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The saga continues.......


Twas a shinybright earthspin, and the upover was a sheeny, cobaltic bluefest. High uptop the bigsmoke, the zeppelin zoo whished through the geogas. It was a baloonic ark, a sky-safari, and extrafactily, on this specicated earthspin, it was the dateplace for our man Morgan M. Morgansen and his lovebuddy, Destiny.

The passionpair lovestrolled through the animalium, pawtangled. Their see-globes met flit-tweets barlocked, finbeasts tanked and primates prisonized. Destiny superlated the snuffalunks, lollified the longnecks and rapturized the blackmasked rarebears as they bamboozled.

Baghidden in Destiny’s pawpouch, Madame Ballofur, Destiny’s pamperfied purrpet, see-peeped overbag, then re-snuggled bagwards, disimpressed.

The lovebuddies proximated themselves to ‘Rarebears Treatbuggy’. And there, costumated as a monochromic rarebear, stood the foodpenguin, lemonfaced as ever.

The duo partook in a pair of pinkfluff-pops. Destiny masticated her sugarstick saxifragously, leaving Morgan habberdashed. So hornified was he that he was blinkerfied to the slinkish arrivement of Lionel; Destiny's pre-now lovebuddy and a cognified smarmorific lothariator.

Morgan spit-swallowed at the sight of this regalite, this masculate heartstealer. Destiny’s see-globes frizzled sparklish as she permissed this Lionel to liplock her personpaw smarmily.

Oh he was a brazeful and bashless califrag this one, a testosteronic alphabeast, a maxified and magnificious Morgan mimic!

Morgan was shockshook out of his glaze by a “Yeeek!!” from a flabbergastic Destiny. Madame Ballofur had dissapparated, fleed the refugous innards of Destiny’s pawpouch and gone cat-about!

“Oh tragedous, wronghap! woed Destiny. “What uber-humalian, what alphaknight will revicinitate my flitulous fluff-friend?”

The be-stached suitors locked squintish see-globes, duel-bound.

The competing califrags seeked up and downish for the cutish catcritter. Lionel dove and dashed while Morgan creeped and purrcalled. But the perduous purrpet was noplace to be see-globed.

Lucklacking, Morgan slomped, downbeat onto a longtree personholder, aside the foodpenguin, who so happed to be on his workgap. The gent was chomping a speary eatstick, a Mousecub-kebab of impaled fieldfurries, their pinkeyes, scarestuck, their ringlet tailstrings rigormortised.

Morgan hammocked his topbulb in his personpaws, and let a long stream of air out of his facehole.

“I see your perduous purrpet has enbuddied the purrbeast” benefacted the foodpenguin, a tailstring twingling betwixt his citrus lips.

Sure as earthspins, there, in the bigmaned purrbeasts barbox, was Madame Ballofur, cutish snoogled under the purrbeast’s enormopaw and jubbified to the max.

As Morgan fastly vicinitated himself to the barbox for his fluff-freeing feat, Lionel apparated, duel-ready. Bashless, the malsuitor uprolled his arm coverers and brawl-begged.

Someplace a dinger dinged and the leisurespot hencecame a duellish painpit.

The prized personette apparated. Her tumbox tumbled at the see-shock of her pre and present lovebuddies bashbrawning while her fluff-friend remained catnapped.

“Anyperson, deperilize my poorly purrpet” she worded, pleady.

The flabgabbets fapslapped, duckdove and flee-jigged, slam-bammed, limb-cranked and flankyanked, pridelocked in their duelling dance. Outmuscled, Morgan was fastly grounded. The opportunous Lionel backstepped, primed for a grandslam.

Sametime, the geishily pro-Morgan food’panda’ fastflung his yeuchstick into Lionel’s painpath.

Mid-murderous lurch, Lionel sillyslipped on the foody-trap sending the mousemorsels skygliding into the purrbeast’s barbox! Lionel yeeked, girlish, as he upfooted, then downslammed. (Gogglebirds tweeted circlish round Lionel’s dazed headfront.)

Morgan uprighted himself, pummelpuffed. He fastglance spied that the bigmaned junglegiant was now divertously nomming the catapultous yeuchtreat. The purrpet was guardless!

Morgan chest-puffed and perilpared himself. Destiny lash-flapped, butterflated, as her true alphaknight shimmied the barbox .

