PAD with photographers' own creative writing.

[pierresphotography]

Some think I'm crazy but I've started a PAD at http://www.pbase.com/pierresphotography/pad with my own sometimes dark poetry and prose. Here is my first effort:

June 22 + poem
Is this a dream, the cause of hands?
And all the womens' tears on earth,
these last counts of twirling stones,
the blip of humans' words,
Near the end, the silence as I speak,
and speak, and speak.

[pierresphotography]

How about the real poets out there? Why don't you also try it?

[pierresphotography]

From today's photo-a-day
http://www.pbase.com/pierresphotography/gallery/pad

This one grows like Nietzsche, sick in his dark room
scorched through by the hot sun of human thought,
alone, perched in the drought of long thirsting for God,
until washed away by rain and the dam overflowing.

Pierre - June 23, 2005.

[floradoragirl]

I don't write much poetry but one pad where I did, which I reworked later can be seen here http://www.pbase.com/floradoragirl/image/43553596 and the reworked version can be seen here



http://www.pbase.com/floradoragirl/image/43857673

[prplexd]

I still don't know how to put a pic in here yet but here was my effort in this vein. http://www.pbase.com/prplexd/image/39433563

[pierresphotography]

I'll never be a great poet, or even a great photographer. But I like it.

[pierresphotography]

There is no doubt in my mind that civilized education in all cultures, from the east to the west, is pure brainwashing.

When I was born, I was human ... now I am dehumanized, beaten down into voiceless pulp, like all other modern, educated, civilized humans.

I need erudite prostheses to make a sound, but the sounds are without meaning. No-one can hear it. No-one can speak to each other, but everyone grunts together in endless fake cacophony. The system magnanimously provides prostheses for all my senses, as it beats me senseless.

Maturity is an artificial, prosthetic concept. "Growing" into maturity is the gradual evolution of the prosthetic self displacing the self that should have been.

But now I know ...

[pierresphotography]

Art without the bright colors of death, is not art,
without the hands of women bustling with flowers,
As a child, my eyes are transfixed as I breathe.
It is too quiet, and I smell the dust and blood of war.