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Below are the 6 most recent journal entries recorded in an anti-grammar writing community's LiveJournal:

Thursday, November 10th, 2005
12:28 am
[no_tell_motel]
yep another copy paste... post haste
I first met Peter Groth in the smoke filled, rundown, dishrag of a bar called The Florescent in downtown washington dc... he had a loosly rolled cigarette hanging from his lips and another one perched in his ear. he was drunk and soapboxing about the government, but not like your average run of the mill "the gov'ment is why i drink" soapboxing drunk... he was actually knowedgable on the subject. he caught my ear because i was studying law at the time (now i study the bars and walls of my prison cell)...

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Peter went to yale and was on his way to becoming quite the politician, but he became disgusted, as do half of those interested in politics, he thought he could make a difference, but "politicians are just puppets for corperations nowadays." said peter. he immeadiatly followed it up with the reason why. "the corporations run the government because they finance everyone's campaigns, and when the time comes the politicians have to pay those corporations back. There are so many of them financing the senators and president and everybody else that the returned favors are endless. Thus our country, is ran by corporations." after saying this, the other drunks had grown weary of his political crap and started to throw empty beer bottles at him. so i offered him a ride home...

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we climbed into my dad's old saab and i asked him, "where to?" he jokingly said "to the batcave." then passed out. i was feeling nice and laid him down on my couch for the night...

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the next morning i was awakened by peter screaming "where the fuck am i!"
i came into the livingroom and peter was naked and had a look of terror in his eyes, the loosely rolled cigarette from his ear had came unrolled and there was tobacco all over his face and in his curly mop of hair. i calmed him down, got him dressed and explained while i made some coffee. (i dont drink it but all my friends do so i have a coffee maker) he started to remember the night and then suddenly had an epiphany right there in my dinette. he had to go home and i had to go with him...

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we drove to his house and he ran inside after a quick hand motion that said "come in, Now!" he ran up the stairs of his loft and went to his computer. he told me "watch the door and if anyone knocks, dont answer it."
then he preceded to start wiping all the files off of his hard drive, i didnt see much but the names sounded totally important, they looked like government classified information. (because they were) one in perticular caugh my eye. it was called project cromlech, which i later found out was a psychiatric drug therapy program for the special forces in 1996 that killed all of its subjects. about ten seconds too early there was a knowck on the door, i rememberd not to answer it, but he told me "Stall them!" so i started down stairs and when i came to the bottom, the door crashed to the floor, the small glass window in it shattered into a million pieces and the next thing i knew i was in hand-cuffs, the agents ran upstairs, the first fell back down with a hole from a colt .45 in his forehead. there were three more gunshots. half an hour later, from the back of a squad car, i saw peter come out of his house for the last time, in a body bag...

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which leads us here, to this federal prison. i am up for my appeal next week, but i dont think i will go though, there is no use, i am a terrorist.

Current Mood: like a rag on a stick
Monday, November 7th, 2005
1:27 pm
[boywithbroknjaw]
i am the boy with the broken jaw
so i made this comuniy a long time ago
and then i kinda forgot about it
and for that im sorry
but im back

thanks to the few people that joined

here are a few of my peices
mostly old stuff




A children’s story in the shape of a bear trap


we all gather together
in a circle on the bright blue carpet
sitting Indian style and sipping juice boxes
patiently waiting for the woman with the wondering eye to come and tell us a story

a story about princess, castles and dragons
a story where all the lovers murder each other in the end
a story with no plot
just this burial plot
that lay outstretched before you
as you stand there
staring headstrong at the headstone
you struggle to read the engraving
but you can’t make it out

the syllables stray from the words
and dance in circles around you
it must be written in some dead language
the letters laugh at you
as your jaw drops
falls right off your face and shatters into a million pieces on the cold December ground

and you wonder
is this handsome hole where your body will lay
or is it just a trap dug by the story teller to trick you



INSIDE THE BELLY OF THE BEAST

The townspeople count their blessings
And speak under their breath
So not to wake the horrible beast
That lives in the pits of their stomachs
It comes out only at night
And lurks around in the back of your mind
If you turn your back for just one second
He’s sure to eat you alive


Russian roulette (a modern day love song)

if 2 bullets
were fired from the barrel of the same gun

would they just fly straight
faster and faster into the flesh
carving two perfect little holes
Straight through the heart
Only to stop when they reach the vertebrae

or would they stop for a moment
in mid-flight for a goodbye kiss
before they hit the target

bullets are just like lovers
(explosive and beautiful yet cold to the touch)

Current Mood: contemplative
Sunday, November 6th, 2005
1:37 am
[no_tell_motel]
another copy-paste
I am the arch enemy...
I am the monster...
I am not misunderstood,
only mistook for a pedestrian...
I am Comrade red...
I am your washroom breeding Bolsheviks...
I am not over my self...
under through or in myself...
i am not me, i am just a clever actor ...
i have learned my role quick...
I am an immpressionist...
I can do my version of you,
and become you before you were born...
you have no identity because i took it from you...
along with your best dance moves,
speaking of which i do them better than you...
This is not a pitty party...
this is the donner party...