Our daysaver slinked into the dangerden and, padsoft, toe-stepped petwards. He pawscooped Madame Ballofur into his toplimbs and fastly exit-aimed.

Still groundbound, that dastardly dipstick, Lionel, catcalled, diverting the junglebeast from his eatbait and vectorizing his feline see-globes to our man Morgan!

Morgan fastfooted safewards, supernormal speedish, the agrowled purrmonster yappish at his leg-ends.

Destiny masked her see-globes with a personpaw, too tumtangled to spectize.

In an awefeat of wowness, Morgan springpulted somersaultish and downdropped to the safe and sound, with Madame Ballofur tightlocked underlimb.

Destiny quickish snoogled her freed fluff-friend then angled, bambi-eyed, Morganwards. Her headfront was awash with apprecious butterflation and fullheart lovelust.

Lionel, diminuated, and ungruntled, his alphastate debunked, slinked into the noplace, selfsaying some gibberjack about an afternow vengement.

Madame Ballofur frisbeed an infosquare to the blubtrolling junglegiant. The enormokitten liplifted - jubilated to have acquainted this new purrpal.

Destiny snooglebroke, suddenish and touched her bottom lip with her topchompers.

“Morgan M. Morgansen, you are my solo lovebuddy, my butterflative manpet, my testosteronic alphaknight!”

Morgan pinkified at this linguistic lovepouring, then fullface liplocked his lovebuddy.

Morgan shut a solo see-globe at the panda-dressed pro-pair person. The foodbringer liplifted, recapitated his rarebear headcover and disapparated, leaving the lovejoined duo to consommize their recoupling.

And, as the great balloonic ark whished upover the skags of suburban Sellosedge, little did they comprend that this enormoblimp entained not only a plethora of rarepets, but also, a duet of the most felicitous persons in the fullglobe infinispace; Morgan M. Morgansen, and his Destiny.
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Spaceship-1461125
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Deeply in love but fearing the disapproval of their peers...

...the antelope and the ant...eloped.
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The word ‘xylophone’ was coined by the instrument’s inventor during a game of scrabble in order to secure an epic game-winning triple word score.
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The problem with imaginary friends is...

they don't bring you birthday presents.

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Jimmy’s new time machine would allow him to finally deliver all those killer comebacks he had thought of five minutes too late.
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Bathtubboat
This is a suuuper quick illustration of Metaphorest's story I said I would try to do before I went away on holiday for a week. It's a little rough but I really wanted to have a go before I left. I hope it's okayyy <3
by katt
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Are you in my dream?

Or am I in yours?



PS. I wish I could draw something for this...but I know youuuu can :)
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In the name of improved organisation. Poems all in one place.
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Dappled_7525
Re-record of artgeek's photo with my wordage

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Well it seems this never quite made it over from V3 and I have no backup since my macbook died :( Hopefully I'll get access to the old archives at some point and reinstate it!

Word dump.

More than human
I am not
I still my yearning
And I pause my
Breath
For breathing is a sin
I'm such a pro at giving in
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Geometry_10499
A poem about betrayal and triangles.

Added some basic images n' stuff to tart it up. :) In case they're too small - here's the text!

Geometry

Elliptical allies encircle you with
Their illusions of friendship
Geometry lets slip
Their ovals for eyes
And triangles for tongues
Angles acute and accusing

Obstructing obtusely they radiate
Beauty, symmetrical certainty
Parallel paths never
Meet till oblivion
Vectors don
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Wrote this in my head on the way to my crappy job this crappy morning.

So many maimed umbrellas,
Tortured skeletons haphazardly discarded,
Abandoned in anger

"We have failed you!" they say -
"The wind turned our outsides in."
"You have" we say. "And now we are wet."

So many weary workrats,
Seething at the injustice of another day,
Drenched and dreading

'"It could be worse." they say -
"You have all your limbs."
"But we would trade them for a soul." we reply.

So many dying dreams,
As the travelator drones on, no stops til you drop off,
Suited corpses trampled

"But you chose this route" they say -
"That tie. That suit"
"Well we want to choose another" we reply -
"If it's not too late"



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(In which a fictional beast makes a virtuous vow.)

