compound complex

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Posts by compound complex

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  102

  More on Punctuation

  by compound complex in

  1. watchtower
  2. child-abuse

  jd souther ... is most widely known for his part in writing somber, elegiac songs that the eagles and linda ronstadt made famous, such as "new kid in town," heartache tonight," and "faithless love.

  " the new yorker, february 13 & 20, 2012, troubadour, page 36.. .

  "i've never made a record in new york, start to finish," he went on.

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  compound complex

  Please punctuate the following:

  Have you visited Washington D C
• 
  3

  Their interest in us is self-serving.

  by compound complex in

  1. social
  2. entertainment

  why these war-beasts have kept me on i haven't a clue.

  perhaps my ruddy complexion is a reminder of the basic hue of a home deserted yet scarcely forgotten.. .

  i cannot by any stretch of the imagination -- and there's been a great deal of such "stretching" lately -- attribute to these coarse and loathsome creatures any delicate sentiment characteristic of our gentler race.

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  compound complex

  Why these war-beasts have kept me on I haven't a clue. Perhaps my ruddy complexion is a reminder of the basic hue of a home deserted yet scarcely forgotten.

  
  

  I cannot by any stretch of the imagination -- and there's been a great deal of such "stretching" lately -- attribute to these coarse and loathsome creatures any delicate sentiment characteristic of our gentler race. These Martians are scorpions. They are malefactors to the most extreme degree.

  
  

  Upon first sighting of the alien beings, we humans found ourselves both inescapably transfixed by their revolting semblance of a face and, subsequently, retching with violent abandon, overcome as we were by their unimaginable hideousness.

  
  

  My viewing INVADERS FROM MARS, when a child, could not have prepared me for what started out as a little boy's nightmare. Now-extinguished friends had earlier tossed off the initial radio contact from the Martians as a higher power's benign interest in an inferior intelligence.

  
  

  Such fatuous naivete has cost us all dearly.
• 
  4

  ...another "I" phone this one from apple..

  by zeb in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  good grief thats all we need..... these phones take so much concentration from the world about them for their users they are dangerous.. i was out on my bike on a bike path and nearly skittled two teen somethings who just meandered out in front of me in 'convo' and with buds and oblivious to traffic about them.

  .

  not just teens either the law here gives heavy fines for anyone phoning or texting while driving..

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  compound complex

  It's not that I'm unfavorable toward advanced technology, but the TIME and EFFORT and MONEY involved is beyond my ability to handle.

  I have an old Canon Powershot that works great, but the photos must be loaded to my ancient (ten years old) laptop before I can send them out. It's a bummer, sure, that I have to keep the batteries in with a rubber band. Small worry there. Not as instant as Instagram, but must everything we do be instantaneous?!?!?!?!?

  I carry several paper notebooks with me and write down needed info WITH A PENCIL. It works. The worst deal is my lead breaks. I carry a small pencil sharpener with me at all times. I am prepared!

  All of the above is cheap and problem free. Well, my pc is rather slow, but, then, so am I!

  CHEERS!
• 
  7

  In love, and my life is . . .

  by compound complex in

  1. social
  2. entertainment

  the tender of the flock.

  what manner of adversary are you, o cupid, my newest enemy and cleaver of a heart.

  rent in two by love's dart unwanted?scarce would i seek your quiver emptied of all.

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  compound complex

  Thanks, LV101 and Diogenesister!

  Love your comments!

  
  
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  7

  In love, and my life is . . .

  by compound complex in

  1. social
  2. entertainment

  the tender of the flock.

  what manner of adversary are you, o cupid, my newest enemy and cleaver of a heart.

  rent in two by love's dart unwanted?scarce would i seek your quiver emptied of all.

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  compound complex

  On the slim chance anyone reads this, did you fall in love with one of the sheep while "tending the flock," i.e., carrying out, in all sincerity, your Theocratic assignments? Guys or gals, all the same in love and war.

