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Miscellaneous Ephemera => Shameless Self-Promotion => Topic started by: JacksBrokenHeart on July 16, 2007, 10:56:41 PM

Title: the poems thread
Post by: JacksBrokenHeart on July 16, 2007, 10:56:41 PM
I'll start it here. This thread is for all you: rob, PP, dev, lyman and all the rest and me.

crumple
4 years later,
its Sunday night again.

I am playing
that
song again. I know
what it does to me. I
have learned to love the
somber
crumple
that shrinks the hollow in my chest.

It reminds me of you.

Amidst the everyday never,
swaying in the notes
of
Sunday,
there is still hope.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tash on July 16, 2007, 11:20:08 PM
Poetry woo!! I just did my first "official" spoken word showcase in PA this weekend. Went well, needs work.
I'd be interested to know if there are any other spoken word artists on the box, or anyone that performs their work in general. If so, hit me up. If not, hit me up anyway.


Legs
I confess
I never learned to close my legs.
I never could get comfortable
Sitting with my knees overlapping
My calves just dangling
My circulation strangling
Until my feet are tingling.
So as soon as I begin to stand
I’m falling on my face.
I never was able to contort my body
To sit like a proper lady
My thighs were always too wide
To be anything but spread apart
Making me think
That pulsing in between my legs
Was really the beating of my heart.
I never find my balance
When my feet stand stiff together.
They each need their own land
To conquer.
I need to stabilize myself
Straddling benches
Backs of chairs
And… boys.
I Need to throw my hips out
Need to let comfort overtake decency.
But my mother keeps telling me
To keep that nickel between my knees
Shut them up tight
With no room to breathe
Cause a good girl keeps
Her legs closed
And her mind open.
But I never learned just how
To keep an open mind while
Closing myself off.
And just maybe I got the message
Mixed up and backwards.
Contorted and cramped up
While I was trying to fold myself
Into pretzel like positions
To preserve some propriety.
But Jesus Christ it feels good to
Stand strong
Cause you can’t wield a battle ax
With you’re ankles locked.
And it’s hard to roll with
The punches if you don’t
Throw your weight around.
And I don’t care if you stare up my skirt.
I never wear one anyway.
I’m not sacrificing my comfort
For yours any day.
Because I confess
I don’t need to learn to close my legs
When I learned how to raise my standards instead.
And I don’t want to sit like a lady
Cause being a lady hurts like hell
So I’ll sit spread open and comfortable.
And stand like I’m proud to be standing at all.

You can find my recordings and shit at the myspace: http://www.myspace.com/tashapratt
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Serina on July 16, 2007, 11:45:55 PM
Poetry woo!! I just did my first "official" spoken word showcase in PA this weekend. Went well, needs work.
I'd be interested to know if there are any other spoken word artists on the box, or anyone that performs their work in general. If so, hit me up. If not, hit me up anyway.


Legs
I confess
I never learned to close my legs.
I never could get comfortable
Sitting with my knees overlapping
My calves just dangling
My circulation strangling
Until my feet are tingling.
So as soon as I begin to stand
I’m falling on my face.
I never was able to contort my body
To sit like a proper lady
My thighs were always too wide
To be anything but spread apart
Making me think
That pulsing in between my legs
Was really the beating of my heart.
I never find my balance
When my feet stand stiff together.
They each need their own land
To conquer.
I need to stabilize myself
Straddling benches
Backs of chairs
And… boys.
I Need to throw my hips out
Need to let comfort overtake decency.
But my mother keeps telling me
To keep that nickel between my knees
Shut them up tight
With no room to breathe
Cause a good girl keeps
Her legs closed
And her mind open.
But I never learned just how
To keep an open mind while
Closing myself off.
And just maybe I got the message
Mixed up and backwards.
Contorted and cramped up
While I was trying to fold myself
Into pretzel like positions
To preserve some propriety.
But Jesus Christ it feels good to
Stand strong
Cause you can’t wield a battle ax
With you’re ankles locked.
And it’s hard to roll with
The punches if you don’t
Throw your weight around.
And I don’t care if you stare up my skirt.
I never wear one anyway.
I’m not sacrificing my comfort
For yours any day.
Because I confess
I don’t need to learn to close my legs
When I learned how to raise my standards instead.
And I don’t want to sit like a lady
Cause being a lady hurts like hell
So I’ll sit spread open and comfortable.
And stand like I’m proud to be standing at all.

You can find my recordings and shit at the myspace: http://www.myspace.com/tashapratt
I was amused thoroughly. And I definitely liked your articulation. In class I had to recite a poem for a poety month, and I remember I sucked at that. haha.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 17, 2007, 07:53:01 AM
Lyman is dead, he left me in charge. I created him anyway.

Good poems from both tash and jacksbrokenheart to start this party right.

Rabbit

Remember that feeling? The surprise and wonder of being fooled?
It used to be so amusing, but now leaves you cold.
They told you never to lie.
They lied about everything.
Now they expect you to breed that lie.
They expect you to breed.
They expect, expect, expect...
You are a disappointment.
You have failed.

At the end of the day you have walked past that pain.
All the hoops on fire, and sing song fairy tales.
You don't lie about anything.
You just leave the venom out.
They can't feel the bite.
They don't need a real explanation.
They correct, correct, correct...
You told them one truth.
The hat was empty.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: ThirtyWhacks on July 17, 2007, 03:43:41 PM
I'm just bringoing them from my DA, then.

Diseased

The time has come
Shattered memories beneath us
Crash into the earth like waves
Waves of disgust

The day the world died
You found broken pieces of yourself
Beneath the blackened earth
Still you question…

How has it ended up this way?
Nostalgia clouds your mind
Nothing clear, nothing defined
A mistake laid to rest today

A legend in your own mind
You run from all you create
Keep running. Run from yourself
Keep wasting away

You are your own cancer
You shed your skin
And devour your disease

I want to be your last thought
The last thing you regret
You selfish fool
You have nothing left.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on July 19, 2007, 07:25:11 PM
....jennifer?.....
where art thou?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on July 20, 2007, 03:58:04 PM
A Freewritten "Poem"

Van Halen-induced vomiting based upon visions
of several trees eating each other in the presence
of Stanley Kubrick's grandmother. Oscillating
cheesecloth berates us consistantly as we
slumber in the wake of a massacre. Mainly because
we aren't aware of our lack of personal cognizance.
Things on your To-Do List today:
    -What else can you fuck up?
    -Burn several NASCAR flags
    -Listen to The Eagles repeatedly,
       vis a vis Peter Gabriel
       a la Cat Stevens.
How much could've really changed between 1970 and 1984?


Words For [Friend's Name Removed]

and then there was the day
it was you and me
on D-lysergic acid diethylamide
and i wasnt there but you were there far too much
all because a tiny piece of an aboriginal man's face silhouetted in blue and I licked the scissors i used to cut him apart
and it wouldn't have mattered if I had opened a vein cuz it'd feel even better...
and maybe you really were in the midst of some long-planned paranoia-inducing plot pretending to be a friend like all the people before
maybe i just fucked up our heads more when you went to space for not the first time
and maybe that time felt familiar like before when you broke open your skull.

There isn't much difference if you do it physically or chemically or through the intervention of the militaristic operation of lives from a place you and I couldn't even begin to conceive of.

At least we felt understood eventually.

float like Christ float like Christ float like Christ





okay, i'm weird.  :brushteeth:

although the second one is a deeply personal accumulation of inside stories between me and a best friend.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: colordeaf on July 20, 2007, 04:02:05 PM
I tend to put poems in the descriptions on my Deviantart page. Not much of a poem, it sounds incomplete. Excuse the immaturity of the poem XP
Oh and by the way, I can relate, a lot, with the Legs poem. I'm not comfortable when I'm sitting down, and constantly changing the position of my legs.

Back
when everyone assumed
every planet was a forest,
Either they were too hot
Or too cold,
Or just right,
According to what religion was in fancy.
Some never made the history books
Because their people were too plain
Or had too many things sticking out
Or they all looked the same
And us....
Oh they said that we were fiction
Therefore we lived
In a far, far away place
In a far, far away time
They said had too much gravity
To ever exist
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 20, 2007, 04:08:23 PM
....jennifer?.....
where art thou?

Ditto on this. I miss her.  :'(
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on July 21, 2007, 05:51:04 PM
this is a song i wrote which was originally a poem that was wirtten in 2 minutes in my english class for my honky teacher brought in a country singer who was going to teach us how to write songs.

Blue Skies
if i was the blue sky
i'd look down at the world, use my little eye and spy
what's going on today? how is everything today? what did you do today? what about tomorrow?
if i was the blue sky
my body would rest upon the white wispy clouds
I'd have rockets and planes racing through me....

i've decided not to put the second verse because it sucks.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on July 21, 2007, 10:26:42 PM
....jennifer?.....
where art thou?

Ditto on this. I miss her.  :'(

i miss her too. :(:(:(

jennifer we  :love5: you!!!!!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: my favorite things. on July 22, 2007, 09:52:31 PM
QUEERN AND COUNTRY.


I am the girl who wanted to be god,
Raving and wretched in Trafalgar square,
Blitzed and bombed psycho-sexing Manic Street Preachers.
Laying prostrate on hobo bread crumbs, I cut my sex out
In a flash of pain and changed into a figure faked Jane,
The train trumpeted in my empty crotch rocketed out and back into the black,
As I bled onto the concrete where my knees met the sky.
I turned my tricks for thirty odd years later,
And
And
It never got better, push in pull out, shake the syringe so I don’t pop a vein,
I am the girl who wanted to be god.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 23, 2007, 12:02:38 AM
I'll start it here. This thread is for all you: rob, PP, dev, lyman and all the rest and me.

Hey, I had to come back to read another delicious Suede...er JacksBrokenHeart poem.

Jennifer's holed up writing her masterpiece, but should be along shortly.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on July 23, 2007, 01:12:52 AM
where are Rob, Matt and spidey j. when you need them?!


eh, i'll write something short and stupid here.

ode to friendship (a social disease)

come around town, but not when you're down,
you'll thank me.

come around back, but not when you're wracked,
you'll thank me.

come around the corner store, i got just what you're lookin' for,
meeting Jess, the corner whore, but keep that sad face at the door,
you'll thank me,
you'll thank me,
you'll thank me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on July 23, 2007, 09:13:50 AM
I still loves the Caddy...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 23, 2007, 11:31:25 AM
I erased the past
decided to reach out again
it should have been the perfect moment
the romance you insisted you wanted
spit back in my face
I can't love you
you don't love yourself
I can't make you love yourself
I can't pretend this is enough

I can't be who I am
I pour emotion out strongly in real time
you hold yours in only to cry it out later in bitter waterworks
because you know it is wrong
but you won't make the change
I don't want you to change who you are
I want you to know who you are and stop killing yourself over it
accept it and move on
or I must move on
and it will be my fault if it makes you feel better
I don't want you to be sad
I just want you to grow
shelter is fine but I can't cover you forever

my mistakes are mine
your mistakes are yours
you may erase me from your life
but that is not what I want
I tried to leave a positive mark
but you hold the eraser
and I just fade




Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on July 23, 2007, 01:30:05 PM
Variation on a theme began in five minute poems or whatever that thread was called

An Observation

Poets and prophets,
pundits and preachers,
Intellectuals,
philosophers,
critics
are like assholes
everyone
is one
(at some point)
some are smooth
and pink
and clean
others are hairy
and bear the stench
of not quite
wiping
well enough.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 23, 2007, 05:37:54 PM
i looked up
and saw you
by the window
your hair, red
in the sunshine,
made you look
just like an
earlier girl, but
her smile had been
for someone else.

i took your hand that
day as we walked into
the clearing near a
stand of old maple trees
we lay our backs
on a small incline
in the grass

playing the branches
like a conductor
the wind used a score
written before time
had changed everything
finding rhythyms
not found in concert halls

i touched the tears
the wind had placed
on your face and looked
up into the sun

a small sunflower from
last season was level
with my eyes
when i leaned forward
it held the strange music
on its face
i saw it spread down
into its tiny roots
and further into what was
beneath the ground
until it touched the sky
and came into us

in that instant
we awoke to see
ourselves in the sky
with the wind and
the trees as the
final notes sounded

your hand reached
for mine and i
squeezed it so slightly
with a reverence
demanded by the mystery
of this moment







Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on July 24, 2007, 03:05:47 PM
Very nice soda mark...mind your n's and t's...second to last line.

Now,
where the hell
did I leave my pencil,
and
that other guy,
you know,
the pale
thin
sickly one
that sucks.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on July 25, 2007, 05:45:12 AM
Many thanks to Hobbesey, for shining the Dadaist torch into mine eyes!



See Anarchy for explanantion, the Scrolly thread:

Transcriptions of your results are very welcome!  :D

I'd like to call this poem:

I Saw a Shooting Star and Puked a Little In my Mouth

Bib!
Bisaw
GG
Osh! Las!
Bie
Ga!

© Kenny Wisdom Poems from Eurocummings and Other Short Stories 2007
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 25, 2007, 11:30:28 AM
LAST BREATH

for jennifer and carole anne


We can’t do
other than
to compare it
to the first.

It becomes large
and important
because of 
the seasons
in between.

Are you waiting
with us who hover
or does the struggle
rob you of death’s
perfect beauty?



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 25, 2007, 11:40:53 AM
LAST BREATH

for jennifer and carole anne


We can’t do
other than
to compare it
to the first.

It becomes large
and important
because of 
the seasons
in between.

Are you waiting
with us who hover
or does the struggle
rob you of death’s
perfect beauty?





That one made me cry. Another fine poem, Dev.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 25, 2007, 11:48:01 AM

That one made me cry. Another fine poem, Dev.

Thank you.  Me too.  I witnessed a death this week and felt the other one from a distance.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 25, 2007, 03:23:35 PM

That one made me cry. Another fine poem, Dev.

Thank you.  Me too.  I witnessed a death this week and felt the other one from a distance.

I figured. It reminded me of watching my Mother go. I've got about 30 poems about that alone. It was the most intense thing I have ever been a part of. I never believed in spirits much until I felt hers lift out of the room. It was so empty after that. Yet every once in a while, I feel it return when I'm having hard times. So as sad as it was, it also is nice to know that they come back to visit every now and then.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: JasonWakefield on July 25, 2007, 06:29:13 PM
This is one I wrote when I had a horrible holiday with friends in Tenerife.


Hitler On Holiday

Surrounded by the palm trees' barred square
With their hanging leaves, sunlight glare,
With a gun in my hand, thinking
Of shooting the man that gave me shame
Of questioning a culture, Predicting
The future, seeing faces in my mind,
The light that I find is making me blind,
Enclosed within a circle of eight friends,
Feeling Hitler and his family send
Soldiers of discrimination, of dictatorship
Of disgrace, of inflated shit, with
Misappropriations of my segregation,
This holiday has turned 'gay'
So they say, so I say, How I pray
To go home, away from this windless
Cyclone, Sun and sand in my hands
Turns to cunts and cockroaches
On coaches, Over sensitive, But
Incensed by their cynicism, physical
Aggression and oppressive pessimism,
Hotels on hills, hot and shot,
Bloody after my sullen bullet pummelled
Their sunny plights, Alcohol funnelled,
Feeling my reality distorted, but
Knowing it to be different and sorted,
Organs are disorganised, tied tight as
The bite from a snake of the fake,
Like a dog released free from a leash on
The beach, irritably hot sick escapes
From my face, onto their shoes, The
Continent moves despite God's gravitational
Glue, Soothing oceans become seething
Socials, I'll say what I want and it's
Of an unintelligible font, They can't
Consider how proud I am of my mirror,
Constructed with sound mind, reflecting
Their innocence back to their eyes,
What they see is anything but me,
But a reflection of themselves trapped
In their perception cells, Sunburnt
Despite dirty white shirts covering my
Body, Scabs on my knees teased
By the gentle breeze, Crying alone,
Trying to postpone the thoughts of
Conflict through Creation, Cameras
And Sodomy.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 26, 2007, 01:05:25 AM
the undertaker spoke
in a low voice
as she held
her mother's hand
and kissed her

he stepped back
and waited
for the ritual
to be complete

she removed her
baptismal pillow
from beneath
her mother's head
like precious glass
she held it to her face
and smelled
remnants of
the dying

the body moved
to the gurney with
practiced skill
gown smoothed
collar patted
like a father sending
her daughter off
to a first dance

the bag zipped
in steady glides
head tucked in
the last piece
of a garment
woven by death
out of the
final bits
of life

her mother's
spirit began
to disappear
at the closing
of the back door
of the hearse

but her daughter's
heart was opening
to her mother's
new world as
she walked
into the drive
and watched it
pull away

transformed
into the child
her mother
knew when
she herself
had been
young
she whispered
"goodbye mommy"
held tight
to her chest
she waved her hand
in tiny movements
like a little girl

falling into me
her eyes looked
beyond the
empty space
that was
not yet filled
with angels'
tears


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: muckymuck on July 26, 2007, 03:36:35 AM
oh.my.god.fuck
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: muckymuck on July 26, 2007, 04:34:48 AM
I have a few poems....but Im not so shameless
maybe tomorrow
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 26, 2007, 12:14:54 PM
This is one I wrote when I had a horrible holiday with friends in Tenerife.


Hitler On Holiday...
You hit that one out of the park. I really like the "cunts and cockroaches" bit, and the end bit as well. Good job.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on July 31, 2007, 08:23:27 AM
Write more Rob. You're my favorite.

--

I am the dusk that makes way for the dawn
The truth that's covered up in a state of alarm
The pinnacle of precedence that's doing you harm
The constant consternation of a breakthrough at large

I am the ebb that makes way for the flow
The sacrificial innocence to settle the tow
Appointed and anointed to quicken the blow
Fueled by severanced reverence for just wanting to know

I am the moon that steals the sun's wasted rays
Surrounded by stars that only glow for your gaze
The statue blowing kisses in the downpouring rain
The man behind the mask who didn't ask for the fame

I am the smoke that's rising up from the gun
Wistful in the pistol till the damage is done
Enshrouding the image of the one who has won
Gone before you realize where the fuck I came from

I am chaos, let me be your muscle and bone, wield me for a purpose that I don't care to know, a purpose that is worthless or the start of your glow, I'll make you mine or make you shine, just get this show on the road, I don't care who lives or dies, I just survive by the flow.

I am chaos, I am not selfish or prude, I strive to be divine in the hands of the few, those who understand that I am not here to choose, those who thrive under pressure and the stress of the crude.

I am chaos, my name rings like a bell, whether you're on your way to heaven or god sends you to hell. I'd say I've done well, hiding my true shape in a shell, intentions getting mentions but no one's catching my tells, mystified so amplified, I'm breaking records in sells. 

I am chaos, I live in infamous fame, I'm doing everything correctly so I'll keep with my game, ain't got a reason to change as I'm embracing the blame, existing unchained's allowing me to break past the frame, take me by the hand and I will show you the same, you can't adapt you'll get attacked 'till you remember the name.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on July 31, 2007, 10:04:04 AM
In creative writing class I worked everyday (not for the class... just for the hell of it) on what I called "The Epic Poem"
now keep in mind...this was just spewed out of me without thought. It was sort of tongue-in-cheek while I did it, but looking back, i see some definate subconscious things coming through. I'll just share certain parts for the sake of brevity.

Part 6
                I,
                he who stands before you,
                aware of my fate.
eternally forgotten.
       strand
       after
       strand
          removed,
          torn from you.
       But I will go.
       unto you,
       Forever remaining in a timeless illusion.

Part 7
Smoke!
    It billows.
Wanders:
    they begin.

creeds hater:
cold realms await!

a crescent wave of souls
loses its chance for failure.

Part 9
I really shouldn't
lie so much.
Or tell those around me anything.

[intermission]

"A Letter to the Editor"

"I have suscribed to your paper for some time now and feel as though our time together is drawing to a close. Without your newsletter, things will be more difficult or perhaps better. I've lost interest in your headlines and no longer find your editorials to be thought-provoking. God, forgive me.

Part 14

A predator can never quite come to terms with its existance.

A negative side effect of being on top.

It desires,
needs, to feel,
but does not.

I am jealous of the apathy, for only the sake of those around me.

Part 15

pendulums are alike
    never stopping
    for those who would
    appreciate
       a moment
       of silence.

Part 16
A king once spoke
of a dream he had.

The empty house at the
end of a dirt road,

wooden door
two windows
no shudders

An ant makes its way cross
the field
    while an elderly couple
    ponders.

Around back:
downed soldiers


ummmmmmm


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 01, 2007, 04:24:18 AM

when Daphne
left her ghost
remained,
spread out
on the furniture,
lying across
your bed.
before she knew
her fate, it
listened to
your thoughts
echo and twist,
and sucked your
essence sated
with anger and
tears.

she dreamed with
new eyes and a
voice that
summoned her
ghost back to
her. it told
her nothing.

she didn't want
to be a sacred
thing, born of
jealousy, her
secret lost,
where she
now stands firm
and wooden and
alone.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 02, 2007, 07:16:00 AM
Aftermath to a Dream

wake to morning cool
early breeze and reverie
time begins its march
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 02, 2007, 11:32:08 AM
STEPS

take a step
the wrong one
take one hundred steps to compensate
end up at the same place
take a step back
still the wrong one

stand in one place
now you can't breathe
now you can't move
without breaking glass
make a mess
destroy what you built

any step could be wrong
but to stand still would be disaster
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: ThirtyWhacks on August 03, 2007, 02:57:09 AM
Defeated

Unique but uninspired, I will sit here and wait for something to find me. I will wait, malnutritioned and starving. I will not give into the hunger eating away my insides. Every noise I hear in this solitude is beating the drums of my ears. Pounding wildly, it shatters soundbarriars and deafens my senses. the minimal light will burn my eyes until i close their lids. Everything turning ugly before my blinding eyes, I will watch it transform. The birds will crash into the earth at a thundering pace. The trees will lose their leaves as they crumple on the ground and the sun will be clouded with grey water vapor. I will sit and wait, sleep depraived and shaking. Saturated in my own filth, I will wait defeated beneath my sorrow.

It's a paragraph because thats how i wrote it, and was too lazy to find a way to format it.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 03, 2007, 08:02:56 PM
I guess I'm included in the "everyone else". Hehe.

One of my newest poems. It's sorta childlike, but I like it.

