin, “I haven’t such tact.” Then please, tell me, just how it be, your body’s cold?

There once was this babe who was teething The sound hurt my head like a beating So I yanked them all out He gave quite a shout And now he’s all quiet and bleeding

Things of stone will crumble when, We do not know why we built them.

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I’ve always had a strong interest in both creative writing and computer programming. I’m sure most people might consider this an odd combination but it’s never felt like that to me. They’re both a way to express yourself using language. They both have grammar and syntax; a large hierarchy of complex rules; and a near-infinite number of possible permutations. You know, monkeys and typewriters and all that. This is me. Final results may vary.

Whatever you were looking for doesn’t exist Sorry about that. Here are some random posts instead ...see. But because they are always there, and I forget to look. ... Stand ...ever ask kids about that sort of thing. Sure, children are easily coerced or confused, but they still have opinions, and those opinions still count for something. My mother won... 47 Memory Lane Using __call() for Automatic Method Logging Posted on Jun 13, 2023 under PHP Last updated on Aug 26, 2023 Originally published on May 26, 2014 Collected under Programmings .