The Mallowback Mang is a fruvious beast
With mouthblades that shing when the creature does feast 
On the Underrock Yabbers it seeks out to plunder
To pull their furry Yabber bodies asunder

A thirst borne of instinct and natural laws
Yet this Mallowback Mang is ashamed of the claws
That so bloodily maim and assault little creatures
With cheery demeanours and teddy bear features

So from that day forth with a resolute heart
The Mallowback Mang vowed never to part
An Underrock Yabber from his living soul
By chewing him up or devouring him whole

That night in his den as the Mallowback slept
In search of some lodgings a young Yabber crept
But seeing the Mang he stood frozen in fright
Then tippy-toed underrock, way out of sight

But the creature had stirred and his eyes whirred alive
As he sought the intruder who dared to arrive
Unnanounced in his cave at this hour of night
Neath the rock, the young Yabber, he babbered in fright

And the Mallowback heard it with his great Mang ears
Making real the summation of all Yabbers' fears
That they one day be ravaged by a mighty Mang
Their little necks snapped with a claw and a clang

But the Mang, he approached with unusual care
Hoisted the rock so the yabber was bare
And extended his paw in amicable greeting
Authentically cheerful to be Yabber-meeting

The Yabber did cower, confused and uncertain
Did the Mang plan to lure him to his final curtain?
Still he saw no alternative but to shake paws
Relieved to find Mang had retracted his claws

Though the Mallowback sure felt a terrible hunger
Twas his solemn self-law not be a deathmonger
So he bridled his instincts and muffled his pangs
And declared himself greatest of all the great Mangs

He laid down to sleep with the Yabber beside
Cosied up in his coat, the Mang glimmered with pride
As he dreamed of the prize that would follow his end
In that Mallowback heaven he'd one day attend

Then he woke with a start to a needlish sting
And saw tiny sharp mouthblades endeavoured to shing
Into his thick Mang flesh - what a woeful sight!
As the Yabber's jaw locked and chomped down for a bite

The Mang, shook and shamed, looked in the Yabber's face
And moaned "You can't munch me for it isn't your place"
So the Yabber replied, it's mouth bloody, mid-chew,
"If you won't eat me, sir, then I will eat you"

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A poem inspired by the great Godard.

I run a thumb across my lip
and I am Breathless;
a walking homage
to a classic debut

I remember how,
with such contempt
for all Greek Gods,
we drifted into the Inferno

“This is my life to live”
I said,
assuredly.
But it was a half-truth

We are all confined
And commodified;
a band of outsiders
peering in

We attempt a minute’s silence
to collect our thoughts,
but after 36 seconds
We are restless…

Masculine, Feminine
Children of Marx and Coca Cola
riding another new wave
in praise of love.
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A crackling campfire kaleidoscopes the black with blaze. All else elsewhere is ether. Lit lampish lounges a travelling-type, bedraggled Bedouin of the city-skirting scrublands. His lingering figure flummoxes foxes, unsettles slugs and subdues the skulks of suburban skunks. All stands still. Even the woodlice watch and wait.

Down below lies an electric landscape, dark carpet criss-crossed with regimental glowing rows. Tucked neatly into their two up two downs, the toddlers dream of dreaming dreamier dreams, the feared of fear itself scream muffled screams and sour at the hour. Too late for night, too soon for morn, the lull before a day is born - full with the creak of shifting cogs, the hollow howls of sorrowful dogs.

And all the while, the traveller simply stares. Sits and stares. Stares and sits. A burden bears down, leadlike on his brow, hooding ember eyes into a frown. Half underlid, they scan the stirring city. Commuters cringe as pre-dawn beckons them from bed. The city’s outer rings light up with action. Flashy Fords fire up and tired tube-trains trundle, darting and carting their eye-bagged booty townward. The revolving tongues of tarblack towers carousel the cads inside, ants antagonised by drowsy, daily drudgery.

The traveller sighs; a sizeable sigh that shakes the leaves off trees and leaves the woodlice worried. The armoured evolutionaries huddle, harboured in a hut of broken bark as the shadowed stranger stands. With a subtle stomp the flames are maimed. In ghostly grey the stranger shimmers odd, as if enflamed himself inside. Deepset eyes devour the dawn, slittish stones narrowed at the new day.

The traveller towers tall above the town. He unhoods, stoutly stood, locks his lips into an open O and blows. A breeze is born amid the brush and then a whitish wind whips up that whooshes through the scrub. This mist shooshes suburban hiss then, block by block, knocks off the shocking neons and the freezing freons.