"Death By Black Hole"

She's got this black hole in the middle of her world
And it just keeps pulling her in
She grabs some tree branches and tries to hold on
But the force just gets stronger and then
She's gone in a flash and she'll never come back
What happened to that frowny faced girl?
She was here, now she's not, is she dead, hit her head?
Death by black hole in the middle of the world

A happy girl in pink sits on the end of the street
Wondering what all the noise is about
She's head over heels for Jesus Christ
She's one of those ones who scream and shout
But then she wakes up and she laughs to herself
Someday they'll get what they deserve
But in a split second she's sucked into the ground
Death by black hole in the middle of the world

---

And here's another recent one. I didn't like it at first. It's sorta everywhere... if you know what I mean. But lentower read it on my myspace blog and seemed to like it, so I'll post it.

"Me"

My life - a lonely windowpane
The rest shattered long ago
But mine is still pulling her weight
Cracked and aching, but still standing
Holding up through the icy wind
And the tapping of the midnight rain

Through this lonely prism you see
The empty space within the "me"
Creaking floors home to lonely souls
Dark corners camouflage a horror
That innocent eyes can never see
Even shadows need a place to call home

So I am a safe haven for the dark ones
Who cannot find refuge in summer light
They'd risk being seen, and maybe heard
They'd risk being happy, and maybe loved
So they hide away from happy thoughts
I am a carnival for the absurd

But deep within all that sleeps here
There is a light brighter than any before
Just waiting to erupt, spread out, and sing
"I am the beauty you long to see!"
But to share it they must see it first
I must find the light within the "me"
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 04, 2007, 08:58:43 AM
The Ghost

There's a ghost in my house
I felt it as I entered
I pride myself on sanest thought
And now I'm not quite centered

I call the Master Carpenter
Because the walls are thin
To brace it all with flesh and blood
Which once were just sanguine

Perhaps it comes from lineage
A common visage in the mist
I'll try to flush and call it out
Without a Spiritualist

Late at night I hear it
Pace the upstairs halls
I turn myself to dreaming
Of snakes and garden walls

Outside in morning light
A flicker shines within
It comes from neither current
Nor hardest paraffin

But then I knew the answer
'Twas tapping all the time
This thing was hardly specter
For it's fused complete in rhyme
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 04, 2007, 09:58:42 PM
An Understanding


go ahead
take the
car-
drive on
home with
the girl
at the bar

i'll just
stay-
get lost
again
enjoy my
haunt
my little
 sins

but tomorrow-
for sure
we'll meet
and speak
of love and
other things

bind it
tight with
where we've
been
and bring
to us a
night
complete
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 04, 2007, 11:15:39 PM
Devery...You are killing with these things.  Let them all out!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on August 05, 2007, 11:44:03 PM
all of these are really good.
i try to write poetry.
but every time i do, it ends up sounding corny/cheesy/fake and i throw it away.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 06, 2007, 02:21:50 AM
Moonlight Draws In Rythm

i wonder what you smell like
do you wreak of cologne or smell like the sun skimming my skin?
look up into the sky -- we are breathing it in.
home alone on a saturday nite
11:24 PM
playing non-existant chords

the moonlight draws in rythm, helps me cast my spells

playing with my sore gums
wisdom teeth know-it-all
beating my heart out just for you
writing blogs about the letter "I"
accused & astounded, shocked from what i've done
i coloured my white shirt with permanent marker

the moonlight draws in rythm, helps me cast my spells

making noise
fantasizing of killing my younger self
darkness is here I'll stand from now on
making no sense at -- all this is so much fun
where have all the warnings gone?
what have you become?
hold the door, but she walks on by
SLAP upside the head.....
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 06, 2007, 05:13:13 AM
 :-\<this is where I've been, and now that I am reading all these darling poems, I am absolutely thrilled and I am home. It was ugly. Many people are still stuck in the sewage. I can't go into the full details except to tell you that it is very late. You are asleep. I am not. And I MISSED ALL OF YOU AS WELL. And it seems that we may have some others coming in? Fantastic! So, now a couple little offerings. Don't judge too harsh. It was a very, very long brain surgery to get the crap out....
I'm amazed I can even tyep. <heh.

another Ting episode first:

Ting was marching up a kind
of scaffold
or so it felt,
and it swayed with the weight
of what had to be 
Revolutionaries.
a small breeze bent at her
knees, but oddly a solid footing.
and as she gazed down
she was stunned to see
that there were nubs of plastic.
maybe rubber bubbles.

holding her feet firm as if
to stick them to each step
she took.
people were laughing all around
and the sound of something
splashing
just had to be
just had to be
putting the victims in the
dunking chair,
the crowd rising in ecstacy
at the suffering.

but why such care in her
footing?
why handle rails to steady
the vertigo?
wasn't it sad enough she was
going to be tortured?
put to death for the un-
named.
but to suffer the pretense
of security beforehand.
 to watch.
 to see.

plunging towards doom
made the crowds hysterical
and Ting imagined the throng
showing signs of choking,
drowning,
or a final chop and severing
of head from neck.
the gesticulations of the
peasants on this sunny day
would be enough
she hoped.

would be enough in itself
she hoped.

to kill her at the very top
of this wooden ladder.

everything she had seen and
flinched-- and had she not
even ordered it for others?
had she not even witnessed
her own Uncle disemboweled
for treason?
what of being drawn and
quartered ? or when she
was forbidden the castle's
back steps...

she had creeped down
and watched in solid shock
as a man's arms were ripped
inch by inch from his shoulders.
she had creeped down
at some point in the luxury
car.
and the bird she had healed
was now back on the hood
of the car.

that bird knew her very
sins.
her very dreams and aspirations.
her very taste in food and
the time she awoke in morning
light.
that bird was making her march
and its call was a wild
wicked
mast of a laugh.
for she had given life and it
would now take hers.

just as the books knealt
and had warned.
just as the fires she had
read about where ladies
fell through brick sidewalks
rupturing the ground
itself.
rupturing.
rupturing.

and as she was busy
thinking of bodies falling
through the ground, her feet
perched at the top of some
awful chute.
this was unlike anything.
unlike anything.
except a giant laundry
tumble to nothing she
could envision.

the blue sky blinked at her.
the --no. a relative was in
front of her. holding her hands.
"come on!" the young woman
laughed.

Ting looked down at her bare legs
and felt shame saddle up her
neck.
she looked down at a kind of
shirt, only covering her upper arms.
now blushing,
she realized her torso was in
some sort of tights.
not for dancing or show.

at the bottom of this huge
blue chute would be servants
who scalded their feet in piss
and ammonia
just to keep her Royal gowns
clean and white.
these serfs, servants, indigents.
they hated her very birth.
would have been merry
for her to perish by some
"accidental" toxin...
Ting knew this just as she
knew the bird was now
inside the windshield of the
black-stretched-car.
they would be delighted to see
her neck broken at the bottom
of that barrel...

"come ON!"
and with that final statement,
Ting started to fly.
she was swirling, arms spread
out and collapsed on water,
water or oil.
it didn't matter as she had
no hold on either.
and this river of rapids
was no straight descent.

her body rotated left and
right with malice
but she couldn't help the
smile
that was spreading.
she went so high on one
turn,
Ting was sure she would be
belly-down.
face-down.
talons in her back or a
blade waiting to fall.

and still.
she kept on smiling.
ridiculously grinning at the
thought of a blue liquid
tunnel to die in or upon
arrival at the bricks

that just had to be
had to be.

waiting at the bottom,
smirking at her ignorance
just as she laughed a hearty
release at the swift
swarm of the ride itself.
this would be how it
could go.

not the bird and not
the dream of the beautiful
fields.
her hands folding in hands.
a kiss before lips touching.
not the mirror that pounced
around the room following
her steps...

the end of this ride was a
sidewalk,
and as she was shoved at
the speed of gravity.
she knew.
she thought.
her body might go into it
four to five feet deep.

but instead.

one giant splash of water.
no one watching
except adults. elders.
her mouth came
up in the perfect
oval
only seen for breath.

and that's when Ting
realized she was a child
again.
learning to swim by
being plunged.
plummeted.
ruptured...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 06, 2007, 05:32:25 AM
I know, Devery. Not too good, was it? I really just got tired and that is "lame" but it's the truth. It can be "fixed" you know. Oh. And one comment, because I've seen it in here and in the past--I ALWAYS feel like what I write is crap, the only difference is on the 1 to 10 scale of how bad it is. Doesn't mean I won't post it though, as someone may find some sort of use from it. Maybe? Eh. don't be afraid your poems aren't "worthy" or something--I have not seen a poet--eer come down harshly on anyone, and if they did, I'd put them in a sewer. The ONLY thing you might get is advice, and that's not so bad. So knock it off! Stop teasing me telling me you're writing things and then not show them!!! O0

hey. Larry. Amanda. Devery. All you poets! It will take me some time to review everything, but from what I've seen--I am truly knocked out so far...and introductions have to be made because there are either new people or new names. "spill" them to me please. we could have coffee and a bagel or something...

here:


you said
you just wanted
a hug

and two seconds
later
your pelvis

was leaning
into mine.

and that was
not where I wanted
any body part
of yours.

and that was
not the right moment
to tell me you
felt lonely.

and that was
the last time I
wrapped my arms
around

something
like the shape
of my pity
for your

hips.





(simple...and not exactly true)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 06, 2007, 05:49:25 AM
BlondeRedhead--who let your rabid self in? splendid. SLAP ending. splendid.

I slip into the Zoo
in a dress made only
for Miss America contests
or something so
ostentatious
that the meal before
viewing
would cost more than
one year's salary.

for sure.
for sure.

I slide open my father's
drawer
to look for treasure,
only I am in a business
suit.
hurried out of a shower.
looking for leather loafers.
and that's when I come to
knowing...
I am either my father
or treasure is fiction.

for sure.
for sure.

I smack on the headphones
to Lennon, Cobain, Janis and Jim.
Perhaps a hundred or more
dead voices trapped on
recordable devices...
at least for the time I'm here
to listen.
and with arrogance, I write
the word "arrogance"
wondering if I'll become
something of a record.

for sure.
surely not.

I'm done with at least
half my life
and so are you--or will be.
or have passed me.
unless you land on my
picket fence,
I can offer no sage
wisdom--
but will tell one thing
true. ?
Your brain never casts
an image of your mirrored
Self, past the desires of
18 or so--

it's sure
i'm sure

I open my new cd or
book with the same
anticipation of a bunny's
heartbeat, the drool
of being a teen.
and all my attempts at
everlasting
Disneyland
Love
were immature infatuations
or a delicate need my
mouth elected.

it always comes down to food.
food as a metaphor.
or food from someone's fryer.

for me.
for sure.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 06, 2007, 07:27:43 AM
:-\<this is where I've been, and now that I am reading all these darling poems, I am absolutely thrilled and I am home. It was ugly. Many people are still stuck in the sewage. I can't go into the full details except to tell you that it is very late. You are asleep. I am not. And I MISSED ALL OF YOU AS WELL. And it seems that we may have some others coming in? Fantastic! So, now a couple little offerings. Don't judge too harsh. It was a very, very long brain surgery to get the crap out....
I'm amazed I can even tyep. <heh.

another Ting episode first:

Jennifer - you've brought Ting back to life!  Daphne saw her last week, but caught just a glimpse as Ting hurried by in the street.  She still had her notebook, though!  And last night, I saw her in a dream.  She was standing on a wooden platform (coincidence?), but it was low and in the dark, her back was against a wall, and the brightest light shone on a beautiful pair of golden boots standing tight together just by her feet.  And now - this - from you!    Not very good?  How do you say "perfection" in dream-speak?   :glasses9:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 06, 2007, 09:19:40 AM
Wound

A slice

across the heart

as by a shard of glass

it's sort of strange at first

it doesn't hurt

but then

you see

the blood

you feel

the cut.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 06, 2007, 10:05:35 AM
 :happy11: Rob, you just reminded me of a little something. A true story that can be seen by two small scars on my face to this day! Nice one. And may I just say...that I have no idea how to post without the alt + s "reply" --or how to post a new topic if i should feel so bold...? Clue me in someone. And I see many are back, and I see some are "new?" And I feel I can only say once again--that you are all taking up my day...


in honor of yours, Rob:


tried to let the neighbor's
old dog
pat pat
into its house.

old dog
pat pat
was almost blind.
and i was about to

embark on
kindergarten.

the picture says
the word.

the old dog bit.
the face of my face.

and stupid and
walking.
i got to the
porch area.

and my childhood
friend
screamed

"you're bleeding!"

and old dog.
pat pat.

i went in the house
and asked
on the ride to
the doctor.

am i going to die?

and they said no.

but they lied about
that

also.




someone come in now. (as if i am not already busy marching through the 4 pages here. you know, there is almost every type of "modern" poetry in here that i can think of...and that can only be a good thing for anyone concerned or reading. i still encourage the shy --but err. Sued-Jack --see. You sent me a masterpiece once. And now look at you. Ripping them out at will...and starting this thread) i really do have an awful tendency at extremely lonnnnnng parenthesis'--thank you Devery. Ting is now in your hands. Others are welcome should they feel inclined. But if you kill her or something, I'll have to bring her back to life until the unit "we"- figure out what the hell she actually is and what she is doing, etc. ;)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 06, 2007, 10:54:39 AM
THE PENCIL!!!!!!

Yay! Glad you are back. Now that that is out of the way, now it is time for a virtual wrist slap. Your work is not crap. It is highly unfiltered and sometimes undisciplined, but never what I would call pure crap. It evokes your feelings, and does so in a very unusual way. I happen to like most of your musings. Sue me.

The only thing I wish you would do is go back to some of your work and find what YOU don't like about it and revise and edit until you are happy. That being said, you also have to know how to be objective and not over-work your poems. Over-production is not just for music, I have seen people over-think poems so much, and they end up losing the initial grit the earlier drafts contained.

The way I work is like this (not all the time, because rules are meant to be broken!):

1. write the raw inspiration first. No over-thinking, just put it all down unfiltered by worry over technical stuff, and bad thoughts like "is this corny?"

2. Get away from it for at least a day. Don't look at it and start tearing it apart right away. Your creative mind and objective mind will sometimes tear each other apart.

3. Look at it, and still try to avoid a harsh critical look. Just look at what you have done and try to decide what you are trying to say. Look for the fluff, and mark it (don't delete or erase it). Put it back down and go do something else. Come back to it. Is that fluff you marked, or do you need what you marked back in the poem? Ask questions of yourself like "can I say this in another way?" Write more if you need to. Add to it. Don't subtract anything yet. Maybe even write a parallel poem that says the same thing from a different perspective. KEEP IT ALL!! Now get away from the poem again.

4. Now look at it with that harsh eye of yours. Tear that thing to shreds and leave it begging for mercy. Edit it down to bare bones. Make it as direct as possible. Be brutal.

5. Now look at all the drafts and start making choices:

a. combine the best of all the drafts, and make the perfect poem.
b. take the original draft, and tell the revisions to shove it. (I do this most of the time)
c. throw it all away. (I'd like to pretend that I never do this, but I do it sometimes)
d. hate it, but show it to other people anyway. (I do this, and sometimes I change my mind months down the line , which is the reason you should never throw poems away).

There you have it, the method armyoflarry swears by, and sometimes completely ignores. JOY!

Welcome back Jennifer. Wanna get some java?






Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on August 06, 2007, 11:10:25 AM


you said
you just wanted
a hug

and two seconds
later
your pelvis

was leaning
into mine.

and that was
not where I wanted
any body part
of yours.

and that was
not the right moment
to tell me you
felt lonely.

and that was
the last time I
wrapped my arms
around

something
like the shape
of my pity
for your

hips.





(simple...and not exactly true)

i missed you, jennifer! welcome back.
i  :love5: this poem and you
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 06, 2007, 11:20:33 AM
BlondeRedhead--who let your rabid self in? splendid. SLAP ending. splendid.

WHAT!?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 06, 2007, 11:38:19 AM
It's a compliment...accept it as such.  It is well deserved.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 06, 2007, 11:42:22 AM
OOOOH ok. but I wasn't mad. I was just you know. really LOUD.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 06, 2007, 04:20:41 PM
BlondeRedhead--Continue to be as loud as you want. You poems are making me go dizzy. And I like that, and we should have coffee, because I'm not sure I know if you've ever posted poems in the "past" Box or not, etc. Besides. Anyone who quotes Manson has my vote. I'm serious.  ;)

ArmyofLarry--I really do appreciate your attempts at helping me. I know my poems can run all over the place and are --human in flaws. I understand how you "work" but for me it all starts with one simple metaphor --or a bang off of someone else. (which could be cheating, but it's not) Meaning the poem about the dog biting my face was thought of because of Rob's offering....but really, absolutely. Java. As long as I'm not nauseated, k? ;D You consistently tell me not to look down on what I write, and I appreciate it--but it's a part of self-doubt that is rather embedded--even when I've achieved something more worthy of anything seen here. (rare, very rare) So thank you. And I will and do --except with Ting--keep it to one idea at the very least--or try--or give up and forget. Still. Thank you, sweetie.

Mandolin Rain--aha! We have catching up to do, and I'm glad you liked that poem. As simple as it is, I am rather fond of it myself in retrospect. I was just sitting here staring at the ceiling, trying for the millionth time to see if my tongue could touch my nose (it can't, and i'm joking)--and there it was. Who is the source of all my...ache? Probably the same bitch who just pissed you off. 8)

Devery--the Daphne furniture poem. you're in some deep shit now. (mumbles....damn bunch of talented writers wandering around and i have to go get paper towels...)

Rob. As always. "Wound" How true. And I hope you don't mind it made me think of the time I got bit in the face. I was lucky on that one. The one canine missed my eye by centimeters. One must always remember where they are fortunate, even when they wallow in their own agony.  Some wise saying fits there, I'm sure.

JacksBroken--you're a son of a bitch and should never write again. <<the worst joke attempt made to try and get you to "do it again" --it's always magic for me.

and if i haven't commented on you yet, don't worry. i will. i'm a nosy arse. but i mean no harm.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 06, 2007, 04:52:34 PM
actually, you missed my point. My point was to give insight to how I work, and maybe spark some ideas for you.

As I said before, the best part of my method is that my best stuff happens when I ignore it.

So take what I say, and throw it away.

Just keep creating, and ting can go everywhere. We like that, yes.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on August 06, 2007, 06:14:29 PM
I know my poems can run all over the place and are --human in flaws.


Actually, and this is not criticism, just an observation, your poetry is more single-minded and focused than your conversational prose.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lunazuga on August 07, 2007, 12:25:43 AM
love poem. :love5: awwie! haha. it's kinda john donne inspired with an e.e. cummings feel (if anyone's a dork like me an dknows either of them; e.e. cummings only used punctuation where he felt they looked good, not where it was grammatically correct to punctuate).

the world will melt away with quickness
when you are near; things that are dark will be illuminated
i forget myself for you are me. inside and out
wandering the plains of my ideas for an answer
who;what:am i
in the black sea all answers are lost
and i am left talking to myself.

with all earthly matters, they are surely heavenly
with skin upon skin and thumb upon thumb
rough meets "angelic softness"
as the ground drips away, gently slipping from the grip of our toes.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 07, 2007, 01:09:32 AM

another Ting episode first:

............

and that's when Ting
realized she was a child
again.
learning to swim by
being plunged.
plummeted.
ruptured...

alone and down
into the
Quiet Place
where silence
pushed her
ears into
silent
acceptance
of the solid ice
above her
the coldness
of the water
freezing
her memory
until it served
her fate to
remember

she had flown
like Icarus'
lunar sister
 smashing molecules
into swarming wings
and petals scented
and stained with
nectar from an icy sun

the glowing hair
of the Angel
(she told herself
it must be)
standing before her
under the ice
her flushed cheeks
a contrast with
Ting's own blue lips

she had survived
the freefall
and oh -  how she
had smiled as
she smashed through
the ice to where
she saw Her now -
and now the Other
announced herself
to Ting
long before the
black car and
the mirror
She came to her
and opened her
with Her mouth
and power
to fill her blood
with Otherness

as She entered
Ting's eyes turned
deep and green
her skin a luminous
white and face
softened by the echo
of the seven moons

it told her her fate -
that she would be
both Queen and servant
the Other's need
would rule her mind
and instincts and
would take her little
trusting heart and
crush it into a thousand
separate lifetimes...


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 07, 2007, 09:05:39 AM
I didn't want to say
I want back yesterday
I knew what I was about

I can't see the ghost
my dream turns to comatose
I thought I had figured it out

I unlocked my heart for a minute or more
but I know the shutdown I have in store
and you will accuse me of closing that door
but it's your foot in my mouth
I thought I had figured it out

I could just drop the bomb
the fear that you're feasting on
think you know me inside and out?

the eggshell waltz parade
the "I thought I knew" charade
You thought you figured me out?

I unlocked my heart for a minute or more
but I know the shutdown I have in store
and you will accuse me of closing that door
but it's your foot in my mouth
I thought I had figured it out
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 07, 2007, 10:36:58 AM
Wyatt--I didn't take that as critical at all. There are many--far too many, in the past Box, where I take a look at what I said (more accurately, tried to say) and flinch. I am a qualified neurotic for sure, and often if I reply to something immediately, the mind doth flow in too many directions. So, yes. I understood completely what you're saying. Perhaps often I have been misunderstood because of this. It makes me wonder how to "fix" such a problem. The only answer, or stopping /pm--tell  me wat you went thr computers down . You BIG LIAR!! I can come up with for now is to wait at least a few minutes before starting a reply...I'll try. I can't make promises on that one as I know my personality and synapse-release is...See? I've already really said it. But, no. No offense. :coolsmiley:

And Larry. No darling. I didn't think you were being harsh or anything, or even trying to do anything other than encourage me to stop putting my efforts down...and the "method" you described was actually printed out. One never knows when such things can actually "work" for you. Am I making sense to you? I hope so, because I'm delighted to find you. You first. And the continued excellence in your poetry.