  It was a thin line between agape love and the "other" one, the one that could lead to ruin.

  Oh, well, I hope someone comments . . .
• 
  7

  In love, and my life is . . .

  by compound complex in

  1. social
  2. entertainment

  the tender of the flock.

  what manner of adversary are you, o cupid, my newest enemy and cleaver of a heart.

  rent in two by love's dart unwanted?scarce would i seek your quiver emptied of all.

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  compound complex

  The Tender of the Flock

  What manner of adversary are you, O Cupid,
  My newest enemy and cleaver of a heart

  Rent in two by Love's dart unwanted?
  Scarce would I seek your quiver emptied of all

  Implements of Love's war, if but to liberate
  This shepherd boy from a wasting sickness

  Brought upon an unsuspecting and pure spirit.
  Content have I been to drink in Nature's

  Beauty and surfeit my pining soul with
  Her manifold bounties.

  She and she alone has been,
  To present, sufficient food for all

  My youthful cravings.
  Now, because of you,

  Despised one, my once
  Simple eye has become darkened.

  The Serpent has coiled round and round.
  He holds tight fast and lets flow his venom

  Slow and insuperable till my full
  Allegiance becomes guaranteed.

  That dear, dear and innocent tender
  Of the fold abides no more.

  Your arrows, O Cupid, are they clad
  In lead or are they sheathed in gold?

  O, cunning and ruthless One, I have become
  Weary from a desire heretofore unknown.

  I am sickened at my very center.
  Flesh and resolve, at one time resistant

  To sin's allure, are now troubled by
  Inconvenient stirrings.

  They rumble deep within a frame of roiling
  And burning blood that seeks an unlikely cooling.

  Come closer, dear Cupid, for I speak only in jest.
  Truly, do I love you.

  Before this febrile brow breaks its hold,
  However, would I have clipped your wings

  If upon your cursed neck I should fall?
  Love's sweet suffering has made a blameless

  Child mad and unaccountable for his present
  State of amorous intoxication.

  I pray the gods render righteous judgment on my
  Behalf, should my madness . . . should my madness

  Lead to Cupid's demise by a strangler's hand. . . .
  
• 
  5

  The Lesser God

  by compound complex in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, i am awake.

  widely and wildly.. stumbling to my crowded desk, i sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration.

  i light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, i commence putting pencil to paper.

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  compound complex

  Wasanelder:

  So, too, mine . . .

  Thanks for responding.

  waton:

  A friend -- pro photographer -- was there and captured all the phases. I can vicariously tune in and find words appropriate to the task.

  Your reply is appreciated.
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  3

  Release

  by compound complex in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  an ever revealing awareness possesses me:never again shall the cool, comforting reposeof sleep calm my worried brow.

  i pace my litter-strewn floor, i walk the shadowed lane below, yet.

  that ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweetslumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon.

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  compound complex

  Greetings, Wasanelder:

  No, I didn't die. Doing all right!

  Thanks!
• 
  3

  Release

  by compound complex in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  an ever revealing awareness possesses me:never again shall the cool, comforting reposeof sleep calm my worried brow.

  i pace my litter-strewn floor, i walk the shadowed lane below, yet.

  that ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweetslumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon.

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  3. 
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  compound complex

  An ever revealing awareness possesses me:
  never again shall the cool, comforting repose
  
  Of sleep calm my worried brow. I pace my litter-
  strewn floor, I walk the shadowed lane below, yet

  That ardent promise of darkened reverie become sweet
  slumber is as certain as the sun shall not set and the moon

  Not rise, ere this wretch steps into that blessed realm of eternal
  rest that, at long last, will put to bed all care, all worry, my soul.
• 
  5

  The Lesser God

  by compound complex in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, i am awake.

  widely and wildly.. stumbling to my crowded desk, i sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration.

  i light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, i commence putting pencil to paper.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
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  compound complex

  Like the night before, and so many others too numerous to count, I am awake. Widely and wildly.