A swarm of suits stop dead and stare. The traffic lights aren’t lighting, buildings aren’t brighting, taxi drivers fighting with their passengers alighting from the streetstalled cars that swamp the ramps. Revolving doors cease spinning, leaving towers tongue-tied. The air feels damp and dreamish and the drowsy drones turn squeamish. Some suspect a supernormal cause for this electric pause.

All the while, still stands the traveller, the newly named urbane unraveller. And from his fingertips, a faint hum comes. The air it quivers queerly, shimmers in a strange stream, humming outward, ever downward toward the silenced city. Every bit it touches turns to greenery, the scenery made cleaner by this organic overture.

Stems and creepers bombard city’s borders. Leafy shoots take root in concrete corners. Sweetpea swallows cement cellblocks. Clematis climbs to cover the clocks that told the time to rushing rats and rang the bells for fatted cats. As the ants observe enthralled, the streets evolve to ivy halls.

The stranger stops the streaming green, steps softly back to see the scene. Content, he hoods himself once more and in the scrub appears a door, a door that wasn’t there before. Through it he steps, his worthy work done; drudgery for greenery, a city re-begun.

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An interchange about a catflap using made up words for the BYOW collab

The Day Morgan M. Morganesen’s Luck Changed

Morgan M. Morgansen was a capricitious califrag, who spent his earthspins pludgeoning paff-kaff to the zombicular skaks of suburban Sellosedge. Griff and grubby were his hourbags, his beatdown brainbox long since birged of any selicity or saxifrage. To Morgan Morgansen, the afternow looked lacklustrous.

One wetsky prenoon, as Mister Morgansen glazed out the hardclear from his paff-kaff wareroom, a personette florayed floriciously through the wallhole.

“I am in necessitude of an in-out for my lionette”. She said, laviciously.

Morgan M. Morgansen was butterflated by this bambistic belle. He tuttered his sayback;

“C…c..certituitously we have a polybank of purrpet paff-kaff!”

The personette liplifted and a sheen shone in her see-globes causing Morgan to pinkify pan-porally. He jibbed himself out of it and postceeded to apparate the preferated paff-kaff.

The primular in-out was proclamated to be too minicular for the specicated lionette, so Morgan unhid another with enplussed enormitude.

“It is a lionette I subtude not a lion!” proclamated the personette, with a babettish snorgle-flit.

Morgan’s topbulb slooped, shamily.

“But that was the ultimator of my purrpet in-outs”

His see-globes halfshut, slittish and he stroked his undermouth with his personpaw.

“I have a brainbaby!” Morgan proclamated. “Do you have an unlocker for your wallhole?”

The personette shook a yes with her topbulb and personpawed the unlocker to Morgan.

Morgan scittered over to the cloner and twin-ified the unlocker. He repawed the twinned unlockers to the personette and liplifted.

The personette liplifted back.

“Yazee!! Sublimo!! My purrpet will be most selicitous to freeflit out and in as he whims! How can I graciate you?”

Morgan repinkified and tuttered;

“Mightbe you could duette me to an eatnight some nearday?”

The personette flib-flabbed her see-globe hairs and resaid, laviciously.

“Why that would be most saxifragous, Mister Morgansen.”

She pawed him her infosquare and florayed out the wallhole, her backcushions slooving and slauving as she went, leaving Morgan Morgansen pinkified, habberdashed.

For once, Morgan Morgansen was capacitated with selicity and saxifrage for the afternow, his minicular lifebasket finally jubbed up with jollitude.

As for the lionette, from that earthspin on, he inned and outed as he desirated, imbeebed with flurritude for his newfound accessity and infinitously jamsacked with gracity to the Einsteinic brainbox of Morgan M. Morgansen.
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A second part to my made-up-word story about the rosemantic endeavours of a character called Morgan M. Morgansen.

Morgan M. Morgansen

Morgan M. Morgansen’s Date with Destiny

Capricitous califrag Morgan M. Morgansen stood in the longroom of his fourwalls, narcissising himself in the doubleglass. He horizontalized his neckbow and let a long stream of air out of his facehole. He was ready to lothariate. Or at least, ready as he’d ever be.

The eatroom was all ashadow with the tiny flames of waxsticks. Our man Morgan unstood onto a personholder and waited as the timeteller ticked and tocked on.

Tardily, the saxifragous personette swavered through the wallhole. Her headfront was polypainted with fauxface; lips cherried to the max, see-globe hairs enplussed to twin the limbs of arachnomonsters.