Devery. You really are in deep shit. I'm wading through the entire story. Some things are firing. I already told you that it made me swoon last night, and I haven't even gotten to the rest of all the poems I desire to comment on...

so until i do, i repeat: all of the "old" electronic friends in this hemisphere, and all of the stars shooting in from somewhere else...this is better than sex. (if i remember the last time) is it better than sex? umm. take it as a compliment, one and all. :love5:

Ting is on the bunson burner... :icon_queen: or peasant. or not. ca n 't wa it to get through.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 07, 2007, 11:44:55 AM
I want to shut down
I want to turn off

Why do you want me here?
I just want to end
I just need to pull my skin off
begin again

how are you of my flesh?
I don't even know you
spit that hollow insult
it really makes no impact

I just want to ignore you
tear off my skin once more
make a new imprint
after this life is consumed
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 07, 2007, 11:50:57 AM
clomping down the wooden
stairs,
she'd lifted her bosom
in the perfect snap
of her thin-fingered
chin.

she explains in comma.
"she doesn't feel.
can't feel and won't
show and i can't
emote what isn't in
this deck of cards...
and why i'm departing
from our new dog."

and in my tux,
i showed up with full
stampedes of what i
felt and how i began
the square know
of feeling as lost
as the felt
emote
in the skip of my song...

and we felt together.

and it was emotional.

and in her lack of patience.

for the lack of my cells.
and the knowledge
of my dust scent.

she left me.

talks to her ex.

and has married a Prick.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 07, 2007, 12:09:54 PM
VAGINA!!!!!!

so exotic. with such flabby soft pink lips with a moustache and beard so thick like the amazon forrest. it's oblivion I say. some are grey and some are white, but they're just old like the moon and about to be blown away with the wind. Dusty vagina. i can blow into it and give a girl heart problems. or I can hear it queef and echo my name: BLLLLOOOOoooOONNNddEE RedHeeeeAADd.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 07, 2007, 12:19:46 PM
"highlights" of what i've read...for me. for ME. everyone has their spots.

JacksBrokenHeart--"I have learned to love the somber crumble that shrinks the hollow in my chest" <<just part of why i always want more from you. :icon_king:

Tash--"...But my mother keeps telling me To keep that nickel between my knees..." :glasses9:

colordeaf-the entire poem shows the efficacy of repetitious themes that smolder all subjects. O0

BlondeRedhead--"wisdom teeth know-it-all" <<just a tidbit of something very large. "Blue Skies" has a last line to Lick for...

myfavoritethings--"The train trumpeted in my empty crotch rocketed out and back into the black..." alliteration and imagery ahhh.  >:D

suzy.sacrilege--I AM thanking you. ;)

symbolnutball11.11.11 and in.fin.mk--even sweeter darling. somewhere, no matter if it's in the beginning, middle, or end, i feel it. never sure where you'll put your mark. :happy11:

Rob--"An Observation" of course you know I was smitten with the beginning of the end--"others are hairy..." :icon_king:

gargantuan--hallucinatory surrealism with equal parts pinches and kicks. "float like Christ" Brava! --bring on the whole epic. those who love poetry can digest it, and should.  :headbang:

ThirtyWhacks--the last stanza of "diseased" and "saturated in my own filth"--ehh. no worries about the formatting absence. you're right inside the misery i wash... :o

OhtheInnocence--"An eerie comfort waits in the notes and marks inflicted upon the past tombstones, inclined to the side, just a bit."--just one moment my mouth opened. you know what i think. ;)

Kenny Wisdom--that was the best title for the most obscene poem i've seen in some time...

LonesomeOrganist--"your mannequin" made me have a seizure every 10th time i read. do it again. :tongue7:

MaChao--give me another pack of the Winstons young Buck. coming back is both vengeance and kindness. master baiter. :-*

smerfgoddess--Death by Blackhole--yes. yes. jesus doesn't know about black holes, "she" appears to be in one. :)

lunazuga--a love poem for the lexicon of love poems--the last line is a needed and prized ending to the sway of doubt and infatuation. :love3:

Jason Wakefield--"...Of disgrace, of inflated shit, with Missappropriations of my segregation..." you've got a very deep bucket to stir and pick from. (cunt and cockroach already commented on)  :violent1:love this.

Larry--"Steps" --you have a shitload of patience and I wonder how long. "but it's your foot in my mouth" <<love this stanza repeat. "only to cry it out later in bitter waterworks" --beauty. and. your mother. our tears.

Devery--"playing the branches like a conductor..."<<entire stanza was my shower today. "until it touched the sky and came into us" <<it just kept getting better. for Carole Anne, you are holding all her Mother was and will be. What can I possibly say about Daphne? "wooden" again. "The Ghost"--my god you are moving like lightning. and finally. "last breath"---I'm honored beyond what I can tell.

Now. More. From all of you. And thank you. You may not know me, but "you bet your life" --it's me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 07, 2007, 12:21:04 PM
Devery. You really are in deep shit.

Oh, dear.    :hiding:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 07, 2007, 02:56:09 PM
Nonsense
I have spent the past
seven days

submerged in
music video soup.

Canceled checks that I had written to the cable company
knowing full well
that I would be canceling them the next day.

A heap of pebbles had formed themselves into a perfectly symetrical face.

Ha Ha...
-----------
One Line Poem
Upon the shugged shoulders of the earth, we waltzed.
-----------

Horrible, Cynical Poem #27

Little kids annoy me,
they always act so dumb.
I wish instead of people,
they were dried up blobs of come.
----------------
You are inside the snow globe that your grandmother turns upside-down on Christmas.
Let her, let her, settle down.

Throw your indecisiveness into the hearth,

and keep us so very very warm.

------------

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Wayne on August 07, 2007, 08:46:13 PM
Here's a poem about rape

Your mom has many, but you have none.
If you don't press charges, i will give you one.

This is a fucking stupid place for the poetry thread. 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 07, 2007, 10:56:16 PM
Rape is sooo funny. I hope, Wayne, that was an attempt at a joke. but you are whatever you are...

Ting?

and so as the Arctic
heaved itself Fire-Green,
 the Other
was seen through a
broken spotlight,
half her face dimming
again, but a bet placed...
 for one second
the realism of a heroine
that was pushing the car
sideways.
  electric-sliced bread
again.
It and It... had shared the
pristine purse and tokens
of why

Ting saw her feet
shuffling now in golden
flannel boots
across that field to meet.
and how, in the room
of a smoldering
ember,
of a cable hitting the car
in jerks of tenderness...
a recall of the Butcher
was had.

Ting was spreading those
thin fingers again,
escaping the space
and the blanket the
Owl had discretely left
on the passenger seat,
before lifting back
on the cape
of a red dwarf's hood.
friend or foe, it gathered
weeds and whipporwills,
throwing
them at the top of a
rope.

a phantom riding fast.

from the ballpoint trunk,
the ballpark ruins of
a desert.

not a swirl or concoction
but memory.
her husband was a meaty
Man of clubbed and
neanderthal propensities.
once the finger had split,
She had run as a youth
to the chapel.
to find him leering over
a bed made of straw
came as no surprise.

lying before the altar
and having the indoctrinated
prayer set loose against
stone that never molded,
the sadistic God and
benign Grace fought
and neglected
children
like hospital band-aid
kits.

the meandering blood
pulsing from Ice to Heat
was symptom and particle
to the debt she owed
the rest of the raped--
the village brewing about
in anarchy and purple-
painted swingsets.
orange seesaws.

what witch had provided
no roots to till?

Ting knew the girl in
the balled-up trunk was both
Self and Echo beckoning
her backwards to the
sweatshop, where
one window tried to open
and failed.

shoulder to shoulder
and elbow hitting elbow,
Ting sewed in the place
of pennies
and back arches...
when the fire had started
and the conglomerate
trampled,
she now realized she had
dove

flown into the brick
just as in the chute
just as the golden footed
heels slowed her progress
to the fateful kiss that
once
trusted
and forever waited
on the bend of a plank,
and the boredom

of hotel rooms at
3 a.m.--
her smokey whores lined
up like postcards for
Christmas,
and it was Christ
or the tide.
the pull of Zuess himself
into the woods.
disguised as the Corporal.

She ignored the thump
of the girl's ginger fingers
as the driver, the pimp,
tossed a crack pipe
at her.
and Ting's first instinct
was to
hang it on a line to dry...



I dunno Devery. Bad headache tonight. I went-i-don't-have-a-clue. so of course you weren't in deep shit. i am, seeee? angel<<yes. I am the Virgin. errrhaha.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 08, 2007, 11:12:09 AM
a horse fly has bitten
and it made a stain
on the finger.
Brash with an exceeding
slowness and vacuous
needle...

so pardon me.

practicing magic with
the mongoloids,
the retards
and mentally challenged
requires a disregard for
spittle on your lace,
paper towels for pee.

pissy pants.
"everybody knows" the dice
were loaded when Hitler
took the 1 year olds,
joking into the gas first.

embarrassing to have Aryan
blunders twirling on a stick,
like herring and blubber
candy...particularly
when continents are to be
shoved about like trinket
key chains.
the land-shove is history
in full
Waltz steps.

try teaching 9 nails into a
baggie
with your infant.
only the ultimate toy is 100
pounds larger
and 100 pounds quicker
at throwing
snot on spasmatic
floors.

there the color was green.
just like the institutional
flounce
and peacocks let go
for the 8 dollar an hour
club to take in...
calculators
determining benefits--

your retirement from it
under indefinite
pontifications of grey...

behold the magic
from one year of matching
red on a red board
meant for plywood fires.
behold the small price
of clothing
when just one "freak"
triumphs on its rocking
puzzle...

-------------

the agnostics never burned
the heretics...
the aetheists were scorched
in their honest heresy.
the retards had long served
as botched signs for
weather tips
in some past "indian" tribes.

sitting by the side
of a Mother,
enchanted with drooped
eyes and button-sand
frets to play with...

these old same tribes.
some bartering for fur and
others confronted with a
single
man nodding in forlorn
feathers(?).
despondent with
small pox quarry blocks.
and recollecting the
blood stains from
the furtive, no...
syndicate file folder
of vanishing the basic
9 nail
congratulations...
this india was no
india.
mongoloid in adequate
tobacco harvests
however.

9 nails in a baggie.

every time a cog
with peccaries or cows
shifts into gear and
craved the New Land
du jour,
the ensuing losses are
Past genocides of
self-important
retards
pressuring the congenital-
splintered factions of corn,
and eventually
assimilated, absorbed-cotton,
 necktie-bearing
 craftsman.

------------------

natives gave and give in
 like the
need for amniocenteses
Now
when the bulb of
a sonar diaphragm.
yes, diagram as well, reads:
"bonus oblational fuck-up"
without one fundamental
chamber music segment
 for the
chest walls...

be prepared for what you
can't want
don't treat
and wish was in a coffin
before a mysterious flood
caught the gene stream
and plucked out its
eyebrows.

--------------------

and so it's said he was called
King Philip.
the first to dress in European
drag although the skin
was red
and polarized from
"true promises"

--a governor had made
a "brotha" castrated and skinned
 alive,
having a party watching
this kin of land eat its own
flesh.

Ben Franklin himself
would feel the pressure to raise
the price for indian scalps...
and He Did, like everyone else.
and He wrote some splendid
mysoginist
sayings--as well as early birds.
i like to call him "fatty"
and think him progressive
in a well-educated graduation.

except for the scalping inflation,
he liked to have the ladies
sit on both of his laps.

but he was the same kind
of fart.

mind you.
Bacon is the same flavor.
and i'm saying the rest,
as well as a certain person.
so don't pick on someone
your own size...
out of time and robbed of
a defense
just like the mass attacks at
night.

just like the 80 indian heads
placed precisely
on the poles in Manhattan,
where a woman had the joy
of her life...
taking a bag of 9 nails.
and kicking those heads down
the streets.

oh my. perhaps the best soccer
game ever.
and on the New England
colonization suntan,
people waited after Philip's
ancestor
had helped them learn

how to put 9 nails in a bag--
now do it again.

---------------------

he put up a good fight.
his head ended up on a pole.

and why this is as popular
as incest
is still beyond my studies,
and a vanishing
tribe-willingness

to have spittle on lace.
mucous in shoes.
and the alarming success

of 9 nails in a baggie.

------------------------

all the fighting nations
grabbing pie
just like now.
and always a good idea
to throw more weapons
into the middle

of 9 nails in a bag.
80 heads on stakes.

watch the blooming
Politics
hide their diets.

all of them needing
training...

and i've only got 2
nails

and one baggie

for practice.


--------
my poor indian King Phlip,
grandson to the chief who
saved the Pilgrims.
outnumbered and gunned
as it always is
as it always was.

your skull displayed
in the End.
like a dead deer in a
pick-up truck
or hanging skinned
on a basketball goal,

your wife and son were sold
into slavery.
so no chance for their own
brand of soccer.

being sold to the West Indies
was an act of merciful God
according to the white
faces peering up your
nose...

the Pilgrim mongoloids
somehow had 18 nails
and two baggies.
and other tribes failed
and signed-on --

just like now.
just like now without
the stakes for heads.

perhaps we should get
an amnioscopy.



------------------------------------------------------------------------
i should have cut this off earlier. but i need to mix it up. sorry, folks. and btw. all the historical facts. Bennie. True. Before the "American Revolution"-King Philips' War was the bloodiest...Rock on dead peeps. Someone researched enough for me. "but i don't gotta no nails Jean.je-ja-jannifer." you can't forget this sort of love-thing. and i think all casinos should immediately pass Go--
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on August 08, 2007, 11:22:05 AM
my cards were read
our relationship is
complicated as many are,
but we see each other the same way

slayer returned for a brief moment
only to cause aches
and pains

it's not a sin
maybe that's why you're
too welcome in my arms

when our middles touch
the feeling is welcome
your arms feel so strong
and so comforting

is this real love
or just practice for the real
thing

you're too far away
i'm too young
you're too involved

i go back to the day
when we first met
in my mind every single morning
and every lonely night

i wish your arms were still around me
holding me tight
you're the reason i'm still here

the love my heart holds for you is
like nothing i've ever felt before

the family loves you
even the skeptics

my best friend is in love with you.
i love you too.
her reasons and mine are much the same.

i need you
you want her
she craves you

your other half is missing
and her
and i
are too alike.

you pull me in for a final hug
telling me to "keep in touch..."
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 08, 2007, 12:27:54 PM
preferpencil, that last bout of words was intense, and I will sadly admit I read only various stanzas, but...

I like a lot of the language itself (im a huge fan of putting words together based on how they sound).. as for your exact meaning.. I'm lost, not that that's a bad thing.

I'll retry it later.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 08, 2007, 12:47:47 PM
Nine nails in a bag indeed. Pencil, my how you have grown? I  :love5: all over the place.

Winder

spring-loaded
waiting and building
counting the time

release me (not yet)
life gets in the way
of living

the strain must be showing
the lye is covering
winder is my name

action hero of in-action
superhuman do-nothing
blender for a heart

a spring busted out
i blast sideways
and take out the bad guy

accidental idol
right place (wrong man)
take the credit

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 08, 2007, 02:17:46 PM
I'm trying to find a better title for this one:

Drumming In the Park
take a sip & feel the back of your mouth on fire
just sit back for awhile & hallucinate yourself a dream
all your friends don't seem the same as they were 10 moments ago
they're confessing their deepest darket secrets & the whole world ain't listening
they tell that they love me but it can't be true
but if i said 'i love you' back it'd be a blockbuster hit...couples would rent it, families would rent it, perverts would want it
just to see if what they were missing was really worth it
so as i sit on the cold ground, green gras
smelling herbs burning in the air filling my lungs with such exoticness
i can feel the drums beating in my veins -- the whispering and chanting getting LoudER
when the feeling finally dissipates into nothingness i am only left with a vague memory & a song stuck in my head.

it's actually a song, and it's on youtube. I don't like it THAT much, but it's quite good enough for me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: ThirtyWhacks on August 09, 2007, 03:29:48 AM
"highlights" of what i've read...for me. for ME. everyone has their spots.

JacksBrokenHeart--"I have learned to love the somber crumble that shrinks the hollow in my chest" <<just part of why i always want more from you. :icon_king:

ThirtyWhacks--the last stanza of "diseased" and "saturated in my own filth"--ehh. no worries about the formatting absence. you're right inside the misery i wash... :o

Haha, Im not sure if it's a compliment, critique or a burn o_O But I'll take it any way i can get it. Im not a miserable person, really. I'm just inspired by things that deal with that sort of thing. Oh, what a fifteen year old mind can do to you, hey? I'm impressed that you wrote something about everyone!

Your poetry is amazing. Everyones is in here. Especially that Vagina poem by Blonderedhead. Gave me a chuckle.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 09, 2007, 11:21:23 AM
I wrote this for school last year and thought it was kinda funny, so I'm posting it. We were given an outline of some sort, but I don't remember it. The teacher was kinda shocked at some of the references, and that someone my age could write this. I had a bunch of idiots in my class though. XD

"Where I'm From"

I am from mother's nest, impatience, and empty revelations
Crossed fingers, soggy shoes, and static electricity
I am from music you've heard so much that it fades into the background
From screaming inside for your next cigarette
And dancing while waiting for the toilet

I am from grafitti and all that it implies
From sunglasses and hats, pregnant cats, and friendly alleyways
I am from food that makes you say, "I don't want to know."
Too many shoes, and bright orange polished toes
From books about being everything and nothing all at once

I am from cult movie heaven and movie quotes leaking after every word
From in-jokes and small-town-folk, and poster-covered walls
I am from $3 vintage everything, itchy coats, plastic rings
Hugs that seem to last forever
And hugs you wish happened more often than never

I'm from the art that I never submitted crying out in some hiding place
From someday I'll save the human race
I'm from "I'll be famous" and "I don't give a damn"
A new favorite band every day of the week
And any excuse to not wear shoes on my feet

I'm from confusion and writer's block
Doubting yourself and unmatching socks
I'm from wondering what could be, would have been, will be
From sneaking out late, and leaving early without a note
And hoping someday I'll sail the seas on a boat
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 09, 2007, 11:34:59 AM
That is from awesome!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on August 09, 2007, 12:00:57 PM
That is from awesome!

Agreed.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 09, 2007, 12:03:29 PM
That is from awesome!

Agreed.

Hehe. Thank you very much. :]

I didn't really expect any feedback, so it's really nice. Especially from you two.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 09, 2007, 12:07:20 PM
Wow.

That is pretty much the only word that can describe it. Just... wow.

That is beautiful.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 09, 2007, 12:14:42 PM
Really. :]

And you're welcome.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 09, 2007, 03:06:12 PM
Repost it!  :)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 09, 2007, 08:09:15 PM
Awwh. :[

Never hate your own creation. It was really good!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 10, 2007, 12:15:25 AM
2007.08.1000:13
the engine seems to be getting louder, he says
i can barely hear him through the noise
is it getting closer?
my curiosity grows more than my fear.
lights, blinking, bright
bigger, bigger, increasing in size
it's there, coming down through the clouds, he yells
the engine an overbearing whir. 
suddenly, a crash, darkness
before it's over i know my fate
he crawls through the flames
barely recognizable as man
he dies first
and i'm left thinking
that i'll never feel your heartbeat again
or hear your laugh
or see your eyes
i'm left thinking
my love is still unrequited. 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Jade Reichert on August 10, 2007, 12:45:52 AM
i l9ve it. That is much better than I could have ever done. i'm hard on myself too. Writers, good writers are never satisfied with their work. That's what my favorite English teacher always said.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on August 10, 2007, 05:24:13 PM
It feels so good to think it sometimes
Why I oughtta slap the shit out of you
Maybe you or you or you
The left lane is for passing on through

You know I got a groove
It's a transcendental groove too
Step aside cats I'm on the move
Infinity in a park in dirty denim

Left alone you know I'm a hippie ass
Talk to the skies and plants kind of shine
With no concept of time
All the bugs and plants are the same kind

Step on my toes
And oh they're so easy to find
Sometimes
Should I count to ten? And then?

This comedy can turn into a drama
Any time
But that's not what I want
That's not who I am

I am the man standing outside the man
Just don't reel me back in
As if
You
Can

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Briezion on August 10, 2007, 05:42:25 PM
Serina, I adore the Leg poem, I relate to it in any way humanly possible. <3
May I save it?

Heres mine, only two i've ever seriously written.

Wind up Doll
Buy me.
Wind me.
Watch me go.
Dressed in pink.
Dressed in blue.
Can't you see I'm too good for you?
I'm a wind up doll.
Sitting.
Spinning.
Playing a song.
Too long, Too long.
Playing a song.
In the Shopkeepers window.
Sitting.
Spinning.
Playing a song.
I'm a wind up doll.

Marrionette

Set on Strings.
Balls for Joints.
No control of my own.
You hold it all.
I'll dance.
Glance.
I'll move.
To prove.
Nothing.
But to entertain.
Shoals.
Herds.
Gaggles.
Of people.
Come see me and laugh.
Come see me and giggle.
I'll impersonate Marie Antionette.
Fore I'm a Marionette.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 10, 2007, 05:46:22 PM
I liked ¡ɐısnlɐpuɐ uǝıɥɔ un's a lot.

Un chien andalusia?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Jade Reichert on August 10, 2007, 09:09:01 PM

She Comes
By Jade Thomason


Water gleams in the night,
Her hair so full of rain,
And wet beauty in the light,
Throwing you around, blindly insane
She begins to play with your heart,
Delighted in her power,
An animus flower,
From the earth an undying part,

Old Copper falls in her eyes,
When she cries out, “make war,”
It seems elegant and wise,
For in her lay Varta’s stars,
Unseen by unworthy eyes, save mine,
I sigh, and depart from where I stood,
Unwilling to wait for a sign,
If she would come, love her I could,


Figures stir round her face,
Old memories that dance,
If I could just touch that place,
Where demons fear not to prance,
If she would come to grace us in love,
I would be enlightened with gladness,
And all elvish things made tearless,
Alas, she has left with her dove,

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 11, 2007, 08:41:19 PM
This one is kinda weird. I don't know what to think about it. Based on a dream I had once.