I am your throw rug...
I say welcome home,
and you wipe your shoes on me...
You get out of the rat race to step on my stomach...
I am your coffee table that has never seen coffee...
I only see your feet as they rest upon while you watch tv...
If these walls could olny talk...
I hope they'd keep their mouths shut...
Tuesday, October 18th, 2005
1:43 pm
[besideyou___]
stole it from my lj... hi by the way
his father was a general in the greatest war
the most horrific of wars and he would speak to his son
like his son was a ghost
'now son, remember when all was well? tell me what went wrong.'
then the father would lean farther back in his chair, close his eyes and sigh

the son grew up, looking in the mirror to see
if he was see through
he thought that maybe since girls didn't look at him
and boys didn't talk to him
maybe being a ghost was the truth

there was always a boy that sat in the back of my class
he was so pale, so anemic looking and sickly
after a while he would just blend in with the off-white walls
teachers didn't really call on him

then i heard about the kid
you know, that really pale scrawny one? that got beat up
in the boys locker room
left to lie there in a pool of his own blood

word was the when he got home his dead didn't even care
his mother never called the school to see
exactly what had happened
the kid never came back

and eventually
eventually, we all forgot
about that pale kid that teachers never called on
and girls never talked to

until.. until that one day
when he came back

he came back and something had changed. if ghostly before
then what was he now? a wisp, a wisp of nothing
see through skin and bones poking out here and there
teachers, for some reason
seemed to notice the nothing

well what happened?

something must have been going on at home you know
he just didn't do that
to himself

and then we found out, and the news isn't always so good
the kid's father, unrealized war hero
snapped out of his stupor one day and realized his child wasn't a ghost,
and his mother still alive
now, our war-hero
never wanted the same for his son again

he though maybe, just maybe if they could start over
then it could be good again. go to heaven and then start over
right?
even soldiers can believe in reincarnation

one night while the kid's mom was asleep, the general covered her face
with a soft, goose feather pillow.
suffocating.. quietly in the night
after a few minutes the general moved and saw his work done
wife's face frozen

he was on the right path

he went to his son's room, back when he was still black and blue
opened the door so quietly, no one would have ever known if he'd just left him alone
but no, his son wasn't there-
'Where are you? Where are you son? Come! We need to start over! Before the helicopters get here and you get sent off to a platoon! We have to stop it from happening! SON! SON WHERE ARE YOU? GOD DAMNIT DON'T YOU SEE THIS IS ALL FOR YOUR PROTECTION?! YOUR MOTHER WANTED IT THIS WAY! NO SON OF MINE IS JOINING SOME DEATH SQUAD! WHERE IN THE HELL ARE YOU? BOY! WHEN I FIND YOU-"

then, knock-knock on the door

knock, knock, knock
'Sir, please open up. This is the police we've had a noise complaint."

suddenly panic set in. our general realized what had happened, realized
it never looks good when you're suffocated your wife

so what's he do? what is he to do..? Hide of course! no, no
then they could send him away again
no, it's time for battle! no more running away, he's no ghost anymore.
One shot towards the front door
BLAM

The police have no other choice now. what do you do when a crazy man shoots at you?

go in the back way, sneak up on him from behind, gun to his head.
general freezes the enemy has him
he knows it

he raises his hands, handgun still in hand

'drop the weapon now. I SAID DROP THE WEAPON!'

what happens next? what happened because he didn't drop his weapon. he didn't drop his weapon.
he lowered his hands, the police back up

the man raises the gun again and before anyone can say anything

it goes off

and now there is a hole in his forward about 2 centimeters wide
gushing red

the police stand still for a minute, his body has dropped to the floor
then there is a noise at the top of the stairs
there is our pale boy, frozen for a minute looking down at what has become of the general

the police bring him down. ask him what happened.
he was in the bathroom, the whole time.
after hearing the sounds in his parents bedroom he hid, like the ghost he always felt like
he hid, knowing he was next

so our classmate was stuck in foster care
until some relative decided to take him in

so our classmate
never got beaten up again
we all figured
enough abuse, enough



i never knew billy
but billy, billy knew all about skeletons
Saturday, October 15th, 2005
1:50 am
[no_tell_motel]
totally copy pasted this one outta my journal but it belongs here too...
"Open up and come out with your hands above your head, this is your last chance."

"No way, ill kill you, ill kill all of you!"

"we're warning you we aren't afraid of using force."

"I got all the force i need right here."

"Give him the gas hes not responding..."

"this is your final warning the SWAT is on their way."

"I'm not afraid of no swat team!"

"fire the gas."

"Caugh caugh, thats it! you hit me in the stomach with that asshole."

"he isn't budging, sent in the negotiator."

"Mr. Brown you dont have to end it like this."

"Who the fuck are you?!"

"Im Captain Geoff Fitzpatric."

"fuck you"

bang bang bang

"holy shit! he shot the negotiator. send in the swat."

Clunk! "were through the door sir."

"were is he?"

"i dont see a thing."

"where the fuck are you asshole?"

"I'm right here." said the little boy holding a toy dart gun while sitting in the fort he made by draping blankets over the kitchen table...

Signed
your beloved...
COMRADE RED

Current Mood: cool
1:34 am
[no_tell_motel]
wow the first entry is mine!!!!
A HISTORY LESSON IN MATH:

two wrongs dont make a right,
but 1903 in kitty hawk two wrights took flight,
but am i off when three rights make a left?
someone said this before me like his father before him,
I was the only one to understand him because his bottom lip was cleft...


Signed,
Your beloved...
COMRADE RED

Current Mood: manic?
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