Morgan liplifted, twittery at the personette. He re-stood and presented her with a personholder, upon which she speedily settled her backcushions.

“Merry pre-night” tittered Morgan. “You look verily procreational”.

“Why thank you triple M. As do you. Soaped and suited, you are quite the see-treat”

Morgan pinkified as the foodbringer apparated, penguin-dressed. The gent was simply seeable as a skog – his downlooking headfront formed as if he ever had a facehole full of sour-yellows. The eatroom paidslave personpawed a duo of eatlists to Morgan and the personette, then disapparated.

The potential procreators see-globe-scanned the eatlists chatlessly. They picked their eatplates and the foodbringer reapparated, primularly enquesting Morgan on his desirated eatplate.

“For me, the body of a bunnybaby, if you please!” Morgan proclamates.

“And how would you preferate your bunnybaby, sir; black, brown or bleedy?”

“Bleedy please” Morgan worded.

He liplifted at the foodbringer and then targeted his see-globes at the personette. He was shook to see her see-globes dripping a little saltliquid.

“And for you, personette?” enquested the foodpenguin.

Blub-hiding she unquested “The herbivorous option for me.”

Morgan spitswallowed and loosed the topflaps of his chest coverer.

The foodbringer held in a snorgle-flit and worded “And for wet?”

“For liquid we will have the juice of old red grapes please. Very old” Morgan speedily shut a solo see-globe at the foodbringer. The foodpenguin boomeranged the gesture then disapparated with a smise.

After another chatless wordgap, the eats apparated. The foodpenguin citrusly unhid Morgan’s eatplate. On it unlived the corpse of a bunnybaby, its minicular rabbitears as yet unremoved, its olfactory-organ buttonish and evercute.

The personette yeuched loudly, a puddle of pre-puke ascending into her facehole as the eatready fluffpet met her see-globes.

The personette’s eats were a plateforest, a feast of foliage, a fleshless foodpile.

Morgan geishily sub-servietted the bereaved bunny and postceeded to chomp the accessorical greenery duetting it. The personette liplifted, amourated by Morgan’s sacrificious herbivorosity.

Post-bunny-boycott, the wordgaps filled fastly. The personette flirtated laviciously and tilted Morganwards, displaying her frontcushions bashlessly. Morgan was fullheart butterflated by this floricious femalian. Habberdashed and hornified he tittered as she toetangled with him sub-table.

Speedily they slurped the grape-liquid and soonly, their personpaws paired tableside, glowed by the flamey waxsticks.

Foodbags full, they monied the foodpenguin and uprighted themselves. The personette had desirated to subvide the debt but Morgan M. Morgansen swayed his topbulb pendulemically ‘no’ and that was that.

Out in the no-walls, the duet locked see-globes, topbulb-deep in procreational emotation. The personette touched her bottomlip with her topchompers and tilted Morganwards once more. Morgan pinkified, shut his see-globe covers and vicinitated his topbulb to the personette’s facehole.

An ultimated tilt Morganwords and the pair were liplocked. Morgan M. Morgansen almost lovesploded with butterflation as the floricious femalian tonguetangled with him.

Through the hardclear of the eatroom, the formerly falsituous foodpenguin lifted his citrus lips at the passion-paired persons. How could a humanian fail to be emotated by such a celebratious encoupling?

And that moon-up, when Morgan M. Morgansen horizontalised himself on his sleep platform, for once, it was not alonely.
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A narration/script/story to tie together two of JacksonBlack's amazing works. Would love to see an animation of this or them..


Little Batty was the lonely, only bat left in the whole, wide wasteland that was once a world. Orphaned by the great End of all things, he wandered the wastes, seeking a friend to spend the empty days with. But Little Batty hadn’t found one yet.

He soared above the crumbling cities, the septic seas and ghostly towns, graveyards all. The buildings were headstones, the scorched earth a burial pit.

But surely there were more like Little Batty left? He couldn’t be the only one. He just couldn’t.

And as it happened, he wasn’t...

One dark day, like every other, Little Batty set off on his survivor search, his tiny flame of hope all but extinguished. Until, far down below there was a noise. An unnatural noise. A barely audible bleep carried on the wicked winds to Batty’s little ears.

‘Hello?’ cried Little Batty, for in this dismal future bats could talk.

And the bleeping arranged itself into a robotic response. ‘Hello’ it answered.