Mr. Novemeber man
With a shiny black briefcase in hand
He'll sell you these ideas he doesn't understand
And leave you in the road for the vultures to have at

He's Mr. November man
Selling candy on the corner of Sixth and Cheyenne
He'll feed it to you slowly and you'll see the promised land
And then he'll abandon you right there to make it home on your own

He's Mr. November man
Got a tophat and poems about lions and lambs
And tomorrow you'll find yourself on the tram
All the way in New Mexico, not knowing where to go
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Jade Reichert on August 11, 2007, 09:53:44 PM
i have only one thing to say to that.  :-*  :o **claps with hands high in the air.**

Here We Are

here we are,
how did we come so far?
I can not say for certain.
crash, bang, boom, splat,
down and dirty with the rats,
so where are you?
I loved you too,
I thought you saw me in the dark,

there I lay,
"oh how dare you," i say,
though i know no one can hear,
my dizziness,
and grief strengthen the madness,
so you like it?
feeble I sti,
just waiting for a light to shine,

bored of sleep,
and to tired to weep,
I find some music to play,
plink, plunk, plunk, plink,
the melody plays on till I think,
of something else,
how many days to go now?
as I sleep there,

I hold your gift I weir,
the unturth of the ring startles me,

there it was,
laden with gems it twas,
encircled by it's bright glow,
ding, clang, bang, dong,
as it fell like a love song,
so where are they?
to find me stained,
with uncouth brands and red star tatoos,

here we are,
sleeping with doors ajar,
i can not say for certain,
scream, cry, punch, sleep,
out you went to weep,
of the mistake,
but not awake,
and I was condemned to die.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 12, 2007, 01:59:51 AM
gargantuan--thanks for the compliment. it's a comparison poem, i suppose. i used to work with what people would call "retards" --the line goes from mongoloid to handicapped to retard to disabled...like all minorities, the terms get "friendlier" the more society accepts the group. (mmm. used to use "jigs" to count any # based on the job and put those nails/screws in baggies--that was their "job") and so, i compared them to King Philips' War--and the way Native Americans/indians (politically incorrect to show points) were treated, etc. it was also easy to make the # of nails/screws "9" in reference to the "group." i misspelled "mucus" and had a typo. thanks though. i enjoy the way you're able to move into different formats, etc.

ThirtyWhacks--it was a compliment! and i find it easier to write about misery, so I was just commiserating.

Lar/Cupid--"life gets in the way of living" <<>> your continued support for what I write and YOUR continued progress makes me one happy little woman.  :headbang:

OhTheInnocence--i have no idea why you don't think more of your writing. none. you know what i think.  :love5:

and folks in general--I probably won't have time to share what I think is grand about all your efforts on a frequent basis. I'll say it one last time though. Anything you write is yours forever. No one will ever write the same thing, in the same exact way --EVER. So save your writing. Build yourself and your blocks and what feels comfortable to you.

Then you'll all be famous. And even if you're not, you'll have something better than a pair of jeans to pass down to someone...

I may now double or triple-post. Don't get on my shit about it. And if you do, make sure you get on the right side of it... :buck2:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: paper-doll on August 12, 2007, 03:07:57 AM
The Doctor
He was perfection
with stethoscope eyes
and scalpel teeth which were
covered with lies.
They were beautiful when he smiled;
a love-bite turned violent.

He made the incision,
promised salvation;
blood, babies, bright lights
and education
that never came and never will.
Now I never will.

Thus I was created
from that which I hate
into flesh I am bound to loathe,
my ironic fate.
I cannot be saved.
I cannot be cured of this.

So I met a woman
who wanted to die,
gift-wrapped for the coffin.
I asked her, “but why?”
She did not reply,
just offered with dark eyes.

Offered that which I covet;
her taught canvas skin,
her perfect bones
her beckoning blue veins
her hips which I had transposed over mine
So many times.
So many times.

No longer elusive,
they were not forbidden.
They should have been,
kept veiled and hidden.
She cannot be saved.
I cannot be cured of this.

I donned my white coat,
learnt the flavour of a collarbone
she blinked her wet eyes,
got high, and went home.
Bedclothes, blood, ink and ivory.
She tastes of all four.

I cannot be cured,
for the hatred I can forget
but it is the impossible
to disown my own silhouette.
I cannot be cured of this.
It is impossible to renounce the body.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 12, 2007, 03:36:05 AM
 :coolsmiley:
Kafka. translation can make many differences...and his work is marked by this. this brings about many interpretations. and most of them not "fun"--but what i'll put here is just for fun:

based on "Conversation with a Worshiper"

man 1: "finally you've been caught,
           and I can see you've worn your
           best this time,
           and when you flog yourself all
           over the church floor.
           everyone tries not to look
           at your obvious attempt
           to needle us,
           to spurn us into action,
           to burn the floor with our own
           feet.
           and I have you by the lapels now.
           and I have a mind to kill you."

man-worshiper--replies:

           yes, you have me and do what
           You will.
           you want to know why I gesticulate
           and everywhere I lie
           I make grand motions and movements.
           I even look straight in their eyes
           to see some bend of a ray.
           a glimmer of changing hue.
           one dip and drop of recognition.
   
           I do all of this.
           Please let go of my lapels.
           I do all of this to see if I am alive.
           Because if no one watches,
           Then I must not exist, must I?
           And by your very hatred of me,
           And the way your face is now
           drawing down like a licorice cord
           ripped down the middle...
           I've accomplished a respite from
           the church floor.
           Your reaction alone,
           could last me more than 3 days...

           so I thank you. God bless.


from "Conversation with a Drunk"


man:    Your hygiene is disgusting and
           the way you hide in doorways at
           Night, and roll around on the
           narrow sidewalk in the day...
           It's a disgrace to see you and your
           Drunken Self make and part ways
           of ordinary people.
           I have reason to believe that you
           are responsible for Mr. Burden's death!
           At the very least, Mrs. Wearps' cow
           now taken ill!

drunk:   I'm sorry I do smell foul, and that
            I must seek shelter in warmth in
            public scenes. As for the Day, I am
            regularly pissed upon. kicked and
            always spat upon. So you see that part
            of my filth comes from the town itself...
            And I must say that I've heard you
            repeating over and over the individual's
            right to Be an individual in thought.
            And thoughts are what you are most
            interested. invested. inherently tested
            By. but it's the action you're taking this
            very second.
            the action of pulling me into the gutter.
            the action that says your compassion
            matches my love for the bottle.

            so if you'll excuse me,
            I'll see you on the sidewalk in the
            early morning...

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 12, 2007, 04:05:36 AM
a revision --unbelievable. and still needing revision.


these are yours to keep--
my hands, a harp, some keys
and the brace that jars the
back door.
I'd been saving them and
pulling out hidden floors.
boards that creaked under your
foot's balance.
at the bottom of the over-grown
closet. underneath the old
soccer shoe,
is the last piece of canvass you
splattered my face on
before you made That quiche.

the one our relatives both love.

This is yours to know.
the slow wrinkle of my forehead
and the crease that separates
my red vein from the blue
arts. these folding hands you
put into prayer position
to mock everything even now.

the way my neck curves
over the "shush!" of your long
and fighting thumb.
the leaning tower of my round
calves, smoldered into a frontier
of tic tacs and paper clips...

that is yours to have.
the gaze you give when pissed,
and the creation of stained
underwear --
no blood or fecal matter.
stains of your own oils and
fingerprints. that pit rolling
in your stomach
is laced with harmless
cyanide and I want you to
love it...

i'm burned in a tunnel of
your new vacuum. This,
your gift to me. We never
shared a moment with it
until just now.
over stew.
you want to leave.
but i've told you i quit.

before the haggling begins.
I've told you those things
special.
that this is mine
and this is mine
and that was ours.

i don't need your markers,
or the way you grin
before passing gas
a half hour after dinner.

no.
i never thought it was as
funny
as i made it out to be.

and now i wish that this
stew
had been filled by Lucretia
Borgia herself.
because this is mine.
and your leather stool
is too high for me any
which way.

i lied about so much more.
and i knew when you weren't
coming.
about to cum.
you'd get too loud right
before and the twitch
was as fake
as the march of tin soldiers.
but I came when I wanted
too all the same.
your slit was always meant
for coins.
coming over for dinner in just
one hour,

under the famous tunnel.
our favorite parents
will have quiche.

i'll be sulking in the bedroom
with my stew and writing
on chewed ribbon.
a portable press of the
letter "L" is all i need
to confirm the plane tickets.

saying I quit.
and you're leaving.
or was it?

the other way around.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 12, 2007, 11:57:32 AM
paper_doll-- "The Doctor" =  :o and fan-fucking-tastic. have you deposited another in here? i haven't seen it, if so...and apologize if that's the case. if i am correct, and that is the first poem you've posted---you broke the brothel.

and that was a compliment!


this is me, as i read-- :icon_cyclops: :puke: :brushteeth: :hiding:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 12, 2007, 12:12:07 PM
Only because you asked me to, jennifer............



Can't Keep Up (With You)

we really burned it
didn't we baby
you were adrenaline
and legs working
the pedals and
working me
we've got highway hearts
you said
and that you'd love me
only at 110 mph
with the top down


............

ditto on the paper-doll

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 12, 2007, 12:47:46 PM
I am not an alcoholic and plan not to be one considering that I can't even finish a bottle of LIGHT beer. but I wrote this song and performed it once for my vocal teacher and once for my mom. my vocal teacher asked if I knew anyone who was an alcoholic. I said no, but I've watched all those educational movies in health class. and she said that if I were to play this at an alcoholics anonymous help programme(or whatever they're called)most of the people there would relate to the song. and considering that I've never met an alcoholic I honestly don't know how much alcohol they would drink in one night. so don't get mad if the facts in the song are wrong. I was 13 or 14 when I wrote it. ok checked the date, it's May. 25, 06. I was 14.

Anonymous Alcoholic
sitting here with my collection
sitting here waiting for my eyes to close
so I wouldn't see the whiskey
and be tempted again (not again)
kidney's poisoned, mind is slowing down
impaired vision continously slurring
38 voices in my head with 26 bottles of beer on the wall.

check myself in a helpful place, in this clinic I remain
an anonymous alcoholic.

cancer of the lip has begun
organs are deteriorating
a rancid smell stains my mouth
bloodshot eyes from all the nights I've stayed up
trying to finished my 13 bottles of rum
and the table is creaking from all of the
bottles it's trying to support
but only the hospital can support me now

check myself in a helpful place, in this clinic I remain
an anonymous alcoholic.

I am on my death bed now
slowly and painfully expiring
waited for this day to come
my bad habits are finally gone
life is now controlled
by a machine that beeps and echoes
my life away from me and my family
and everything else.

check myself out of this hell but I still remain: an anonymous alcoholic.

Ps. I was anonymous-alcoholic on the old box.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on August 14, 2007, 05:49:13 PM
i wrote this last night.
i'm not sure if it's any good though...


You’re only about 200 yards away from me
But we’re living in completely different worlds
It didn’t used to be like this
Remember way back when?
When everything was fine and dandy
Everything was hunky dory
Everything was just peachy
Now look where we’ve ended up
But maybe it was inevitable
Maybe it was fate
Maybe it was predetermined
But I suppose that it doesn’t even matter anymore
The truth is that karma is going to kick your ass one day
Karma can be a bitch
So go ahead and do it
Just get on with it
I don’t give a shit
I’ll just laugh and say
“Fuck you, you dramatic, passive aggressive bitch”
Go have a panic attack
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 15, 2007, 04:13:28 PM
Is 38 mid-life?

Sitting
on cinderblocks
smoking pot
and
drinking beer
in the back yard
of
my mother's house

I never thought
I'd end up
here

A wife
and
two kids
a mortgage of my own
and then
another.

Then again,
I never thought
I wouldn't.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: paper-doll on August 15, 2007, 08:41:37 PM
paper_doll-- "The Doctor" =  :o and fan-fucking-tastic. have you deposited another in here? i haven't seen it, if so...and apologize if that's the case. if i am correct, and that is the first poem you've posted---you broke the brothel.

and that was a compliment!


this is me, as i read-- :icon_cyclops: :puke: :brushteeth: :hiding:

Awww thanks guys.

/blush

It's the first I've posted here.  But not the last!  Maybe.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 15, 2007, 09:17:05 PM
Shall we take your maybe as a yes? ^

........................


Lost Treasure

Stones lying in random spacing
on the smooth, wet sand
form a fragile stability.

Under the sand and the
rocky shelf that runs from
the shore to the first dropoff -
a long-unseen ship lost
centuries ago in a storm
that no one remembers.

From the dunes and tall grasses
the lights of the lower lakers
shine on the horizon -
the persistent,narcotic sound
of the waves
sea-saw on the shore.

I thought of these things -
and how I tied your shorts
to your leg in the icy water-
the shipwreck invisible below -
grinding into each other
with our sex for warmth -
forgetting the hard rocks
and your untied shorts that
slipped, unnoticed, away -


all of this-
and visions and
memories of visions
that became
nothing -
in the morning
you left me
and drove away -
to waters and stones
and ships that I
will never see.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 15, 2007, 10:53:21 PM
rob, i'm pretty sure that's my favorite of yours so far.  aces.   
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 15, 2007, 11:46:26 PM
loverde
so suddenly it manifests
what we have -
laughing at ex-girlfriends
before meeting him that night
venting your grievances
and tickling his chin
holding hands
kissing his face
dancing
fucking
- friendship.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: muckymuck on August 15, 2007, 11:57:39 PM
UNTITLED

This bloody massacre
Thats flowing through my veins

The scars don't heal with time
And you can't hear me crying
Because it's all invisible

Take me to an age
Whwn I felt no rage
When nothing here was real
And all I did was feel
My life was so simple

So tell me if they know
That all I do is loathe

The pill I took you said
Would tell me the truth
That it's all in my head
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 16, 2007, 01:15:57 AM
hai!  ku!
smoking in the woods
behind all the parking lots
our infinity.

david
oh, how you forgot
times that came before all this
one - and i'm in love

ay!
seasons crippling
my love slowly turns to rust
again, forgotten.




Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 16, 2007, 01:20:58 AM
Blood Fetish
Red thick liquid seeping back in
She was dead, then ressurected. But still the air was thin
Toxic air filled her lungs as she sucked at the sky
Dark an.gel, covered in blood spread her wings to fly

Ascending into the dark cold space
The blood running thickly down her thighs, a gothic embrace
The zombie in the sky, dark an.gel she was
A fly she was covered in blood searching for lust

A grotesque smile on her face she could not rid of
A man looks up to discover death from above
Blood injected into her sucking life from another
Feeling good about it, blood fetish.

Ps. I don't write about these things anymore, so don't be alarmed.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: BATTEREDxBRIDExLUVR! on August 16, 2007, 04:34:01 AM
rad racer
+++
i wont be responsible for what you failed to do
i wont let you anymore despite what i'm to you
i refuse to lay nestled adjacent your door
no i deserve far better than the footprints on your floor
+++
i shared my needle much too much its time to turn around
injected with phantasm in mouth full bursts of sound
kissed by lips concealing mouths to brim filled with acid
exact same lips projected words which are nothing but flaccid
+++
sleeping eyes, colors and shapes, newspaper scandal dreams
pouring rain a hurricane wrong lane blinding high beams
a gentle swerve a violent stop a body flung to tree
the bloody water falling down just makes it hard to see
+++
her sister sits at home upon the sofa neath the fan
clear and cool she operates to dodge a rolling van
without her knees instead buttons she presses nick of time
for her to live should be a very punishable crime
+++
bodies splatters cross the road and soldiers rope it off
tape in shapes reminding them of disembodied scoff
i finally forced my way into the sky to level six
and maybe you might fuck on up if only just for kicks

adam & katrina
+++
just push a little bit further
adam you can make it work
if anybody i would count on you
to turn around the world
+++
and i will help you sift through
waterlogged ash and rubble
i'll lend all five hands for you
adam no it is no trouble
+++
unearthing corpses every minute
of the day its sort of breaking
spirits free and spirits sinking
lie it out unfaking
+++
her frozen tongue is out
between the lips of old katrina
unholy practices of mortality
you always were my favorite dreamer
+++
eva fighting off the wounds
and eva blinking past the dust
we're trying but we are all out
poor eva has to teethe on rust
+++
the smokey sky repained with blood
the water cascaded so hard
and adam made it out alone
behind his home fell, with his heart
+++
just push a little bit further
adam you can make it work
if anybody i would count on you
to turn around the world
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 16, 2007, 10:41:31 AM
due eight, twenty, four
you say
we should travel through time
and i could learn to love it all
we could construct for those
below us
and divide from those
above
we could give forever
and never stop making love
i try harder each day
to get to that place
but my heart is too big
for my sick sense of humor
and my vocabulary
is far too small
we're stuck between
a rock and a hard place
yet you insist
we'll never fall.
(if only it were that easy)

& her wooden legs
like a song or a dream
you bubble up underneath
slower and slower
as we walk on our two feet
you say
if only i could cut it off
i'd be happier one day
if only i could find a way
to be free
if only i weren't born this way
i'd be like all the rest
if only i had never sinned
i would walk hand in hand with you

high again at 1am
at our sixtieth hour
you question everything
where did that postcard come from
and where does that highway lead to
and why did we ever start off like this
if we knew how it would end
faith my dear
he screams
will be the death of you
loosen up and give in
straighten up and fly right
in the arms of our beholder
greater than the son ever was
allegory inflammatory lavatory truth.

romance@rs2
i can see your eyes
two lanes over
you want to break down
just so i can stop
we thank god for exit 14

running past the stands
onto the drenched floors
the lock is broken
but it doesn't matter
we've already given up so much
it all ends here
maybe we'll get lucky

the tourists and truckers
the students and saviors
the blind and broken-hearted
all searching for something
we think we found
between the dividers
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on August 16, 2007, 03:34:52 PM
Still my fave, Rob. That one had an excellent ending.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 16, 2007, 05:15:06 PM
smash bang boom --where's that woman's post, eh? the one that made me vomit! i ...want more. and, bravo! many a time over. brazayyy. i say. Devery. publish. publish. publish. oh, did it slip.


When naked and faceless.
borrowing the remote from
under a cat's paw
so that the pile of bills sits
forlorn against the car sale
promises--
All ready for the telephone
calls.

When bored and ducking
from
shrapnel wounds.
Friendly fire that makes its
nursing rounds explode,
making you hide under a
naked and faceless.
cloud-filled night sky.

When your blood runs
around
identical pathways of
moving boxes and
garbage...
the decision to chuck
Out
all of your letters and
"best friends forever"=
BFF! in yearbooks.
naked and faceless.

When crevices frazzle slip-
spitted-split ends,
your new hair buying a
locked cremation
for more grays than
blonde, brown, blacks.
and you look into the

nacht. and a murdering
of views over the roofs that
Would
make borders in nations
Flee.
Naked and faceless, you
take twenty steps into
trimmed
Grass.

and remember that
behind
the cirrus cover,
this blanket has no
influence
over the pimples
shining
down on the first of Us.
the last of Us.

and maybe at the halfway
Point.
we should be peeking in
on the ram and fruit bat
turns. a meerkat society
leaning on shoulders.
standing on a stretched
apology to snakes.

We should be making up
our phototactic minds.
run towards the light like
moths do...
scatter away like the hissing
roach does.
the funny thing is. instinct
has no face or naked
Craving.

---------------------

on our shared merry-go-
Round.
jungle gym.
seesaw
swingset.
just Be before you know.

when youth climbs
up the kitchen counter,
a thorn sticks your
throat
and reminds you...

there once was no such
thing as "naked"
And the only reason you
feel "faceless"
is because you've been
burned

by a ten buck microscope.
a ten buck telescope.
and pimples
shining on your sunken
or squared chin.

now you are naked and
faceless.
Time has a dip in what
you scream for,
and space fits the sky
but not your roof.
and there you are
watching wrestling.

and you never did that
before.
watching the weather
station
through the back of your
eye.
and you never did that
Either.

so why not be Naked.
Faceless also.



---------------------------------------that is all. make sure you're back in 15 min.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on August 16, 2007, 05:18:36 PM
Because my cock is small and my face makes up for it.

Here, Jen.

--

Absence or abscess
In the words of the unspoken noise
There is nothing to say
I’d like to be pointed
But poetry isn’t the place
Face the subject derived from a delicate place
In coded words and imagery
The fall from grace is quiet
And it’s another quiet night

Absence or abscess
I’m speaking to it now
I cannot make a sound
I’d like to make a point
But to say is all the same
As running away to a delicate place
In coated arms and disarray
When noone hears your riot
It’s just another quiet night

Absence or abscess
It’s speaking to me now
In all the absent sound
The Siren’s pointing down
With a familiar look on her face
A look to pull me from my place
An actor to no play
For the crowd can’t see the stage
Just the interlude of another quiet night
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 16, 2007, 05:24:42 PM
This ones horrible, but I like a few lines in it. It was a diary entry a couple weeks ago.

...

He's wallowing in the mud of life like the swine he is
Stabbing the knife repeatedly into his daughter's heart
Until it teaches itself to turn to stone

And her face is stone too, her skin turning gray like the clouds
In the sky that make her quiver in fear for
Her life in the future, what is she here for?

Ignorance is a widespread epidemic
And he is the conductor in an orchestra of demons
Eyes and tongues bleeding, but nothing to say
And they pummel her, lock her in day after day
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 16, 2007, 06:21:19 PM
Erase
I HOPE YOU ALL DIE
BE DELETED AND ERASED
FIVE STABS TO THE HEART
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 17, 2007, 03:19:41 AM
"Because my cock is small and my face makes up for it."  I'd like to sig that Ma Chao. If you don't mind. I bent over laughing and hit the shift key in some weird manner and fucked up the computer. Then I got up and went to pee and thought about the fact that I highly doubt your cock is smaller than your head. Why? Because people that joke that much about "taints" just ...don't ...have small cocks. Heads, yes. Cocks, no. (i'll flip you a quarter to see which is right)

To your poem. I just got done pm'ing you back. The poem is beautiful actually. It's not about someone's hair or the way they smell, or putting flowers in a vase. DAMN, chao. You belong in the brothel, and it belongs to you. Like orange grease that runs down your arm as you bite into a pizza slice and you burn the roof of your mouth...but you are so dang hungry, you just don't care. By the way, my ass IS larger than my head. That happens when you are over thirty. It's required...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------yippie!

woke up from being
under the influence of
one or ten flasks. they held
my head in a cradle of
perennial bliss,
and the rest of the legs.
the torso
and fingers
are just crackers for a
mosquito. and its built-in
needle.
Superior to an i.v.
because you can't feel its
fancy, snazzy, choice.

of honorable mention:

a bluebottle that slurps
up grease, & tanks of salt.
It vomits a quirky belch.
the way flies busy-buzz,
their very baby maggots
searching for me.
a stench or stink of rot.
and i am not quite that
Now.

looking at the cement,
i'm glad the cigarette hit
bottom
at the same moment my
hand hit my crotch.
without any enjoyment
known to me, and starving
for the blank space
between thigh and pelvis...
this is how i stack files
and honor my parents.

so i'm not rubbing.
so i'm not doing anything--
excluding no one from a
Party,
like the eighties full of
Coke
and the nineties spewing
for a blow job,
and who knows where
She is...
a Presidential fool with an
illegal friend taping her
confession...

Why that doesn't compare
to War. Or does it?

She's lying face down
on a patio,
dribble on a pillow
and one cigarette
about to combust her
poor little head.

it wasn't the Big Deal
and it wasn't a Crusade.
So let's wait for Social
Justice. Let's pass out
on lawn chairs.

