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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 10-June 20:22:20 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 96326
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Tribes
[time] => 2005-05-30 23:06:03
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => A six inch blue flame Ignites the rolled up edges Of a magazine Containing his Best his prized Choice Dry Gold Inhales he sucks in The fog and he Feels it spread He sets his chair to retract And releases the shell In the winter twilight A thousand rouges Will opt to fight And clutching Cold spears A fading Memory Forgets Fear For the first time He is seeing dread The ancient shaman Basks in it Surrounded by skulls And surrounded by Superstition His own death In his own premonition After 2079 a ghoul machine is now gasping for a hard silver scream its red eyes shutter and explode a psuedo man has cracked the code [comments] => 1 [counter] => 158 [topic] => 64 [informant] => Stapler28 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => ambiguous )
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