Batty dive-bombed earthwards to the source of this response, this potential friend.

And there, amid the terrible rubble, he found Robotron, a steel giant with sorrowful, black eyes - for in the dismal future, bats can talk, and robots have feelings.

Poor Robotron weeped almost silently, sat slumped on a rubble rock, his woeful weeping punctuated by a mournful bleeping.

Little Batty stood alongside the emotional machine, empathy emanating from his big bat eyes.

‘Would you like to be my friend?’ said Little Batty. ‘Then, together, we can roam the rubble.’

Robotron wiped a weeping eye on a cold steel arm and sniffed and said.

‘I would’

Then ,Little Batty held aloft a wing for Robotron to take, and gently, a robot hand closed round it.

Fast friends in a hopeless time, they wandered into the wastes, questing together for a friend, for an unpolluted place, for a future they could fit into.

And that was the day Little Batty discovered that he wasn’t the only, lonely survivor after all...
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The saga continues.......


Twas a shinybright earthspin, and the upover was a sheeny, cobaltic bluefest. High uptop the bigsmoke, the zeppelin zoo whished through the geogas. It was a baloonic ark, a sky-safari, and extrafactily, on this specicated earthspin, it was the dateplace for our man Morgan M. Morgansen and his lovebuddy, Destiny.

The passionpair lovestrolled through the animalium, pawtangled. Their see-globes met flit-tweets barlocked, finbeasts tanked and primates prisonized. Destiny superlated the snuffalunks, lollified the longnecks and rapturized the blackmasked rarebears as they bamboozled.

Baghidden in Destiny’s pawpouch, Madame Ballofur, Destiny’s pamperfied purrpet, see-peeped overbag, then re-snuggled bagwards, disimpressed.

The lovebuddies proximated themselves to ‘Rarebears Treatbuggy’. And there, costumated as a monochromic rarebear, stood the foodpenguin, lemonfaced as ever.

The duo partook in a pair of pinkfluff-pops. Destiny masticated her sugarstick saxifragously, leaving Morgan habberdashed. So hornified was he that he was blinkerfied to the slinkish arrivement of Lionel; Destiny's pre-now lovebuddy and a cognified smarmorific lothariator.

Morgan spit-swallowed at the sight of this regalite, this masculate heartstealer. Destiny’s see-globes frizzled sparklish as she permissed this Lionel to liplock her personpaw smarmily.

Oh he was a brazeful and bashless califrag this one, a testosteronic alphabeast, a maxified and magnificious Morgan mimic!

Morgan was shockshook out of his glaze by a “Yeeek!!” from a flabbergastic Destiny. Madame Ballofur had dissapparated, fleed the refugous innards of Destiny’s pawpouch and gone cat-about!

“Oh tragedous, wronghap! woed Destiny. “What uber-humalian, what alphaknight will revicinitate my flitulous fluff-friend?”

The be-stached suitors locked squintish see-globes, duel-bound.

The competing califrags seeked up and downish for the cutish catcritter. Lionel dove and dashed while Morgan creeped and purrcalled. But the perduous purrpet was noplace to be see-globed.

Lucklacking, Morgan slomped, downbeat onto a longtree personholder, aside the foodpenguin, who so happed to be on his workgap. The gent was chomping a speary eatstick, a Mousecub-kebab of impaled fieldfurries, their pinkeyes, scarestuck, their ringlet tailstrings rigormortised.

Morgan hammocked his topbulb in his personpaws, and let a long stream of air out of his facehole.

“I see your perduous purrpet has enbuddied the purrbeast” benefacted the foodpenguin, a tailstring twingling betwixt his citrus lips.

Sure as earthspins, there, in the bigmaned purrbeasts barbox, was Madame Ballofur, cutish snoogled under the purrbeast’s enormopaw and jubbified to the max.

As Morgan fastly vicinitated himself to the barbox for his fluff-freeing feat, Lionel apparated, duel-ready. Bashless, the malsuitor uprolled his arm coverers and brawl-begged.

Someplace a dinger dinged and the leisurespot hencecame a duellish painpit.

The prized personette apparated. Her tumbox tumbled at the see-shock of her pre and present lovebuddies bashbrawning while her fluff-friend remained catnapped.

“Anyperson, deperilize my poorly purrpet” she worded, pleady.