------------------

but looking out the glass.
sitting there waiting
as he always does.

a hefty desendent of
muscle, fat, and orange-
white coloring.
he's been waiting for his
mommy.
he's been sitting tight
 for the rub of a chin,
 scratch behind the ear,
 a chance to spread his
 Mark
 on legs to claim.
 a beggar for attention
 and how could mommy
 miss this.
 her own eyes gazing at
 the drama of going to
 Bed.

--------

and now he can knead
the rest of an hour
in an arm crib 
on a sheet

finally squinting his eyes.
the proud look of any cat.
the rest of the Pride will
wait their turn.
the rest corner the room
like soldiers.
they make me trip should
i voyage out of bed...
it's their duty to insure me.

this one has his Mommy.
this one waited.
and if that isn't love
and how could we know

any way.

and if that isn't love.
then you don't have a soul
and neither does the cat,

there's a possibility that
it's true.
but man.
this boy wants his mommy.

she can burn herself with
a cigarette
and slump like a drunk
on the patio.
but man...
this cat wants his Mommy.




I was tired. I did it for the money.---------------------------------------------I'll be embarrassed tomorrow.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 17, 2007, 09:47:35 AM
smash bang boom --where's that woman's post, eh? the one that made me vomit! i ...want more. and, bravo! many a time over. brazayyy. i say. Devery. publish. publish. publish. oh, did it slip.
/me claps... BEST POEM YET  :glasses9:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 17, 2007, 05:39:18 PM
quite happy you enjoyed, gargantuan!! you --yes, YOU. need to write a "mixed up stylistic" burp again. and when i say burp in this sense, i am giving you praise. rare to find someone that can mix up "styles" (if you will, or so it seems when i've read you) and shoot b.b.'s out into the neighborhood. which is a brothel. (an old reference to the poems that bounced around the old Box...but no need to worry...as this brothel has a whole new taste) WOW. i use parethesis a lot. people know this. it's because my brain is SLOOW. anyway--give me a present! please?

poem lock-down on you otherwise!  O0 :icon_rr: (i like fro's)<<parenthesis= :knuppel2:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 18, 2007, 12:45:02 AM
the missing parts of the overblown epic poem:

Part Four
A single imperfection
rises from the stone
surrounded by 17 indentations
the shadow cast is real
and the light that strikes is not

I can see this but the others try in vain.

Blades rise from the earth
each one, will fall.

[Later]

signaling the onset of another day,
those awake hope it will be better than
the last.

Vanity.
Optimism.
Vanity.
Optimism---------------------------->Vanity.

Coming together,
they are the same:
which is too blind
and which can see?

They seem the same.
Hopeless.
And lost.

A speck falls.
growing larger
obstructing all vision
single-handed, it becomes your fate.

Part 5

Gliding over
but always return.
The repetition is what renders mortal.
24 ways to pass the day.
24 ways to reinvent oneself.



Part 10
Bold statements are the best kind

You wish they all were

Perhaps I do, too

Part 11
I fight for the words to convey:

Holding us back
telling us to stay put.

Part 12
Stairs await us at the end
if we advance upon them - death
If we retreat, we regress, and if we regress, we lose all progress.




Really I have no idea what it all means. Just freewriting in a way, but very slightly planned.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 18, 2007, 12:58:07 AM
Another "mini poem":

You have been red

since I was blue

awhile back.

Okay.. this is an invented form of poetry that me and my friend made...called "decrepit poetry". (i even owned decrepitpoetry.com for awhile last year, lol)
I was gonna explain the form, but you can figure it out:
the dashes (---------) in between signify the seperation of seperate poems.
(sometimes me and her will reference a line from one of these and start laughing and no one "understands" it even when we explain.  ;D


"There's still time for us," whispered Maria into Chavez's ear.
"Sometimes they like to steal it or break it just to be funny," she continued.
Chavez's face was stern as he listened.


------------------------------------------

She was hovering above us now, and she was bathed in a beautiful light.
The trees around us seemed to be a landing strip for the plane of knowledge
and enlightenment that was about to hit us. This was our time.


-------------------------------------------

The shadow of the ladder befell upon her.
She couldn't help but to laugh at her good fortune.


-------------------------------------------

"Secondary school is a sham," I murmured.
"Well, what else is there to do? You've already taken your SAT's. You should just relax and let the ocean eat your remains."


--------------------------------------------

"If it were up to me, I'd have three more children."
Unfortunately for Marla, her time on Earth was limited and her lover was lost in the M & M Closet.


------------------------------------------

Susanne stumbled out of the jazz club with a smirk on her face. Yes, she had the key and Katie would never get it from her.

------------------------------------------

Jessica was shaking from the pain. She began to grind her teeth
because she knew that the merciless wrath of the Cat 'O Ninetails
would mar her flesh twice more.


-----------------------------------------

"Well you can choose leprosy or college," the man with the suitcase stated.
He seemed bored with it all.
"The only difference between the two is that when you go to college, your legs fall off."


----------------------------------------------

As he did the forbidden invisible dance, those around him began to grow drowsy.
"But seriously folks, I'll give ya something to cry about."




OKAY HERES ONE OR TWO MY FRIEND WROTE (hers were always amazing)


"We had conditioned her to urinate every time the kitchen light turned on. It got to be tiresome, always cleaning."
"How did you control her? What if she was dehydrated?" asked Kenneth.
"Don't try it! Just don't!"

-----------------------------------

As we dragged the giant carp over the hull of the ship we all had the same thought. Without exchanging a glance, we knew what must happen.

---------------------------------

Her red leather handbag was out of season. So were the purple and yellow pumps she was wearing, but we never told her. She was too fragile then. We would just smile and talk about the weather.

-----------------------------------

"If we just pour all the babies into the ocean, I'd assume they would sink," said my father, who was the captain of the steamer.
"And if they don't we'll just push forward till sunset,"  I said.


--------------------------------------

"Would you like some nose candy?" she asked in a polite voice as she emptied the pillowcase of drugs on to my bedroom floor. We had just finished playing "Dream Phone" and needed to relax.



okay theres so many more but thats enough(we have PAGES ...we used to sit in class in highschool and pass a piece of paper back and forth silently writing and read them and crack up laughing)


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 18, 2007, 01:45:33 AM
"REMAKE ME" (it's a poem. shutup.)

For all of the kids on the coast with their noses all up in the air and their shoes in the frozen sand calling for them to wake up and go home and remember all the hopeless words that they own. For all of the bitches in central park smoking a menthol and dropping their dreams from the clouds and for all of their mothers who hope they'll come home and the pirates who wait for them at night, alone in the dark with a flashlight all covered in blood, with a heart in their pocket all leaking the sludge from their tongues and their roses they left by the door, because he always left them in the basement wanting more. And for all of the singers who say they can't sing and for all of the birds who're missing a wing, I write this tragedy in your name on brick walls, so hear me and see me and answer my call. I'm the one with the candle, you're the one with the gun, and I'll turn all the stories around, never run. And I'll be the best one that you've ever even met and I bet you, I bet you, I know what you'll get.

For you and your lady and all of her boys that you watch with a close eye as you prepare your voice for the call of the wild, for the reputation you lost. Will you promise to do it at any cost?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 20, 2007, 01:18:45 AM

Ting?

....................

and Ting's first instinct
was to
hang it on a line to dry...

An instinct, being the first at this one particular place and time, will not be lost and will be told, but for now, we have another tale to tell:

The Binding Chord

    1.   Dissonance

Hands held
above the piano
Ting focused
on her slender wrists
and the curve
of her fingers;
she thought of back
stairs and dark
hallways and
then she thought
of nothing -
a new alignment
charging gravity to
do its work.
 
The Other felt a
tenderness for
the awkward girl
who dressed and
tended to her
in Her chamber.
 
Fixing her cold
green eyes on
Her minions and guests,
She reached over and
mussed the girl's hair
with deliberate strokes
for all to see.
 
Before the letting go
and the strike
on the keys,
loosing missiles passing
through the spinning
galaxies to reach
the Sacred Room,
the Other saw the auras
move from their hosts
and drain them of color
and protection -
a circle
and ascension
above them all
as a crown of
her power and
dual expectancies.

It made a perfect sound -
born of will and
destiny but silent
to all but the Other.
Ting pressed down
her fingers and pedals
and held them tight
to keep it inside her
to keep it from leaving
her silent heart.
 
From a thousand centuries
distant She saw it smother
the ornate ceiling
and melt above her Chair.
She sat, transfixed,
as Ting's splintered chord
changed into its separate parts -
a gift for Her to touch
and possess, just as
She knew, in this frozen
shining instant,
that she would
someday keep
Ting.
  .........
 
     2.  The Gift Taken

Ting had used the secret
stairs and hallways
in search of bedchambers
where maids and ladies
lit candles and brushed
their unpinned hair,
and smoothed their white
slips while waiting
for her steps to stop
outside their door.
 
And in her boldness she
left a trail of petals -
remnants of her need
and of her otherness -
as scent to bring
an anger and a law
that ordered her to
pass the other doors
and come to him.
 
But the unseen now
became public.
The story aired
in false and
vile spirit
that Ting's faint steps
and pounding heart
had been for him -
and  the church
was now enlisted
into a terrible service.
 
The party made its way
through the front door
at its center a solemn
Bride with golden boots
hidden beneath a trail
of white and  layers
that belonged to others
never meant for
his hands and eyes.
 
As Ting was steadied
and escorted by strangers
a hand reached under
her veil and found a tear.
 
The Other had stepped away
from her own servitude
as mistress and arbiter
of all things dark and
hidden and made the move
determined so long ago
under the frozen water.
 
She held the tear in Her
opened hand and let it rise
in a perfect circle
and made it glisten like
a melting star.
 




Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: cadaverous on August 20, 2007, 04:40:43 AM
This (http://www.poemsfromtheattic.blogspot.com) is my shameless self promotion.

Do feel free to comment on any =)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 21, 2007, 12:23:33 AM
you're only my friend when the pain goes away
i said i'd stop
but it's 3am
i'm drunk again
and losing control
(how fast i forget.)

you're there
pouring another
but never helping
me from the floor
(which i need even more.)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 21, 2007, 08:43:56 AM
ISOLATION

I'll cover my bets with
unblemished pearls
and promises of
compromised mathematics.

And leave my second
to practice her lines
in strictest solitude.

When forced to show
I'll wrap a wall
of thinnest membrane
against the din of
revelation.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 22, 2007, 01:22:09 AM
it's a shame that this happened to you
no matter
that you said
you'd never forgive me
or the time you laughed
at my misfortunes
or the years you were with him
instead of me
i would still die by your side
if it meant we could be free

the march on ourselves
i know i don't belong here
but i still try just as hard
others move forward without me
and leave me alone with my thoughts
of deception, greed, and confusion
wondering who i am
and who i will become
the day will arrive when
you and i can be who we are
and not feel pressured by the Ugly Truth.

d2k7
we always believed we could feel
what charlie told us
yet we never tried.
it wasn't until that late august day
i realized he was right.
driving with the
windows down and 75,
standing in the field
your skirt and hair
moving with the wind,
sitting in our chairs
telling stories of our lives,
walking home
watching the
meteor shower.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 22, 2007, 09:33:00 AM
Hate is such a strong word

Words are far
Too few
And
Precious
To use
As you see fit.

I cannot abide
The
Dumb mumblings
That you allow
To tumble
From
Your Tongue.

Hate is such
A stong word
But,
I feel it is
appropriate
Here.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 22, 2007, 09:41:19 AM
Too numb for your temptation
I didn't even notice
You were taking my hand
I was a ghost
My hand passed right through you
You thought I was a challenge
A puzzle you just had to crack
Yet I stared right through you
Trying to find the next door

Then I open up
I see you out of nowhere
You are walking away
I try to speak
I let you go instead

I return to the ghost

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 22, 2007, 04:04:35 PM
Remember Bliss

Remember bliss?
Remember the days when all seemed beautiful
And nothing had imperfections
You'd stay up drinking up and cracking up until the sun came up
Then you'd soak it up and hope that all this would never change

But it changed
And every day
You regret not seeing things the same way
As you did back when everything went your way
And skies were never, ever gray

Remember ignorance?
You thought that it was ketchup
You knew nothing of suffering, pain, and distress
You knew nothing of cleaning up messes, lying, and impressing
You never had to be anything you weren't

Remember laughter?
The kind that lingers in the air, the kind you can feel, not just hear
The color of laughter ringing in your ears
Will you ever know that sound again -
The rhythm in your chest erupting in song?

Remember bliss?
Remember the days when all seemed beautiful
And nothing had imperfections
You'd stay up drinking up and cracking up until the sun came up
Then you'd soak it up and hope that all this would never change
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 22, 2007, 04:19:49 PM
I remember

Jacaranda mimosifolia

I wish that
I could see
a purple tree
the way I used to
back in high school.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on August 22, 2007, 08:16:31 PM
I remember

Jacaranda mimosifolia

I wish that
I could see
a purple tree
the way I used to
back in high school.



Can you explain this one?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 22, 2007, 08:49:10 PM
Jacaranda mimosifolia
(http://i113.photobucket.com/albums/n217/sizwej/JacarandatreesinPretoriaSouthAfrica.jpg)

These trees were all over campus at the high school I attended.  At that time, they were "just" pretty purple trees.  Now, as an arborist, I can't help but think of them as Jacaranda mimosifolia.  Alex made me think back to a time when I could appreciate them for their beauty alone.

I wish that I could look at them that way again.

Apply metaphore directly to the head...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on August 22, 2007, 09:19:44 PM
I was too lazy to look up the title, and too dumb to make the connection of tree and species. Thanks, smart one <3
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 22, 2007, 10:21:10 PM
rob, you're an arborist?  neat.  my sister's "majoring" in that at her agricultural high school.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 26, 2007, 12:00:54 PM
Turning Tables

you know the story:
one night I saw
your face
in the moonlight
you called me lover
and so i stayed
 
after the first year
you had to leave
to take care of something
on your own
 
the bed was large and strange
without you i shivered
under the summer sheets
 
i found photographs of you
and when we spoke
i told you that i had
fallen in love all over again

you said that's not me
and i'm here and so
i drove 5 hrs. to see you
and all i thought about
was getting you alone
but you wouldn't
let me touch you

you said "come with me"
and you took me to some
ritzy stores to watch
you try on clothes
 
and yet i couldn't kiss you
so i followed you around
like a puppy smelling sex
and swallowed hard when
i looked at you and watched
you move and saw your
eyes look at everything
but me
 
you wore your new outfit
and took me out to the clubs
you let me hold your hand
when i leaned in with
parted lips you turned
your head and offered me
a cheek to kiss
 
i held you chastely
like a sister -
on the floor the music
pulsed and whirled
you smiled at others
in black and red as
i had chosen, as you
had ordered me to choose,
so that others would
look and now for me
you turned my head with
both your hands and
let me bring you closer

and i thought of that song
where the devil loved
the girl and they flew
through the trees to
"a pretty place for kissing,
a place with a view"

and then
we were back in the car
you opened your legs and
pulled my hand under your skirt
and just like that I came and
you touched my wetness and
moved in tighter and i
felt you and you were ready -
and now it was time
to begin, to remember why
i came, to start again,
to take control and
you asked me in that
same trembling voice
from that first night
if i was still lover
and was i ready to
give you a proper greeting.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on August 26, 2007, 11:36:20 PM
funny, that he's never done it
you said once before
that all it takes
if for someone to make you laugh
so when i saw you last week
and you said you
couldn't believe you
forgot how funny i was
i felt invulnerable
we laughed for hours
it seems
yet you're still with him
apparently, all it really takes
is cold silence.

haiku #9
now we shoot to kill
tomorrow we die just to
appreciate life.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on August 27, 2007, 11:53:33 PM
^ Haiku #9 is beautiful.

hopeful dandelion

oh hopeful dandelion with your eyes of golden sun
your hair will soon be white and thin, your soul will soon be done
but for now you sway in bliss, whistling the tune of the wind
hoping someone will blow you away, sighing and wondering when

your leaves an embrace in waiting and your heart so hard to find
you absorb all that you possibly can, and slowly whither with time
but when that fateful day arrives and your joy all fades to gray
i'll sing a song of apology for never blowing you away
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 28, 2007, 08:13:18 AM
I'm feeling the haiku today...

I walk my monkey
the night screams sacred Tonka
build me dark muffins

and a less silly one...

Parade of shadows
I can't escape her dying
I let death inside
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 28, 2007, 08:33:31 AM
I'm disgusted with my body
I'm in hate with my soul
I know nothing I do matters
I know I'm tolerated, not loved
You can say I'm wrong
But I won't be convinced
I overstayed my welcome

You'll get sick of me soon
The charm that I faked
The mask melting away
You see just what I am
And you don't hate me just yet?
I can say a few more words
That can change your mind

I don't like myself
So I can't like you either
If I have just one talent
It is making you think
I am this way in love
Why I cry like a fake
Because I know the truth

I hate that you're fooled
By my miserable act
You say I'm all wrong
But I know that you smile
When I'm this paranoid
I'm rotten and dead
A perpetual and emotionless void

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 28, 2007, 08:34:38 AM
^ Pure =D =D =D

I've had haiku fever recently too.
But it's a few stuck together. But I don't care. =]



Questionable care,
pulling a small child forward,
push, grow up through touch.

Don't ask the books if
Jesus helps you, baby girl.
My darling, he can't.

The Bible lies, dear.
heeding to the modern ways
in ancient fashion.

Years ago gurus,
past image modelled by Kings,
"to the cross!" they yell.

To the hills they march
to watch your fucking Christ child
stain pure white, death red.

Doesn't he look rad
up there our legend martyr.
He told us the truth.

God will come tell us
"Wear faith with pride and colours
to compliment it".

I like that.  :)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 28, 2007, 08:40:24 AM
My last poem sounds fucking downright suicidal, I know.

I'm not going to pretend I'm ok, spewing stuff like that, but I thought it might make me feel better to spit it out instead of letting it brew inside me.

It didn't. I'm having a bad week. Areal bad one, and I'm just sort of running on emotional fumes right now.

Thanks for letting me vent.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 28, 2007, 08:51:39 AM
Dude, I'm sorry you feel that way. =[

Well you should know everyone here thinks you're fuckin' awesome.  :love5:

~sends spiritual hug~
Better? Tiny bit..?

Lil bits. :) Thanks. I will look at the LOLDOLLZ thread to keep me going. That should help.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 29, 2007, 11:40:30 PM
Larry, vent away...by all means. You shall receive something from me soon. (sorry it isn't a new guitar...$ you know, is a bitch)

ahhhehhh. here:


years will pass: five, ten, one
hundred and more.
the tallest building will
leave no hobo insurance;
the chance that a nut may
fall.

yet in five, ten, one hundred
there will be a reenactment,
something will recur and cough
its return out like a sponge
letting go of milk.
not sopping it up.

another first kiss
(no kiss is ever the same)
or the appearance of a mushroom
taking the lawn for repairs,
the sea blushing with a new
fish.

laying eggs on top of what was.
5. 10. 100. times the idea
of the circumference
four arms make in snarled and
jumbled greetings.
goodbyes and desire flipping off
a Yield Sign.

a drop of saliva
stained on glass,
may attach lustful
wishes onto a buzzard...

5, 10, 100.
it will repeat with indifference
to your shoes and finest gown.
flee to the museum where
the vaults
keep the scare in view.
only it may not be you.
no.
once around or always matters
little in terms of calculating

dustbins, tin cans, a dvd.
the cd you've wrapped around
your head
presuming tomorrow is always
a tick away...
the ticks themselves no better.
though we have the funerals
to prove it, we'd rather watch...

until it's 5, 10, 100.
classical music has already been
repeated by the exhaust of Rock
on the back of a fossil or stone
turning to pebbles with no
Shame.
yet the solo that freshens
a stage
is new, new, opening a trail.
diving in on one same key,
stroking out the mouth of a
novice
with no Shame.

in 5, 10, 100
a bubble will surface on some
planet or moon or tidal wave,
and it will be the first time
it comes around--
you just might see it--
and the last time it swings
its own body into view.

sit down.
the old t.v. is out in 5.
what my father first saw,
I'll never know the genius of it.
what he won't understand.
someone will expand upon it.
and technology hits you with
ammonia to try and shake a jar
of pennies...
but even the words typed in
Cyber...

what we feel is owned.
in 5 to 10 to 100.
the crux of it lies in knowing
that we own our personal
second and underwear.
darling, even a fool says it's
the second that counts.


you Are a walking relic.


think of sex on atomic terms.
laughing over this planet
in drought or water,
Krakatoa on a massive scale
blows and blooms over the wax
in all of this.
5, 10, 100.

Do Something.

change positions in bed
with your lover.
this bang of Krakatoa and shirt
stains will happen
over and over
but you aren't absolved by this.
in 5, 10, 100.

Curie cut her life short to solve
"i don't know why..."
and that is better than
waiting for a nut to fall.
for a twenty to show up
on a dead hobo in a tall
building.

5.10.100.

existence
is not your own.
born with it,
a choice.
and finally
for you...

nothing final.




----------------------------that was so simple in my book. and i've made a big fat mess........................................... :'(



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 30, 2007, 09:42:14 AM
I want atomic sex!

Pencil, I await fine gifts, even if they are not guitars.

Not so bad today. Not so down like I was.

music doesn't always comfort me
i depend on these comforts
yet the support is cracking
i have to find another prop
wear it out, then shift back
until time grows tired of me
time is yawning now
i don't matter much just yet
i get to survive
and run in my circles
my pain reminds me
and keeps me on the ground
but i do want to soar
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on August 30, 2007, 11:52:49 AM
Eh, what the hell, I'll take the beating:

Here's a fragment of a poem I wrote back in my workshopping days:

Footprints of a Sleepwalker

I.
At midnight,
it is as if my synapses are shut down
one by one.

My arm falls to my side
mid gesture
as I relate the events of a soccer game
as if the players stopped
playing each other and decided
to take up the cause of the abused ball,

my mouth refuses to form
any words except those I knew
in the crib,

and my occipital lobe remains
stubbornly dim
in the CAT scan
when the neurologist

asks me to watch the video
of the hummingbird flying
into the melon
over and over.

Puzzled,
the doctor will open up
the top of my skull,
reach far into the gray matter

and find that the man who controls
such things as the neural impulse
takes his first drink of champagne

every night at 11:59 and 50 seconds
because the calendar at his bedside

always reads December 31, 1999 and

he missed all of the good New Year’s partying
five years ago

when I had my first full
glass of champagne

and refused to share.