  Stumbling to my crowded desk, I sit like a spineless lump upon my ladder back and settle in for the duration. I light a new candle, earlier fitted into a brass holder, and, by fits and starts, I commence putting pencil to paper. There seems a need to unite with a nameless interior atmosphere, one that would dissipate instantly before the evaporating scrutiny of 100-watts incandescent. Though visions have become an interwoven part of my daytime reality, they could easily be construed as dreams of the subconscious mind. Now, in the wee small hours of a cheerless morn, I call upon these tainted wraiths of my darkish mind to weave a gothic tale.

  Ah, but this particular candlelight is especially soothing. I am lulled, lulled into a brief, nodding slumber.

  Like a mischievous sprite, a small yet robust draft of arctic-like chill sweeps in at my feet. It wraps freezing tendrils about my legs. This bewildering rush of unseen but real menace causes me to shudder violently. There is no opportunity to gather my thoughts. What, dear Lord, is happening? The foreign malignancy climbs further, higher, reaching upward, encasing my quivering trunk. Dagger-like probes bore through me, penetrating deeply, piercingly, into my rapidly cooling heart of hearts. A respiratory system congenitally fragile and ever keen upon collapse, vacillates between wild, erratic gasps and near total shutdown of lungs.

  The candle upon my desk, melted down to a nub, extinguishes immediately. Hadn't I closed the windows tight before retiring? I cannot move, but I can see. I can hear. My gaze is directed, by an exterior force (so certain I am of this), to a blackened form in the west end of my room.

  My heart bolts from its confines and forces itself full into my throat. I choke with uncommon violence. Tears -- burning streams of tears -- flow down frozen cheeks. There is no thaw. My unbroken stare surely must reflect light and horror as the extinguished candle reignites by an unseen hand.

  It is he, the monster of the id, the one I created:

  Chernabog incarnate. Given my somewhat artistic abilities, I, the lesser god who created this beautifully hideous lord of the underworld, crafted him in manner both beguiling and revolting. He is my creation, emerged cleanly off the canvas, breathing in hugely of the chilling rush of winter winds that spill copiously through windows and doors now wide open, as widely open and gaping as my silently screaming mouth.

  He lights another candle and preens before the wardrobe mirror.

  There is no reflection.

  What startled me during my initial look at the creature's visage in the guttering but strengthening sweep of candle light was the dimensional enhancement of facial features that simply could not be captured on a flat canvas, however cleverly attached the wrist to the hand to the artist's brush.

  Now, with a calmer and more studied look, I peer with amazed wonderment at my creation come alive in the flesh – flesh -- only in the merest manner of speaking. From eight feet upwards and, perhaps, more (I cannot say for certain as this dim chamber is still scarcely illuminated) the massive skull of scarlet and inky black rotates ever so slowly, methodically, in my general direction; I, still the captive, entwined fast in place by strangler vines, remain motionless but no longer crazed by eviscerating fears.

  That remarkable head -- produced by a tiny mortal's imagination, and, now, come vibrantly to life -- locks into place, and eyes lodged deeply within he casts downward . . .

  At me.

  This being -- mere moments ago upon canvas and totally within squared bounds, under jurisdiction of artistic whim and intellectual control -- has had (from seemingly nowhere), a red, rancid breath infused into his bellows of internal respiration. The monstrous heaving of his expansive chest creates a low and disturbing rumble about the shadowy chamber as well as a shudder throughout the whole of my diminished frame. Even were I no longer held fast by these tendrils intent against any escape from my imprisoning chair, it is doubtful my once determined but currently fading wherewithal should muster strength adequate to flee this gothic horror.

  Even as I muse upon an improbable -- impossible -- escape, I sense a lessening of strictures upon my chest, my arms, my wrists. Vines, earlier an unearthly shade of puce and green, commence emitting a noxious vapor, dissolve and waive all further dominion upon the once captive and reluctant creator.

  To destroy the canvas at this advanced juncture in time would, surely, be for naught.