The flabgabbets fapslapped, duckdove and flee-jigged, slam-bammed, limb-cranked and flankyanked, pridelocked in their duelling dance. Outmuscled, Morgan was fastly grounded. The opportunous Lionel backstepped, primed for a grandslam.

Sametime, the geishily pro-Morgan food’panda’ fastflung his yeuchstick into Lionel’s painpath.

Mid-murderous lurch, Lionel sillyslipped on the foody-trap sending the mousemorsels skygliding into the purrbeast’s barbox! Lionel yeeked, girlish, as he upfooted, then downslammed. (Gogglebirds tweeted circlish round Lionel’s dazed headfront.)

Morgan uprighted himself, pummelpuffed. He fastglance spied that the bigmaned junglegiant was now divertously nomming the catapultous yeuchtreat. The purrpet was guardless!

Morgan chest-puffed and perilpared himself. Destiny lash-flapped, butterflated, as her true alphaknight shimmied the barbox .

Our daysaver slinked into the dangerden and, padsoft, toe-stepped petwards. He pawscooped Madame Ballofur into his toplimbs and fastly exit-aimed.

Still groundbound, that dastardly dipstick, Lionel, catcalled, diverting the junglebeast from his eatbait and vectorizing his feline see-globes to our man Morgan!

Morgan fastfooted safewards, supernormal speedish, the agrowled purrmonster yappish at his leg-ends.

Destiny masked her see-globes with a personpaw, too tumtangled to spectize.

In an awefeat of wowness, Morgan springpulted somersaultish and downdropped to the safe and sound, with Madame Ballofur tightlocked underlimb.

Destiny quickish snoogled her freed fluff-friend then angled, bambi-eyed, Morganwards. Her headfront was awash with apprecious butterflation and fullheart lovelust.

Lionel, diminuated, and ungruntled, his alphastate debunked, slinked into the noplace, selfsaying some gibberjack about an afternow vengement.

Madame Ballofur frisbeed an infosquare to the blubtrolling junglegiant. The enormokitten liplifted - jubilated to have acquainted this new purrpal.

Destiny snooglebroke, suddenish and touched her bottom lip with her topchompers.

“Morgan M. Morgansen, you are my solo lovebuddy, my butterflative manpet, my testosteronic alphaknight!”

Morgan pinkified at this linguistic lovepouring, then fullface liplocked his lovebuddy.

Morgan shut a solo see-globe at the panda-dressed pro-pair person. The foodbringer liplifted, recapitated his rarebear headcover and disapparated, leaving the lovejoined duo to consommize their recoupling.

And, as the great balloonic ark whished upover the skags of suburban Sellosedge, little did they comprend that this enormoblimp entained not only a plethora of rarepets, but also, a duet of the most felicitous persons in the fullglobe infinispace; Morgan M. Morgansen, and his Destiny.
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(Inspired by LittleBirdBlue's amazing drawing and Bloemday's caption)

The Wink was a world-weary, wizened old soul who preferred his own company to that of anyone else by a good long way. He also happened to be a mythical monster, the very last of his clan, the very wisest beast to walk the WilderWoods and a lifelong human-hater.

His reasons to resent were simple – any time in his long life he had dared to love a thing, it had been taken from him by a human. So, logically, he stopped loving things, and started hating humans. His hatred took the form of an avid avoidance of the upright creatures, which was lucky for them. Had he been a more active antagonist he could have levelled twenty towns and trampled too their townsfolk.

He was a mighty, two-horned beast with a great, flowing mane and wild, fiery eyes, but, despite his fierce appearance, was a pacifist at heart. Way back the Wink was well-known for his gentle way, and impeccable manners. Now he rarely had the chance to use them, nor chose to. A lonely life he led...lonely and long.

Lonely until the day the campers came. One final patch he had, one last little clump of wood to roam in – and in his self-made reservation he had somewhat contentedly dwelled, undisturbed for close to twenty sets of seasons. Now, the noise came, the noise and the mess, the mess and the smells and the bother.

The first week he hid himself in a hole he had hollowed to hide in. He left at night to eat and stretch and do his beastly business. But then, one day his hole was found. Come upon by a half-sized human. One of the ungrown ones. A little, brown-haired boy.

Wink skulked and spied as the boy peered into his temporary home – his hiding spot unhid! In crept the boy to the creature’s cave. In he went and in and in and stuck he got!