---------------

And I'm not sure if this goes here, as it's pretty much anti-poetry, and I'm sure DD fans will either be amused or want to kill me -- but man, last night I read this:  http://www.mtvu.com/music/the_hot_seat/?artist=the_dresden_dolls

And sent this out into DD mail but thought it was too much fun to keep to myself for a year until Amanda has the chance to read it:

(written sloppily to Christopher Lydon, and let the chucking begin -- I welcome it)

reading the words on the Apple screen
i didn't know, so fresh so clean, minty green
you cannot know what it did for me
when you told me, please floss those teeth

i never knew what my floss could do
i went out, bought some the moment i heard you
my friends like brushing cause that's their style
i stay behind with my flossing smile


Amanda F. Palmer,  your middle name
should be "Flossing", like that old dame

i once dreamt of the way to you
i went to the dentist's office, it's your one too
i waved at you and we sang "Sha la la"
and you found the smile in me, Amanda

Amanda, I floss them every way, Amanda,
even the back row you fucked that day, Amanda
Amanda, now and forevermore, Amanda
i'll never stop flossing, Amanda, Amandaaaaaa

Incisors, molars, and baby ones
you were telling me to remember them til I'm done
I don't care that they make fun of me
I will keep flossing until the end

So next time I see the Dresden Dolls
I see you -- I say
"Amanda Palmer, you've cleaned out my teeth"
When I ask if you feel the same way for me
You tell me yes, looking in between

they won't put holes in me anymore
except the one that you are here for
Amanda F. Palmer, your middle name
Should be "Flossing" like that old dame

Amanda, I am your flossing whore, Amanda
I hope you're happy now, Amanda
Thank you for everything and I'll keep flossing anyday and yes, I'll let the other people know the way
Amanda, beautiful, Amanda
I have the teeth you've been waiting for

-------

P.S. my browser shut down midway through this post trying to save me from myself, but I'm a determined bitch

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 30, 2007, 11:59:59 AM
Drowning Nighthawks
She's drowning nighthawks in the kitchen
She's wondering if her children are wishing that she was dead.

She's drowning children in the bathroom,
everyone is asking for her number.

Light some incense.
Light some incense.

Throw away those magazines,
they're all you're ever used to seeing.


Actually that's a song I wrote without thinking. I just hit record and sang it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on August 30, 2007, 01:12:01 PM
Wow.

If that was directed towards me, I'll take it as a compliment.   
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on August 30, 2007, 01:20:21 PM
that was bizarre enough because it was so Amanda-oriented... and then on top of it... it's about her telling you to floss.


Congratulations on creating something. I just..uhhhhhhhh.

Yeah, what?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on August 30, 2007, 02:19:34 PM
that was bizarre enough because it was so Amanda-oriented... and then on top of it... it's about her telling you to floss.


Congratulations on creating something. I just..uhhhhhhhh.

Yeah, what?

"Creating something", eh?  I perfer to call it a masterpiece of massive proportions, if you will...  I haven't yet explored enough to read everything you wrote besides the song above, but I have to say I always have deep respect for songwriters -- me, I lack anything close to musicality, and just write to get the voices out of my head.  Nighthawk, is a freaking awesome word, btw and the few verses you have so far definitely creeped me out (which serves as an emotional response, so good for you).
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on August 30, 2007, 02:28:22 PM
I could buy you a drink
with my last dollar
would that be romantic?
or just so lame?

payday don't come for a week
but your smile is all I need
and if I have to starve
just a little

you are so sweet
I want to hurt myself
just to make you laugh
can you love a fool?

play silly songs
they don't cost a thing
just listen once
and I'll be paid

I could lay around all day
never get bored
as long as I can see
your long auburn hair

you twist and curl
into my mind
and slide down to my heart
you don't even try

you are so natural
I want to live with you
pretend we don't have work to do
and make our love

make love our work
and work at our play
you are adorable and sweet
you make me feel wanted
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 03, 2007, 09:56:14 AM
Dear America, Dear John

Dear America,

Where are you? Where is your outrage? Where is your heart?
I see the apathy dripping into your eyes, the stinging sweat of permission blinding you. I feel your comfort of fears making you into the lambs of God, awaiting deliverance from accountability. I see you lean on the crutches of survival’s excuse, placating responsibility.

America? Will you not walk with me? Will you not talk with me? My name is consequence, and did you think I’d hold my tongue forever? Are you so surprised to see your infrastructure crumble under your endless desire for comfort? Did you think the oily carcass you feasted upon would not return to pollute your souls? Did you think that by relying on others that the blame would shift away from your door step? I watch you walk by the wretched mirrors, bodies sleeping on cold hard mattresses paved by favored progress.

America? Are you there to listen, see and speak out? Your silence has betrayed the world. Your hushed voices commit acts of violence, torture and rape. Your silence is equal to compliance and condoning. Your quiet bickering will not absolve you. To be meek in times of consequence will not make you holy in the face of the slaughter. Do you believe that your sins are all accounted for, because of one tale of sacrifice? Did you miss that some lessons were meant to be followed, not as excuses to lean on?

America? Do you not care for your sons and daughters? Are the daily doses of celebrity morphine enough to dull the pain for you? Does the folly of rock angels and hotel daughters make you feel like all is right in the word for a while? You need more, just one more sacred fix to erase the wooden boxes covered in patriot rags of denial. The pictures you never demanded to see. It is the virtual and actual death of America.

America, will you come with me? I will set you free. All you have to do is forget the guilt, and let yourself mourn your failure. Time is too short to heal your wounds now; we must go into the fields, suburbs and streets. We must demand our soul progression, and leave our earthly desires to the earth. Your fear is the ammo to the guns of war. Your fear is driven by threat of loss. America, lay down your arms and open your hands. There is nothing to lose if you have your soul intact.

Dear America,
I’m afraid if you don’t make an effort to change, then I must leave you.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on September 03, 2007, 10:32:07 PM
there's a three alarm blaze down the street
and we laugh as the sirens pass
an inconvenience to our sound
the amp can't compete
sure we feel for those
less fortunate
and we're forced to think
of the burning flesh
and collapsing roof
but for now
we blow out the candles
and continue to drink and play.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 04, 2007, 11:15:24 PM
all i can say to Larry and Innocence....god damn. hot damn. shit damn. here: :icon_queen: :icon_king:   

the chord fallen
_____________
finished with the performance.
a remnant of e minor in a degree
of erection flowed.
foot poised on the pedal
like an epoxy nightmare,
Ting struggled and lifted it...
her rhythmical piano discussion
made the jealous metronome
in view
a farcical and open-mouthed
chicken.

realization. fruition had her back
arched in closely besides the
position of an ultimate Orgasm.
this could rumble like fountains
into repetitive splash,
Or.
she noticed her hands.
hovered above the keys like a
Supernova in mid-shatter,
fingers splayed and throbbing.

what she had played she Owned.
the rhapsody was no promise,
but a cut into the space of letters
and a split of accents
where no recorder could save
what she Owned.

she had started with the peasantry
in the front of her eyes,
wishing them a gift without any
possibility of giving,
desiring to dry the eyes of a woman.
just one she had seen from a carriage
now replaced by horses she'd ride

she'd ride into the instrument...

a lonely violinist often carried her
like a bowl to the doors of the
estate.
opening the bedroom wall that kept
Distinguished from Hordes,
Ting would often twist down to
her knees in sorrow's net...
those melodies would soak her
in Salt. Acid as well.

--------------------

seemed to be a hush.
the audiences' still ignorance of
her centrifuged-flying playing
slithered from toes to face.
a full flush as red as a strawberry,
and a fire as incorrigible as the
enfant
enraged itself.

she waited, hands falling to her
lap as pebbles floating through
oils,
she waited longer.
   a Single boom flew threw the
   room in one ostentatious and
   thunderous Clap, the sound of
one machete looking to find...


Charlie's Car
____________________

the car shifted forward and
her head bumped the chair reserved
for escorts up front,
like a trip over ice, she was
humiliated slightly by Charlie's
laughter.
But. He was always laughing when
he didn't have a person's face
wrapped in his fist like
a piston through a plant's leaves.
or a reddened head extinguishing
in biceps as large as
thighs,
and much more present then
Charlie's own eyes and mouth.

his hysterical giggling continued.
annoyed and flabbergasted,
she felt the crack pipe by her thigh
and tossed it towards the dash
with
a tad more force than required.
the inside joke was tiresome
Yet
Charlie was always chuckling about
something,
and her action made him even more
enthralled.

another enfant as well, Ting thought.
grimmacing and swearing in the
process of checking purse,
adjusting neglige'
picking at her teeth...
she experienced a flashback of
the client Nen.

Nen.
Fury ripped up from Ting's gut,
and as she envisioned the whip and
Sneer, my god. my god. the butcher's
Belly was a sweaty rock of flesh,
hairy and rubbing up her face
in the rapid pace of a sprint...
his paw pushed
the top of her head downward,
Hard until it was so clear

the whip slashed her lip in 3
spots and her body in plenty
of isolated chunks as Ting stared.
That
yellow water spot on the ceiling,
and Nen was riding a kind of
horse that had blood dripping from its
hooves...

she flung her elbows backwards and
hit the young woman beside her
like a hammer to a tooth,
and there was the tooth to prove it,
and there was no girl when Ting
dared look to her right again.
the blow with her arm had dissolved...
the way tablets hit water and
blow bubbles. the way cleaver's
dismantle bone and don't
apologize.

she felt idiotic with her arms up
and elbows squeezed into
Cushioning of the custom ride,
and it was the traveling she delighted
in more than...

white and black spots covered,
as a map of bass-thrashing music
charged out of the rear speakers
with malice.

damn ghosts always persistent,
she thought.
"shut up Charlie and give me the
damn tablets."

"Pills for the chills?" Charlie guffawed
and belched simultaneously...


ehhh. Devery. Here it is as it stands. I like the finished performance better than the car...yes. I do. I have to put in more in the car area. Just wanted to show right now, and I think I'm revising "Charlie's Car" tomorrow. The first part, I have to stick with even if you hate it, only because I worked my ass off on it. (my ass?...sorry.) :love5:
Innocence. Changed the beginning a bit from what you saw. Not much. Shall be posted here as well. :love3:

Love to all! Musings? why did you think you'd get heat for that? no heat here. just experimenting poets...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 05, 2007, 12:32:02 AM
Musings? why did you think you'd get heat for that? no heat here. just experimenting poets...

I'm generally neurotic/paranoid when it comes to sharing writing.  Blame it on some college workshop/ lit mag board experiences.

But some very nice stuff, have to agree.  Actually I'm continually amazed at the general creativity in the community.

So in "real life" I'm a brain science geek, which makes for some interesting poetry -- here's some that I wrote based on the actual fxns of different brain areas

Fusiform Face Area

Face
up to it -- you know
she's a liar
in disguise, all those
faces she makes while
orgasming
r the ones you find on
Myspace, or

Facebook
as if she were
the cheerleading section of
Eros.

All I'm saying is that you
recognize those
eyes aren't hers, they aren't
anything at all.


Intraparietal Sulcus
I did
not want to see
the trees. My
attention flew
past,
and
really, where was the
inspiration?
everyone looks for
truth
and
love

Searching in
underbrush,
leaves, anything but those naked
cherry tress, still
unblossomed in winter,
swaying without the weight of spring.




Also, anyone up for a game of lines (I give a line, then someone else, until we get a decent sized poem?):

I can start(weakly)

Let's find misfortune on another corner
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 05, 2007, 05:15:25 AM
dammit Jennifer!  you went out of turn.
but.  space and time being what it is, we'll just move a few pieces around a bit -


The Other

In her robes and queenly things
she went into the garden;
looking up at the seven moons,
she picked the brightest and said
you're my talisman tonight.
she lit a cigarette.
what did the moons have over
Ting's breathtaking youth
and cleverness? 
no matter - Ting had left.
there would be a summoning
of snakes looped to catch
the hair of maidens;
wary of their innocence,
they would beg for a witness
for their beautiful death.
perfect bones for grinding,
skin white as souls,
leaning with open faces
to bask in the grey breath
that would elude them
in the morning of the day
that would creak and shudder
and splinter into its
predestined vulgar order,
a day when Her love would
not be there for Her gaze
in the bedchamber and at
Her side in Court.
gone.

go back to your secret stairways
She might have hissed.
you'll find the streets on your own.
I won't be there when your need
is strongest, when you cry:  What was
so alluring?  Why did I leave?

But, now the lever was in place.  She had
known always about this moment, had dreamed
of it, dreaded its finality.
And after all this.  All these outward
movements - leading to nothing.
The Other opened herself to the inevitable
 emptiness - static unknown since
the  seconds before the tiny
smooth ball exploded in the Void -
and soon would be the blackness
the Other longed for.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 05, 2007, 08:47:45 AM
Devery. gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww. damn you.
when i die, take Ting, and whatever I wrote. Toss it, and keep what you have. I swear to mutha.............. :violent5: :love5:

MUSINGS! Sure. Up for what I call poetry ping-pong anytime. And, I like your poetry quite a bit. We all write in different styles, and that's a good thing. Opens doors to different WAYS of writing. (if you don't know "Ting" has been an on-going ride between me and Devery) Since you're a brain-geek--NO Thing wrong with that...I imagine that Biology is the Universe you wade through. I could not match your science (my sister's a biologist??), but devoted myself thoroughly to books such as "Broca's Brain" --therefore, maybe we could give it a go? Maybe. And it's okay if you find it doesn't work out for you too. One thing you should know though. Between my own poetry attempts and "Ting" I will be TARDY often.

It's because I'm busy, that's all. Looking at the wall and waiting for just one decent personification/metaphor/simile to walk through and hit me in the face...

Usually, no. But I try...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on September 05, 2007, 09:16:54 AM
Let's find misfortune on another corner

This streetlight burns too bright.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 05, 2007, 09:47:40 AM
Pencil, your latest rumblings have put an arrow through my soul, love.

For that your punishment is 2 CDs in the mail today. That will learn ya'.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 06, 2007, 09:15:51 AM
Jennifer, that last poem of yours. Excellent. I think you've come a long, long way in finding a focus. You've cleaned up your poetry. Not in the naughty, cursing, asshole sense, but in the sense that matters, the meaning, the expression, the filter that shouldn't and doesn't contrive your words but rather keeps them on-point. Good show.

--

It's been awhile
Since I let it all just ride
As I should
Been in denial
That the truth would let me rise
As I could
Been forcin' rhymes
To fit designs that'll please those
Up on high
Nada but sties
Man I'm so, Goddam I'm so
Full of shit
These fuckin' shadows
Preach mathematics to a poet
But why?
To fit a rhythm
Fuck your tempo
I'm a bomb in the sky
I wanna break the chains I built
And see my words amplified
Set my diction to a friction that'll
Blow up your mind
I wanna piss off all the people
Who're ruling the world
Hold my irreverence like a beacon
Watch my inferno unfurl
And if when I'm said and done
I find that nothing has changed
I ask you kindly, would you symbolize
And shit on my name

--

Criss-cross spiderweb right before my head
My laptop light's giving you a glow upon your bed
Spinning, spinning, spinning, you build your home on mine
Others might've killed you, but I think you're quite divine
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on September 06, 2007, 02:20:44 PM
they're publishing one of my poems. it's very confusing. they sent me lots of strange emails and i don't believe any of them. i believe the letter though. so it says i'm through to some final where i could win $1000 or $10 000. so yay.

Who's they? Hope it's not poetry.com.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 06, 2007, 02:23:37 PM
they're publishing one of my poems. it's very confusing. they sent me lots of strange emails and i don't believe any of them. i believe the letter though. so it says i'm through to some final where i could win $1000 or $10 000. so yay.

Who's they? Hope it's not poetry.com.

Yeeeah. When I was 14 they did that. I imagine they stole it and then did god knows what.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on September 06, 2007, 02:33:06 PM
I got lured in by poetry.com a while back too.

Everyone I know who has ever tried it got that, "We'll publish your poetry!" letter. I'm about 99% sure it's some sort of scam. Best bet is to stay out of it. Post your stuff on fictionpress.com or LJ or something.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 07, 2007, 06:48:46 AM
Before the Beginning

 
Ting dropped the girl on a safe street
where the crowds swirled through
the bright lights like sparklers.
She kept the girl's notebook, that once
had been given life in her hand,
secured in the folds of her coat,
and wondered what kind of caretaker
the girl had been; was she a poet,
and did her narratives soar;
held by the same gloved hand that had
earlier jerked off the well-dressed man
nen had brought, along with the
syringe and the powder.
 
Later, at her table by the window,
her image danced in and out of
the candle flame flickering on
the black glass; she opened her
notebook and flipped through hundreds
of pages of her youthful thoughts
and descriptions all done up in a precise hand
and sliding ink and careful smudges.
She lit a cigarette before turning
to the girl's entries.

Two black and white photographs of a
woman in an ornate robe fell from the center
onto the table near the extra powder.
The drug was thick and strong.
Ting started at the woman's high,
shaded cheekbones, and at the quiet voice
that whispered i will be waiting for you.
 
Ting had been euphoric in the black car, with
the girl's dark, wet hair and innocence
and the notebook she handed her as if her
movements were part of a solemn ritual,
but now she saw only the irresistible cruelty
of the eyes in the photograph.
Through the larger window, she looked out
at the one moon and the stars beyond
 and remembered her other home.
 
The girl found the mirror just where nen
had said it would be.  I am beautiful,
she thought, as she turned and posed,
and with a little kick, laughed, then reached
behind the mirror, removed a piece of
yellowed parchment and placed it in her purse.
With a final look, she quickly turned away
and disappeared.
 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 09, 2007, 02:02:12 AM
Red Shorts


She walked right in
gangly and bony,
gorgeous in her suit
and black shoes,
red hair thick and
curly that stopped
at her shoulders
like a fire engine
racing to a fire.

We sat together
on a couch in
the house of
someone neither
of us knew and
we talked and
kissed and said
"man, if only we
could be alone."

I called her.
we went driving,
made love by the lake
and talked through
the night.

We went to her place
and slept on her bed
like strangers.
she was sleeping
when i woke up
and left.

I changed my mind on
the interstate and
went back to give
her a kiss.
she said:  "don't
pretend. you're
going to the coast
tomorrow and we won't
see each other again."

But what i really
remember is when we
stopped at a payphone
to call her mother,
her long, white legs,
hips cocked like a
heartbreaker, and
a look that said
"it's cool, baby"
as she shifted
and turned away in
her red, cotton shorts.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on September 09, 2007, 04:35:43 AM
M -> m


i'm just stopping by to say hello,
i've been writing love letters
in a melting puddle of snow,
once a solid fortress of lies and delusion,
the illusion cast a shadow of doubt, and
bought back the sun.

how're you? it been glorious since that morning.
when the raven sang a song full
of ambition. his own rendition of
Stomy Weather, and lady Sings the Blues in
Eb major. i've come across a major malfunction,
because i've never managed a mess this
mistakingly meaningful before.

today holds too much meaning. a poorly weaved
basket is sagging with doubt. it was cheap, but aren't we all?
STOP BUYING SHIT, i tell myself.
stop buying into (t)his shit. stop buying basketfuls of
snowcovered hills, and sheet music books, though
slow and lovely, wrinkled with tattered seams.

and if that seems too painful, the cure's not in the ailment.
don't drink a little more liquor to drown out the tides of
liquid snow. the cold rain refilling (t)his basket of lies,
with your own.
the meaning means more than the mean words,
or sad songs you swore you'd never croon.

now i'm sitting by the burning embers,
burning a hole through my rationality,
slowly, trying to figure out right from wrong. absolute from subjective.
it means i'm not going to be the same, doesn't it?

how should i know? i just stopped by to say hello,
but it's been a good buyout.
or is that a sell out? you've sold yourself short,
giving out priceless virtues, at big bargain mart savings.

and now you're left with the taste of sour lemons.
such sweet, enforced apathy never lasts.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on September 09, 2007, 03:35:23 PM
Oh, how I wish that I were a red headed lesbian.

And that was wonderful caddy...you'll always be caddy to me
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on September 09, 2007, 11:08:58 PM
~blush~ murrrrrrr. i had to slap it somewhere. never thought i'd write poetry like that. i suppose poetry is only good if it gets a message across.

i may write more. i should. it's relaxing to read yours and everybody elses, Rob. especially Matt, Devery and Prefer. <3 i used to have poetry in the style of Musing, too, btw ftw. x_O'
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on September 10, 2007, 12:02:27 AM
Relief

Maybe I'll die by a moving train
Passing through my chest
Breaking every bone inside me
Making my soul a mess

Maybe I'll die by music
And my eyes will be the notes
Moving every which way to escape the gray
That's taking me, pulling me out

Maybe I'll die by my own free will
Never realizing what it meant
And I'll feel it and see it and want to believe
But it'll never happen like that

Maybe I'll die of crying too many tears
Caused by the ones that I love
Because I can't handle the things they say
Hey, anyone got a gun?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 10, 2007, 12:25:18 AM
Ok.  Went back again and really reread some of these poems.  Like sat, and read.  I read a lot of poems that get sent to our school's lit mag (college lit mag, the most established, so there's some talent there), so while I'm no expert, I can appreciate a good poem.  And I say it again -- amazing.  I would name names but there's so many good people here it's not worth it.

Response to suzy:  I'm a brain kid, and a bio kid, but I don't exist only in the Bio world with my poetry -- here's something a little different I did a while ago:

--------
A Mother’s Love


I saw as her hand
flew towards my cheek,
the valley of life
neatly arching across
the white-pink of her palm.

There, just an inch below
her heavy ring,
somehow stationary
even as her fingers
sliced through the tense air,
there was the path
that I had traced
so many years ago
while she was a restless
child in bed, foretelling
one son, one daughter,
and many years of happiness.


And even as
my breath withdrew
with the sharp burn
as flesh met flesh
I thought with satisfaction:
Your life tattooed
upon my face –
Daughter, has it not always been this way?
-------

I lack the skill? patience? life experience? to come up with the more complex metaphors and lines you guys are writing, and so when I want to do something longer, I definitely go the way of prose.

I've been in a dry spell with my poetry for a while though, haven't been able to come up with anything besides the stupid brain stuff.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on September 10, 2007, 01:39:38 AM
i like the brain stuff, though. it's weird because it conveys a message through a different series of interactive words. i think of them interactively, at least. due to the way they're shaped, the reader not only has to follow, but not be fooled into thinking shortness means obvious, or even easy to understand.

maybe that doesn't make sense. maybe it does. your poetry is easy to read for me, unlike some of the others. i can definitely understand everybody else, but...it's weird. i like direct poetry, even if i dabble in the metaphor, myself.

and yeah, that was the first time i'd written a poem in a while now. it felt good. i may write another.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 10, 2007, 11:29:57 AM
Oh, how I wish that I were a red headed lesbian.

Don't we all, Rob, don't we all.   :)


I am always humbled by the talented writers here, and always look forward to what's next.  There's the ones that have been here since the beginning, like Rob, Ma Chao, Larry, and Innocence, and all the others in between, that I seldom have commented on but always appreciate, and now we have exciting new things from Musings and Caddy.  Where's Suede, the brilliant minimalist who started this thread?  Of course, I keep a sort of commentary going here with Jennifer, but we're buddies and some day, oh about 15 years from now, we'll file the final Ting episode.  It keeps us off the street, if nothing else.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on September 11, 2007, 04:39:35 AM
eulogy


rejoice, the time i entered your room,
and picked out your favorite summer picture.
hidden in a bottle behind the third
shelf. you hid the crack on one side,
bright bloom of twilight stain, by
positioning it against a long forgotten wall.

and when we found it shattered,
later that evening,
the next day it was gone.

remember, the spring morning was foggy,
gray and blue with a mist of clouds hung
low. it smelled like freshly showered hair,
sans the cream conditioner. washed in a
bath of lake water, sprinkled over the skin,
in a thin layer of dew and sweat.

and when i tasted you,
later that night,
the next day it was gone.

repress, that afternoon on july the 12th,
when the hour wouldn't move past 2:05pm.
we both wanted to watch married cousins
fuck. jerry springer was still in style back then,
and everything went from niggas to white trash,
bitches and hos to high class dumb cunts
who just wouldn't leave that cheatin' man.

and when i whispered in your ear,
after the program,
the next day you were gone.

reprise, and i haven't seen you eyes in years.
morning, noon and evening i'm flushed with
anxiety. i couldn't stand swing shift without you.
i couldn't enjoy summer sans sweet, salty skin.
sour, sullen eyes of misty blue and gray hung low
over a half-hearted horizon.

and when you turned away,
after i waved goodbye,
everything was gone.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 11, 2007, 10:02:55 AM
Switch teams?  :love3:

Naaaahhh. Your team needs you. Just moonlight with me on the side.  ^-^ Speaking of moonlight...

you have the moonlight and I want you to share
open the box and the stars will fly out and dance between us
we follow the shooters into the sky
holding our arms out as we rise
looking at each other from time to time to make sure this is real
it may be a dream but to feel it this way
do I have to tell you?
you know our dreams are real
and to live is to drift
and to stay on one path is to whither
all roads lead to love
when we share our moments
when we share our bliss

I would share you with the world
never possess you
just ask you to come by once in a while
to dance and laugh
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 11, 2007, 11:23:53 AM
Lar--i'll dance with you anytime, moonlight, sun, and dusk/dawn. dusk being more amenable to my schedule......oh. what i've been able to digest= :headbang:
Innocence---I am going to get to your bad-ass self. you are NOT your age. !!(poem boost b/c it's true...and there isn't anyone sane who wouldn't say it)
All, including Caddy who just blew me away. --i see continued evolution and progress in everyone's "work" and FUN with poetry.
ps--haven't been around in awhile, and it'll be a slow process to get to the pm's let alone all the poetry i've missed!
shit, Devery. what the hell am i going to do with you?? you twisted lesbian jerk! writing like that on your own and with Ting. jail time for you!!! no probation!!!


here--version 2 ("kin d a")
___________________________

we've become or are and can be
overly-concerned and blowing blisters
over the Dinners you can't hear,
as we're whispering about a Possible
or probable or yes, we think it's true.
an Issue is at hand, larger than a
whale can blow it's whole out,
smaller than this apartment can fill
with your Gas.

your grammar and spelling and checking
of the sockets and door knobs is
"haven't gotten?" WHAT is the matter with
You? what else to give to the monetary
Wizards standing at the Ready for
reasons still Unknown...and by the way,
2 Times 2 is 4, and you've gotten
Math.
all of your kind strewn like a baby's rattle
with a diaper on top, not to mention your
comfy blanky Plastered to you and the
Wall by the Rocker, both swaying

and you Smile at them, nodding your head
in some Kind of Sage determinations.
Should we have to Explain one more
Time Quantam Physics and the
Facts of the apostrophe,
We just don't know what to do about
what you've Become.

Are you evolving, even as you waddle
through dust debris, cat litter,
picking your nose in Full View.
This just isn't like you and we're
getting, becoming, overly sensitive
as You point your Crooked small Finger
as Us, not to mention
Jesus. Please stop trying to talk
to the Toaster!

you say you're working as thoroughly
as the cd player that spins in Random
constantly making the Apartment shift
like a Patient in a Dentist's Chair.
like a Porter serving the Rich on through
the Hostage Situation, you yourself have
become, and gotten us into...

dammit. Get up and Go Out and don't
tell me Any more bad news. You've gotten
a hangnail on top of All This also?
take your Tissues, Red Eyed-Pills and
get your Self to the dentist First.
we're tired of Hearing that too,
but we've gotten used to saying we
Love you. we do. we do. it's as easy
as "A is for the apple of our eyes..."

why do you keep saying "you've gotten...?"
go to the grammar school.
all the money we've become Masters of
Paying in admired Tuition and all this shattered
Attention assembled on your floor:
the baby rattle runs without your hands.
the diaper fills without your butt.
even your blanky covers Laziness
and You are not even Here to witness
any of it.

hush little baby, don't say a word.
Help is coming once Again.
we've
gotten
one last joke.
we have become Catholic, but perversely.

when they minus-Abortion,
And yelp "Death Sentence!"
you haven't gotten a chance
      to Dispute.



mmm. i think it's more "clear" and has the same repetitive themes, but imagery and personification need to be inserted before I'll be satisfied. opinions always welcome. in the end. the tools for poetry effectiveness: imagery, personification, and metaphor/simile, as well as analogy & repetition...none of those matter unless they affect the reader. so revise this? not to revise? (before i move to version 3)

Innocence. I still felt better with the initial jolt as I wrote it, so thanks for appreciating the style. (---zzzz---something's being tinkered with---zzzz---) :love5:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 11, 2007, 04:04:56 PM
Innocence??MmHmm? Just what are you being coy about? heh. actually. version 3 is --these are Variations on a Theme. ?? figure out the Capitalization ideas synthesized on this one, and you win ...a Brand New________?

version 3 (obviously)
_____________________

we've become concerned over
Dinners, whispering about Possible
Issues at hand,
a Whale filling smaller truths
than Gas.
your whole can blow
overly-concerned blisters.
we think it's true.

sockets and door knobs of
grammar and spelling
haven't gotten You?
What Wizards, by the way,
give monetary reasons at
2 Times the Ready for Math?
is 4 standing at the baby's
rattle, strewn and checking
the Wall with a diaper on top?
a comfy blanky swaying,
not to mention the Rocker
Plastered and Unknown.

nodding at Sage determinations,
what you've Become Smiles Kindly.
and Quantum Physics don't Explain
Facts we Should just know...
in some
one's head, Time's apostrophe.

you waddle in Full crooked points,
not to mention Us. Jesus through
dust Fingers, small overly-sensitive
Fingers stop trying to talk.
You Are evolving and getting
cat litter, picking your nose
as this Toaster becomes.

Random constantly shifts thoroughly
as the cd player spins in a Dentist's
Hostage Situation. a Porter becomes
Rich, serving constantly, you say
like a Chair. yourself gotten like a.

apple hangnails on top of bad news
Get and Go. You have dammit eyes.
Red and Out the tired Hearing-Pills,
Any more Love we've used, and All
First eyes get your Self. bad is for
as easy we do. the dentist takes
Tissues as we do. All this also?

you keep saying "Tuition" without
this shattered grammar school. why do
you become Laziness without your
diaper, the baby rattle assembled in
Attention? Masters even here to
witness, your butt runs without hands.
We've become Paying Here. your covers,
the blanky in admired sayings.

baby, Help perversely Catholic jokes.
one joke Again, coming once is a
word HELP.

when "Dispute!" yelps
Abortion.
they haven't you to
sentence Death.
minus-chance.




i didn't change the words in each "stanza"-- meaning, e.g. "Tongue" could have become "tongues" from version #2, although the meaning seems to be a little archaic as a result... (i miss the toaster?) anyway. there is still a "tone" that remains and I have intentions regarding the ---odd use of capitalization from beginning to end. EACH word has its own meaning to me, but it will be interesting if anyone prefers one "type" over another in the end...Oh. and i just have to do this....
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: VipersGratitude on September 11, 2007, 04:13:26 PM
There was a young girl called Amanda
Who wore makeup akin to a panda
She covered her face
To mask inherited traits
cuz I fucked amanda's grandma
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 11, 2007, 05:01:26 PM
I always liked words capitalized for non-traditional reasons, among many other grammatical heresies. I make up words, make use of extra commas, hyphens, and parenthesis, all that stuff. It's, well, it's fun, and it lets you treat your poetry as a drawing.

--

The shield that saves the body
Lets the sword return the strike
Discarded when the war is won
On walls his brother sword is hung
The helm and cuirass doted
Did never cast an eye to he
And does his heart turn cold?
He is a shield and doesn't say
For a shield, what can be said?
It is his business to protect
Not cause worry, to a heart

--

Wolf eye, meet the moon
And howl me up a tune
To bristle fur on high
Oh, sing your heart tonight
Take these lonely thoughts
Give that which you have wrought
Passion for the night
Passionate solitude
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on September 11, 2007, 07:44:02 PM
There was a young girl called Amanda
Who wore makeup akin to a panda
She covered her face
To mask inherited traits
cuz I fucked amanda's grandma

I found that quite interesting. I'd like to read more.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 12, 2007, 02:21:52 AM
Coming Down

we'll come down
together and
slowly, sweet.

open lips to
wet the sheets
the name you
spoke was not
my own - i'll
hold you, dear,
in sleep and
dreams and
waking i'll
forget.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 12, 2007, 08:09:53 AM
I dreamt
the same dream
that you dreamt
on the train.

Your shirt was
a darker blue
where your chin
had fallen open,

and across your legs
in a similar loose-jawed fashion
was a French novel
which had on the cover

the park, from where
I waved and waved at you
yesterday,

but you, having already
enjoyed the summer sun
for two weeks
had no time

for a poor stranger
from USA.


-----
^^^^^^^
Devery, niiiice.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 12, 2007, 10:53:44 AM

-----
^^^^^^^
Devery, niiiice.


Thank you, Musings.  I'm a bit partial to yours as well.   :happy11:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 12, 2007, 02:27:37 PM
MaChao--thanks! i'm experimenting like a turd, but grammar-fucks are not only fun, they also ADD to the poem itself --hidden meanings etc. or not hidden. we agree, and i like to see you back again. though what i just read seems like there might be some sort of epic going on????
ALL YOU--Musings. don't stop ever. Caddy. join the spiked-punch party. Innocence, I'm going to turn you upside down until you laugh. Devery. you went out of turn with Ting, and your own poems are deafening.

Personified Bedroom loves Bathroom?
_____________________


the dresser folded up my Legs,
as it walked over and brushed
its Teeth.
oh, you wicked funny Precious
pieces of timber,
go ahead and keep up the dalliance
the Mirror has with you.
both of you congregating after
school, with your Fags lit
and tittering like young loves
Always do.
don't they?
Except when you fight,
you leave a Mess of paper
smoldering on the top of the shampoo
bottle's head, and i'd call it
inconsiderate, but the Bed has
the final Say on Rules.

your legs and teeth and precious
biting of this lip, keeps me
in the freezer, standing up fresh
with that old disease.
take this mirror, and light my fag
as we ride forward into the bright
night, always picking spots out
when your finger
tugs a zipper that makes me
call out God in the true prayer
shared the world over,
except.
those frightening inches you take
out of my nose, ramming a stick
into the frontal lobes,
and we're hoping the best comes
from this fight. cum again. cum again?

the grocery store plops out
stock exchanges at our hours of
magnum delights and halloween
candy.
the candy's making a mess, covering
itself with wrappers for no reason,
like the arbitrary set of rules
you've demanded in this new bed.
a stranger's flat-bed-truck.

tell me the rules, lover.
god.
say it again just like
That...




yup. having fun with capitals 101. everything i capitalized in stanza #1 is somewhere in the rest of this poem. the poem itself...........mehhh.thhhpt.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on September 12, 2007, 03:26:07 PM
I cut her out of the picture
and juxtaposed you into my life
instead of hers.
The remainder of her face
creeps around in my dreams.
I feel guilty cutting her off like that,
even though you say you don't love
her anymore.
You're gorgeous there
in the new picture
of us.
Your lips are pursed in the same
kiss you were planting on her
cold, heartless CRUEL cheek.
It makes me gag and purge
that her and i share the same name,
the same kiss and the same
UNDYING love for you.
I want all of you for myself,
but neither of us can get her off
our minds.
I won't let you forget me or
the kiss you're planting on my cheek
in the charcoal abyss.
Your face is so perfect, so flawless
so patient, forgiving and content.
My deformities and obsessiveness
my selfishness and bad habits
make me wonder why you could
love this tactless, rude, obnoxious girl
and how long it'll take you
to cut me out of your life,  like
i've done with all the others.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: RyanAndrogyny on September 12, 2007, 03:55:44 PM
The Kill

Slowly I open my eyes,
regretting more and more that I ever closed them.
In a grand deluge of blinding light
my eyes are flooded with visions of you.
Inundations of cruel illusion
force tears from my brimming lids,
and even though I know them to be false -
sinister sleights of a malicious and unforgiving hand,
my faith begins to falter.
My jealousy fuels my sorrow
like a river feeds the open sea,
tempest tossed and turbulent.
I'm anchored slightly offshore now,
in the safety of your arms.
I'll soon need to find my own way again.
Eternal thanks spill off my tongue,
for sharing the fleeting comfort
of your love with me one last time.

Autumn Rain

Raindrops are falling on my head
Each holds a secret never told
A tear never shed from hardened eyes,
From a hardened soul.
A common phenomenon made unique
Characterized by every lost hope, every lost dream –
Each of them formed and imbued into a singular and solitary droplet,
A droplet buffeted by the currents of nature,
Suspended in midair – hanging in limbo,
Until that dream chooses to let go,
Until it chooses to be the first to fall,
The first to manifest itself into the physical realm
And become reality –
A reality the holder could not fulfill.
Sorry soul.
All the dreams and all the tears,
Each regret and each sorrow,
Every joy and every love,
And everything good and bad in this world
Finds its way to a new and more permanent home.
They are consumed with one another, and merge as one;
A concoction of purity and truth in its finest form.
And thus,
The sea is born.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 12, 2007, 05:21:12 PM
Devery. you went out of turn with Ting, and your own poems are deafening.

..............
. the poem itself...........mehhh.thhhpt.

Well, Jennifer, you're the archivest here, and if you need to set me straight (haha) then I'm prepared for whatever devious thing you have in store.  Oh, btw, it's your turn.   angel

And, of course I have to be loud to be heard over you!  More metaphors?  More directness?  Which one of dese?  Oh, but you've got 'em both.....down.   8)

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on September 12, 2007, 05:36:54 PM
what is a spiked punch party?!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 12, 2007, 05:56:06 PM
what is a spiked punch party?!

Where people begin their decline into holding a job as a phone actress.

Jen: No epic afoot. I don't think I have that in me, yet. Just a little diddy that came to me in a cafe.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 13, 2007, 05:51:13 AM
Caddy and Machao-----Machao that was fucking A funny!! (and if those were poems crossed by"----" ---just "looked" Like an Epic. Cause I See something of an Epic coming out of you. You young honky-tonk Bastard of Linguistics! :coolsmiley:  Caddy. He was being his usual naughty self. I assure you. I meant the lunacy of being a poet--ick---all. You start playing this game of wordsmithing, which you already have...and you are drunk with the disease already. You will be filled with doubts, lose all your jobs, ponder over whether to use "frightened" or "scared" for hours...and then BOOM! In 5 minutes, one completely wonderful piece of writing will flow right out of that proverbial punch bowl.    p.s. every kid in High School tried to "spike" the punch bowl with liquor.
Around here it's now Meth...
which brings me to Devery and Musings and Innocence. I need to "away" but--Devery. emoticon: :knuppel2: Musings:  O0 Innocence: :toothy1:

(-i'll get to the rest of you You U u peeps Peoplz-)

me in various ways to infer: :tongue6: :confused3: :pottytrain5: :clock: :jerk: :la: :nono: :icon_shaking: :sign14: :BangHead: :book1: :sad4: :iamwithstupid:equals-- :stfu: :director: Because You are Really Making Emoticons that Can be Misinterpreted but :la: :icon_scratch: :home: :help:=

I'm not writing anymore poems. I'm going to write emoticon-poems. I'm going to write everything in emoticons.

!!!!!!! Mandolin RAIN. i'm an asshole!! i didn't forget you. problemo's. LOVE the poem. i'd like to kiss you, but we haven't met. plus. you could think my next move would be oral sex. and that would SUCK, because.........I NEVER have oral sex on the first date. I only suck cock. I'll pm you. asap. :love3:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 13, 2007, 11:17:26 AM

Personified Bedroom loves Bathroom?
_____________________


the dresser folded up my Legs,
as it walked over and brushed
its Teeth.
oh, you wicked funny Precious
pieces of timber,
go ahead and keep up the dalliance
the Mirror has with you.
both of you congregating after
school, with your Fags lit
and tittering like young loves
Always do.
don't they?
Except when you fight,
you leave a Mess of paper
smoldering on the top of the shampoo
bottle's head, and i'd call it
inconsiderate, but the Bed has
the final Say on Rules.

your legs and teeth and precious
biting of this lip, keeps me
in the freezer, standing up fresh
with that old disease.
take this mirror, and light my fag
as we ride forward into the bright
night, always picking spots out
when your finger
tugs a zipper that makes me
call out God in the true prayer
shared the world over,
except.
those frightening inches you take
out of my nose, ramming a stick
into the frontal lobes,
and we're hoping the best comes
from this fight. cum again. cum again?

the grocery store plops out
stock exchanges at our hours of
magnum delights and halloween
candy.
the candy's making a mess, covering
itself with wrappers for no reason,
like the arbitrary set of rules
you've demanded in this new bed.
a stranger's flat-bed-truck.

tell me the rules, lover.
god.
say it again just like
That...


I took some time out of my busy schedule to read this one again, as well as your previous "experiments".  This is my favorite of your recent ones; I especially like the end.  I didn't understand your first experimental one, the one about grammar? that went from side to side or from right to left.  You'll have to keep me after school and carefully explain it to me.  I liked your Version 2 the best - was it because of the toaster?  The brave little toaster and blanky on Mars?  Version 3 was more "accomplished", but a certain directness was lost.  Tell me when you're free.  I'll put on some coffee.  And I got extra cigs.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on September 13, 2007, 03:40:06 PM
what is a spiked punch party?!

Where people begin their decline into holding a job as a phone actress.

Jen: No epic afoot. I don't think I have that in me, yet. Just a little diddy that came to me in a cafe.

the fact that you remembered that better than i did, means you have a superior memory. just perfect for a phone stalker to my phone actress. stop calling me asking for cookies, we only serve carrots 'round these parts, kiddo.

----------
feminine

i'm wearing my new red dress.
mommy and daddy, my new red dress.
it took out my hair with the zipper.
the bathroom's a mess, but it's fine.
it scarred up my legs, it scraped up the tile,
it's sturdy and vicious, it's weird, queer,
but fine.
it took out the mirror with the straps,
it cracked over the surface like whips
on my back. and the lashes have left
these strange little pimples that
leave these strange little handfuls of
dust, dirt and grime, but goddamnit
stop ripping the seams, cause
i'm fine.
the ruffles alone have undone the
porcelain in the tub, where i sat soft
in bubbles, in watery love. it drank
my shampoo and eat all the soap,
it's sweeping up blood spots,
and told me to choke...
no, just the little strap that ties around the neck like those bathing suits that drown you in public pools?

and for the love of god,
for the love of Bob,
i won't even mention the shoes.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on September 14, 2007, 11:58:57 AM
Granted

The emerald sea
envelops the
raging red sun
as amethyst mountains
give way to the
crystalline moon

a man
sits in his deck chair,
watches,

and

scratches his balls.
 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on September 14, 2007, 04:59:49 PM
Now I See What She Sees
I saw the moon cry last night,
I cried along too.
Then the sun swallowed the moon,
my tears ceased to flow.
So I swallowed down the sun,
she burns inside me.
Overwhelmed with brilliance,
I know how she felt.
Acquainted with the days now,
burn, shine, day and night.

written today in english class, we were writing limmericks, and I couldn't think of anything so I wrote that. and then the limmerick I wrote 5 mintutes after was:

He Said; She Said
He was so young, he was so young.
He spoke with a tongue, he speaks tongue.
Now he lays there asleep,
Whispering so to speak.
Lies and truths, lies and truths are sung.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Drizz on September 15, 2007, 05:02:48 PM
Jane, you are plain
Do your make-up in vain
For you I abhor,
Though I know just your name
I am constrained
To admit you're the bane
Of my one desire
We share a domain
 
My intentions are sane
Though my thoughts are arcane
They shan't be discussed
I will not deign
 
Jane, you are plain
And I do condescend
For you seem inane
And I'm jealous, again.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Holmes on September 15, 2007, 05:51:24 PM
I finished all my assignments, so I permitted myself a couple of poem/internet time. =D

I'm not sure about this one, it's a little wierd, but it has a purpose I guess.


grant, small voice of virtue
my impossible wish.
honest, omen of
death inside my skin and grave
a torture, unlike you.
draw a line through my vat of pressure.
expose my heart,
feeding a numb body.
sharpen my veins
unlock the chains,
let the venom
drown me.
expose my heart and hold me,
give me something to love.


wow...i love this.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on September 16, 2007, 02:07:59 PM
Yes...nicely done Innocence.

Drizz  you are forever my favorite for the fact that you used my favoritest poetical word ever. 

You shan't be dethroned, Your Vajesty.

Robert frost is dead...Long live Robert Frost.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Drizz on September 17, 2007, 09:28:37 AM
Innocence, that is really awesome; I meant to say that last time, but was on limited internet time.