The Wink shook his great maned head and tutted. Humans always brought trouble. Always, always. Hand in hand they were. Well this one would just have to unstuck himself. The Wink owed these trespassers nothing. Nothing but a lonely life and a heavy head.

But as the hours slipped past and the boy’s cries quietened to a rare whine and the weary Wink shivered in the caveless chill of night –he began to wonder if he shouldn’t just dislodge the little annoyance. Not for the intruder’s sorry sake but for the sake of a warm sleep.

And so, for the very first time in a very long time, the Wink approached another living, thinking thing. Being that the boy was facing in, he failed to see the frightening sight of this extincting beast reaching to free him. Happily he let himself be heaved out of his predicament. Only when the boy was safe and sat on the forest floor did he see the mighty monster that had saved him.

“Rarrr” roared the Wink and the ground shook.

“Aargh” screamed the boy and his knees knocked.

Away he ran fast as knocking knees could run until...he stopped. He stopped and stood and softly said “Thank you, monster, for saving me”

And the Wink span round, amazed to see the foolish fellow stood within claws reach.

“I could crush you in a clap, I could break you in a blink!” roared the beast.

The boy stayed stood and looked straight in the Wink’s wild eyes and said;

“But you didn’t, you dislodged me – I was stuck and you unsticked me”

Saying this, the human smiled, and took a run up to the Wink and wrapped his little arms around a hairy leg and hugged and hugged and thanked again.

The beast, bewildered watched this limpet on his leg. He gently shook the foot to loose the boy but he wouldn’t easy be unhugged. The human-hating Wink had made an accidental friend.

“Oh woe, he thought – and now I’ll have to warm, it feed it and return it to its kin.”

A grumpy growl and the Wink shuffled to his warm warren, boy still stuckfast to his saviour’s furry foot.

“How is it all you humans ever do is cause me trouble?” grunted the great beast, as he scooped the soon –to-be-sleeping boy into his arms.

“We’re sorry” muttered the boy, sleepily and as his droopy eyes fell shut he added. “We didn’t mean to”.
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A place to keep my songs all neat and tidy like.

Plus some of my favourite remixes so I don't lose track of em :)
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Boo to players of games that aren't fun-based! I've come over allll political lately for some reason...

Aaanyway if anybody wants to play with the song just shout and I'll upload separate tracks! :)

Lyrics:

You get your kicks
From throwing sticks and stones
At my sorry bones
Then you cry out and cause
You make the most fuss
They’ll assume that the sleight is your own

I’ll watch you dig your shallow pit
And let you bury yourself in it

Your thinly veiled theories
Make me oh so weary
I am not blinkered to your traps
The others might follow
Your promises hollow
Your counterfeit treasure maps

Like Machiavelli
You play us as though we
Were pieces in your game of chess
The bishops are servants
The knights are all nervous
But Queens won’t bow down like the rest

Illusions like yours don’t last long
But til then I’ll keep singing my song

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A bitter little ditty

A simple song I sang. Written of an evening in glorious drop D and recorded rather amateur-ly by my good self. I hope it brings you something. Joy? I dunno.
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A song I wrote in tribute to the wonderful, tragic, sadly overlooked Jackson C. Frank

Look the guy up - such a tragic story - such a talent. Just don't listen to his songs straight after mine - the contrast in quality may give you an ear attack :)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jackson_C._Frank
JCF
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On the temptation to hide under the covers and the potential pitfalls of doing so...

Me, my guitar and some fake drums.
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Tick tock tick tock etc....a song I wrote pondering the shortness of our little lives Thought this might be useful for the Time collaboration thingy...until I realised I was ironically probably out of time - Still, let me know what you think please. Recording and harmonising is a little messy but I hope you will forgive that!

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A love song by me - bass and elec guitar by my cyber-collaborator David Ding AKA noiseball

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Wirrow's foxy illustration reminded me of a song I wrote so I thought I'd share. xx  


Little foxes lead the way


Trust their instincts


They know the way the land lays


Little insects, underfoot, are maimed


That’s the law of all things


Things change


There’s a code that we don’t know at play


In the spaces between things and in things


In every night every day


 


Do you feel it, hear it ring?


Little foxes know everything


Do you believe it? Breathe it in


Little foxes know everything


Do you believe it


Even in your skin


You’re a part of it all


A part of it all

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Made a short film today :) Thanks to tom (knucklesupper), lawrie, jon, richie and cerebis!

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