Thanks, Rob; no, I shan't.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 18, 2007, 03:35:33 PM
Here's one I wrote that I got to watch get torn apart during selections for the lit mag we're on the board of (submissions are anonymous, selections is a long day, usually everyone is hungover, and it can brutal).

I've been playing around with the word choice and line breaks; suggestions would be much appreciated.

Blued

The night sky heaves and shifts,
tilting to embrace
the tree above me.

The stars fill the air
between branches,
blurring
 
until
they dangle
like heavy fruit.

I wait for one to fall
so I can rest
my hand

on a flaming sphere,

sink
my teeth
into a bruised star,

feel the explosion
of blued light
settle at the base
of my throat.

-----

And here's a fun little ditty I made when I was fooling around:

Cat Scan

give me a single ducat to start off with
a how do you do, Cathy
so I can catapult my way
through this stack of words, back words
and bad words, but no reason to be catty
about it, this isn’t meant to be catholic --
let me rephrase: this is my catamaran
and not my cathedral
this is just some chit-chatter right
before my catnap
but do as you please, skit-scatter like
chocolate kit-kats and
orange tic-tacs out of the box
down the cataract and away, but if you stay
stop looking for meaningful catalyst
no, don’t be an alligator hater
don’t be a caterpillar killer
don’t ruin my cat scat fun
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Amyanodyne on September 18, 2007, 04:40:49 PM
I wrote these some months back, drunk in a crazy dance club. I figured I'd share. Let me know what you think, constructive criticism always appreciated.

Wild haired girls
With puddle eyes
Running in place
Covered in paint and
Guitar strings
Motor mouths
Filling my ears
With masterpiece
Master thoughts
Yesterdays socks on
Antibacterial toes
Three to a bed
We'll make due
Plenty of space for error
Who's hand am I
Holding in
Everything dear
I am Madame Falbaque
These things
I keep

---------
Mirror dancing girl
you are art
alone
Guitar as purse
under coat
The musicians will
see it
Hey spirit moving
Unstick Unstuck
Going
Pole dancing girl
Fuck expectation
Fuck skanky boys
and horny girls
Fuck lonely
Perfectly content
company in self
Mirror dancing
Girl
Self effacing self

--------
Marriages made on dance floors
Procreating
Miserable morning afters
Wish I was there
Last night type reflections
Face drooling on yours
Wish you were someone else
Wish I were somewhere else
type loathing at least
it's a change of pace
A different sort
of night alone

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: ThirtyWhacks on September 18, 2007, 11:21:28 PM
Missionary

Arch you back
Let it in
Tonight you're gonna
Let him win

He shoots, he scores
He tells you you're
A dirty whore

Your moans are cheap
And wasted breath
Something from a movie screen

You writhe, you ache
Everything about you - Fake
Cause you're his missionary tonight.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on September 18, 2007, 11:53:47 PM
18,19,20 and it still works
how many more will take
a gash here
the red in your hair
violent screaming everywhere
striking fear in the children's hearts
almost dizzying the way he
turns his tricks
tonight it doesn't matter
hit or miss.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Briezion on September 19, 2007, 05:56:32 AM
~
For whom the bell tolls.
It tolls for thee
It'll toll for you
And it'll toll for me.
It'll toll and it'll toll for the whores of amsterdam
For as you know
Have given themselves to many other men
It'll toll for the walrus
And the
Carpenter
And Them.

~
If for the one you Love is Dead.
You must drown it out with Mead.

Intentionally mispronounced, its for the inside of a CD that my schools choir is doing.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 19, 2007, 03:24:06 PM
There's a mad man in charge of all of our lives! I SWEAR!
Gather your wits and steady your knives! I SWEAR!
Mutiny is the only way, if you want to live another day.
I SWEAR!

Arrrrr, jack the captain's packet and sail away from the coasts of Peru! Avast! We are taking this ship to me native lands to search for saucy ladies and fine grog!!!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Holmes on September 20, 2007, 01:55:07 PM
Missionary

Arch you back
Let it in
Tonight you're gonna
Let him win

He shoots, he scores
He tells you you're
A dirty whore

Your moans are cheap
And wasted breath
Something from a movie screen

You writhe, you ache
Everything about you - Fake
Cause you're his missionary tonight.



wow...that's brilliant
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on September 21, 2007, 12:13:10 AM
in this dirty bathroom stall
i can't help but recall the other times
how many has it been
and how long since
we started?
stay in the present,
i swear it helps
the future is bleak
cause you won't see thirty five
(and i'm lucky i'm twenty)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 21, 2007, 01:26:02 PM
Gentrification Robo Squad

we can rebuild
we can raise your rent
do what you avoided so long
broken down houses
made to be quaint
and we bought it for only a song

the money we spend
it is all for you
hope you can manage to stay
the community
that we ignored
will be better this way

take back the streets
put you to the curb
in the human recycle bin
the robots will come
to pick you up
and find the right hole to drop you in
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on September 23, 2007, 07:21:41 PM
not mine.

Draw the Line

But of all the things I would do
But of all the things I would try
If you want to make love to me
That is where I draw the line

Get it up / Get it off / Get it on / Get it Hard
Make it large / In charge / Make it so I’m nice and raw
On my back / On my belly /Let me know when you are ready
Wheel barrel or white canary /Doggie style or missionary
With my fist / With my digits /With my dick / Where can I stick it?
It’s so big / Hope I can fit it / If I can’t / You can lick it
Bukkake / Tonsil hockey / 2 way me on Walkie Talkie
2 dollar then sucky sucky / If you fuck me you so lucky

Hot plate on your face / You look like a different race
You look the same as… what’s his name? / Dirty Sanchez / Play the game
Lots of leather / Lots of rubber / You look good under the covers
I will never call you lover / Dairy Farmer / Milk my udder
Fill you up / Bareback / You can be my sperm bank
You will need a side of ranch when I toss your salad
I just came so much / Hope I didn’t knock you up
Hate to wait 9 months / Contraceptive Donkey Punch

Suck it till it’s hallow
Spit, If you don’t want to swallow
But if I leave tomorrow
No you cannot follow
I don’t need to hold your hand
I don’t need no wedding band
Sam I Am, you want my green eggs and ham?
Then come and take me as I am

Lyrics by Kevin Hardy- Copyright 2007
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on September 23, 2007, 08:54:02 PM
weekends alone
lonely
aching
pining
for you
weekends together
loving
admiring
passion-filled
with you
weekends wishing
alcohol
cigarettes
and lust
weren't the only
things we had in common.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 25, 2007, 12:21:48 PM
Super-ego blood drones.
Wistful death rattles.
Wasted acts of vengeance for Gods long dead.
Children sacrificed to the Dow Jones index.
Don’t let them find the instruction manual.
They may see through the bogus complication.
Trade and consumption, war and control.
The robots will entertain you, so we may run in circles.
Meanwhile the real gods make dark decrees on our dime.
Buzzwords and clockworks.
Prayer, faith, patriotism and pride.
Fake war, keeping score, bloodless beer-soaked simulation.
Video game simulations of our stimulations.
Couch of redemption, TV tome of dopebrain drone.
Keep us occupied, get us laid, barely paid.
Just enough food to make us sick, fat and powerless.
Super-ego blood drones.
Feed us your rattle song until we sleep.
Dreams will let us live how we should.
Awake, we go to hell.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on September 28, 2007, 09:33:12 PM
you've finally abandoned her
she's grieving over the "losses"
you go to the party,
cruising for a little fun.
end up piss drunk
and lying in a tub
with a mirror
crashed into your skull
and a broken bum
she'll put herself back together
just like all the others have
but I'll revel in your agony.
they say it'll haunt you forever
and it won't ever heal....
so how've i been?
i'm full of love and exceedingly
busy with all the gorgeous
company i've made.
party like a rockstar or
party like a fool...
I've had a lovely fortnight
thinking of the burdens
that are paining you.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on September 28, 2007, 10:04:35 PM
Gash

Is your gash proper?
As is mine?

The many sands of time
have not been kind to yours.

Both... arid
Both... taste of the ocean.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on September 30, 2007, 06:52:55 PM
I will see the ocean before you do.
I will kiss the ground first.
I will soar through the mountains.
I will meet with god.
I will breathe in the sun.
I will carry many away to a better life.
Who is greater?
Man?
Or man-made?

made up at the top of my head when I entered this thread.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 30, 2007, 10:17:27 PM
1. Idyll

He liked to make
a show of things
he had mastered
(he said) for
her benefit

She changed
her style
and aired
her stockinged
toes,
perhaps with
thoughts
of her own.


2.  Pretension Workshop

His stories
were ancient.
He spoke of
black and white
ascensions and
scratchings of
whimpering
wolves.

She twists her
smile, her
body is
streamlined now.
In cadence like
the others
still lying in
pink and bulky
softnessess.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on October 02, 2007, 02:26:30 AM
1. Idyll

He liked to make
a show of things
he had mastered
(he said) for
her benefit

She changed
her style
and aired
her stockinged
toes,
perhaps with
thoughts
of her own.


2.  Pretension Workshop

His stories
were ancient.
He spoke of
black and white
ascensions and
scratchings of
whimpering
wolves.

She twists her
smile, her
body is
streamlined now.
In cadence like
the others
still lying in
pink and bulky
softnessess.

happiness in a bottle. very influential.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 03, 2007, 11:26:04 PM

happiness in a bottle. very influential.

Thank you.  May I interest you in another?



Window Seat

it caught me
unawares
that light itself
is slow
and stops in
dark places
where parts and
orbits
scatter and
reassemble
in temporary
corners

speed up my heart
lift my eyes
take it in
without moving
to shadows
airless and
recumbent

"raise the bar,
men -
train coming
through!"
pull in
your hands
all together
for the smooth
seamless ride
to the next
stop
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 05, 2007, 08:20:16 AM
I see no reason to continue tinkering with that one, my dear. It Is, and can Close as perfectly as anything "seamless." (i over-did my stamina--but am posting a piece of crap 4 whoever)


there was no need to
dry the lips,
and no more whispers
of my inner thigh
being the World,
with no way to Carry
your first scrub of my
lower leg...

you were asking your wife
what marriage meant to
Her
and your first Taste
was reaching behind
a scratch of a seat,
tickling the hairs of my
Yes.

i took it as brazen and
some kind of White flag
fell out of my eyes
and their globular-slant
But my way.
was to tell you I loved You.
No.
I love you.
what i meant is that I
Love You without
grounds to walk upon
and a fierce brooding
for a Single word in
rejoinder.

not immune from your fingers,
they have dug into
the Center
of what was your focus--
what my lids bob around
in sleep,
and why there is no body.
no marriage
no union to march in,
no way to see another
under Mother Mary's glazed
and drunken beacon.

i'll take a blow-up doll.
not for the Sex of it.
but to tickle my knee
and laugh along
when you say
I Do.

what's trivial now is that
i can't eat,
couldn't even travel your
ear lobes,
don't want to remember
your slightly sunken chin,
but then my chest
raises in a breath
that rattles
like children
devouring
candy.

you remain the voracious
Window
my head flies through
in chance cups of tea.
you remain the bitchy
Hormone
my elbows rub against
on saucy sheets that
Smell

exactly like my skin
under pressure.
"permanent press"
you said at the laundry,
rolling your hips on the
counter.

I Do.
I push your picture once
a month,
waiting for you to call
or the remains of Rome
to call out artisans
with slim chances.
diminutive details
and one more time
before the Exhale
that ships without
hope Want Most.

to be called
"honey"

oh, sweetie.
I Do.



-------------------------------fuck it, eh?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 05, 2007, 08:55:09 AM
they don't ask much,
they are an occupied
territory,
glancing at honey dripping
slowly on bread that
a dead Uncle
and the dead Grandparents
and the dead friends
and the Dead themselves.
without a spoonful
of a bee's butt,
have gone missing
like child number...what?

so when waking,
I pop in the toes wiggling
by the end of the bed.
snap home the ankles into
leg sockets while they
wail,
break into sweat as I lift
leg number one
and, using a centrifuge,
roll them into position...
my torso Sighs.

starting with my fingers,
plucking them out of my
hair like errant leaves,
it starts to become easier.
no more confusion meets
me when the thumbs are
set against
the digital clock,
taking time without a
second hand.
there it is. lying under the
pillow as if it were sly.

All of this eats a second
or several days and now
years. for all i know,
the length it takes to walk
to your kitchen...
not the worst that could be.
not the worst that could be.
but my ride to Work isn't
full of eyebrow plucks
and lipstick studies.
no coffee stops and few
gas requirements...
not clogging the atmosphere
More,
but looking at Dirt in a thirsty
and bent demeanor.

yet. how could the neighbors
shuffling to the bus
and running into their car
possibly perceive
that in the cubicle and
riding the Customer Service
counter,
that table 18, with its
rude couple ordering their
eggs again for the third time...
behind the school desk
writing down again and again
how the French Revolution
is boring, and whether
affirmative action
is completely
Affirmative.

oh, but it's the robber at the
Bank, disguised as best one
can without cash.
and i'm saying, repeating, saying
to him and her...
"take it and let's get out
of this town"
"take it and let's get out
of this town"

i want to be the sweetest of
honey, a bee's last offer
for your lips.
dripping slow out of the bear
(why a bear?)
bottle.
oh, i want to be your two week
vacation, and your way out,
and your way in,
and the way you'll feel good
Again.

let's get out of town, baby.
i'll stay in the bottle and
Promise you no oven
to drip,
to fry
and to die
against.







--------------------------------fuck it again. but the demise can be seen in the fact i used "honey" in two separate poems. this one needs immediate care and revision in particular. gotta go. two weeks vacation... :-*
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 05, 2007, 10:24:03 AM
--------------------------------fuck it again. but the demise can be seen in the fact i used "honey" in two separate poems. this one needs immediate care and revision in particular. gotta go. two weeks vacation... :-*

Ah, well...demise.  You have sovereignty, but it's innate.  Even when you're half awake (is it that much, or little - sorry, dear) you write so brilliantly.   :love3:


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 05, 2007, 10:46:53 PM
So I got to thinking that I haven't posted any poems that I haven't just written but I remembered, Jennifer, the one I wrote last year and was one of the first ones I showed you.  I had to do some searching for it and I really shouldn't, but here it is anyway:



Reconciliation


a familiar
anticipation
has brought me
these final steps

darkness surrounding
her tower is lifted
like a skirt
the door to her chamber
jettisoned beyond
the sterile room
now soft and wet
with rain

she shuddered
against me
as i entered
with pressing hips
and sex and
other things
and with tears
one and then
another
like first-time lovers
asking "like this?"
and guiding with
fingers and
mouths

tasting
the sweat
on her slender
white neck
my lips move
lower
before drinking
from the other well

our privacy is short
with others waiting
just outside
the room
we linger
again
in our wet universe
a final heaving
whisper
before moving
to a cooler heat

her prison
in the distance
appears
in this new sun
and
glistens
for an instant

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 05, 2007, 10:54:47 PM
Beautiful, Devery, as always.  You capture a scene not only in the words themselves but also in the shapes of your lines.  You also reminded me that I love the word "jettisoned" -- although my one critique here is that it's such a jarring word, and has such a thrust to it, that it doesn't seem to fit with the general quiet beauty of the rest of the poem.  Take that or leave it -- my criticism often doesn't work, as I'm no poet, really.

"glistens" though -- that's perfect.  And the rest, including the rest of your poems -- yum.  Keep bringing them on board, missy.  They make me happy.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on October 06, 2007, 08:58:35 PM
About my first lover:

A True Story

 
 Everything about it is typical:

The moment of spontaneity when I lift you off the ground,
                            Laughing uncontrollably.

When I put you down and you tell me that you
love me and I start
                            Crying uncontrollably.

No,
I don't think that there's anything special about the way I woke up next to
you
in the middle of the night and couldn't help but to stay awake and watch you for two hours.
It's practically cliche.

Nothing special at all except this:
    This time it's me.
    This time it's you.

Another Poem

If you ever find yourself thinking,
"Yes, This is the one thing I have
finally found that makes sense.
I would die for this person."

That is, to say, if you ever seem
to find yourself what some call
"in love."

Just stop it.
Stop it because if you find
something in life that seems to
make sense,
you're doing it all wrong

 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: BATTEREDxBRIDExLUVR! on October 06, 2007, 09:48:28 PM
Gargantuan-

Those are fucking amazing.

Thank you for posting them.

I needed to hear that
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 06, 2007, 10:52:06 PM
Very nice gargantuan.

Apparently being stuck on a train produces very bad poetry on my side...

This is very much in progress:

words not spoken
speak slowly, my friend
the shapes your lips make
are more meaningful
than the words themselves
those endless, endless words
running from here
to that cliff at the end of it all,
where you know
I would stop
if only you would

stop.

and then,
my friend,
I would jump,
body arcing
with the velocity
you never knew I had,
arms propelled up to the stars,
heart jumping into those dusty craters,
mind fragmenting between this universe and the next,
the beauty of which even your lips, spurring on, could not deny.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on October 07, 2007, 05:21:09 PM
Thanks! Wow.

Can you tell that the first one was written after he moved away? lol

We still email back and forth occasionally, really sweet guy.

I thought my one about the proper gash was far more beautiful though...  ;D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Max on October 07, 2007, 06:14:15 PM
I thought my one about the proper gash was far more beautiful though...  ;D

You sicken me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on October 07, 2007, 07:41:52 PM
You helped to inspire it. You should sicken yourself.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 08, 2007, 12:42:02 AM
An Announcement for Consideration: In the past, the poet-eers, which could be found in as many as 3 different posts, had thought of the idea of naming our crackhouse, the "brothel." Now, I'm wondering if it shouldn't actually be the "Brotel" --as there are hotels that are brothels, and this would fit the growth in size? Thoughts? MaChao--you started it, 'tis only right you be in on any ideas...

You can, of course, ignore this message, poets, as you may be busy doing a poem?

Anythingodyne! (sorry, i like calling you that...but i'll knock it off)--you asked for constructive criticism, and i want to thank you for sharing in the first place...
okay. i read those "stanzas" or poems as 3 different poems, although i am not sure that's what you intended. you can see there are a lot of different styles around here, and a lot of experimentation--which is a good thing for all of us. In your first "ditty" (how's that for fancy) --i'd simply choose whether to rhyme or not to rhyme. (and btw, i only read once, which isn't really fair--so get back to me if i didn't catch something) why? only b/c in the other 2 you didn't, and that was 1 of the reasons i wasn't sure how to interpret all of it...but there is a Lot Going on in that Brain, and the only other advice: experiment with formats and your Capitalization if you want. b/c you often capitalize 2 words at a time, the reader goes down quickly--and there are times. some moments, where i am not sure Where i should have "stopped" and started in on the new thought...make sense?

like right now, i've been experimenting with Capitalizing where i want to emphasize. and for a long time, i've had a small habit with some poems of using lower-case "i" for when "i" don't matter much, and "I" when "I" do. just ideas.

everyone has their style. and then there are those that are flirting with a bunch of different kinds. any way you look at it, reading the other poet's will help you in your writing -- whether you like what they did or not.

mmm. but thank you. thanks one and all, as i just read the last few pages. i simply can't believe Lar, Innocence, Musings, Gargoyle, Devious, Mandolin, Caddy, et al-- and miss some--like Rob, Suede (i will call you by your old name until you magically appear), MaChao. Don't let the youngsters steal your thunder. Rather. Go ahead and let them. Make your own. Here's some Morse Code too (2 spaces in between words):
... . _. _..  _._. ._ ... ....  _ _ _ ._.  ._ _ _ _ _ _ _ . _ _ .

that was way too long for "send cash or woman" jeeeeeezz.

Everyone march forward, and as I've told many of you. As if I don't have enough shit to deal with when it comes to my 35 children and laundry, and mac & cheese for the National Guard. I KEEP apologizing for being tardy with replies. I have a firm excuse on this one, as it appears I am one of the lucky few who has acquired mono for the 2nd time in my life. I'll know 4 sure tom. but that is how it looks, as I can't stay awake for long at all. So. I AM watching. Just not always able to keep up--those people who don't know or care, etc. Fuck off, as I wasn't talking to you anyway.  :love3:(just kidding...don't fuck off, fuck On. with emphasis on "On" of course)

Really, though. It makes me feel bad. Innocence, Lar, Devery. Y'all. The tardy asshole Will appear. When? None of your goddammmmit business.

applause for everyone...even myself.(today i learned i am a tuba prodigy!) a haiku to say guten nacht, and hopefully more later:

feminism
__________

scream fem-i-nazis
without suffering women
no such word exists.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 08, 2007, 01:03:30 AM
sorry for the length of that. you're asleep and i have about 15 minutes until i am down for the count...

Rob, in honor of you mentioning that Frost died. And how we met--you calling me a stalker and me liking it...--

Frost was in love
with the moon and
the sun and life and
his Pepsi and so many
beautiful things.
like the way
he combed his hair
and his beloved marriage.
the Earth,
and how two paths
diverged and he
chose to be the most
glorious thing Ever.


before giving a reading
of his latest pretentious
love for himself,
i think he practiced for
the perfect dramatic voice,
and i imagine him sitting there.

scratching his balls.
and not worrying about
retirement.

and for that alone
i could despise the man.
but he's dead now,
so i guess i'll just be
nice and say one thing.

i'm not really worse off
without him.

OH! two things.
(you knew already)

and i hope when you read
something of mine.
you don't think,
"golly gee. it's that bulldyke
acting like Frost again..."


i hope that you think of me as a "humdinger"-- what? well. Frost, you know.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on October 11, 2007, 12:11:22 AM
this city never sleeps.
i've yet to find my solace here
amidst filth and sin
it's difficult
just to make it through
windows open
i can barely go to sleep
cries of the poor
and broken-hearted
sirens scream
lights never shut off
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 11, 2007, 12:54:12 AM
inspired by ^ (symbol man, good job)

lights never shut off
blink once, blink twice --
still there.
pupils getting wider,
taking in the bright,
like sun, like heat
like fire
it burns –
try to break
the circuit—
can’t.
stop the noise,
this cacophony,
this caterwaul
get me away
from the sound
of my own voices
arguing,
waiting for the silence
for rest
for that moment
between thoughts
where peace comes.
but--

this city never sleeps.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 11, 2007, 11:22:12 AM
The Gone Song

A whisper over your head, one note gives up the ghost
Spilling out through the air, hitting your barricades
You grip your pen, the walls go up inside
Something to prove, nothing to share
Gone gone gone

Once you had castles of sand, and monsters to play with
One sound you could embrace, you tumble down
You have your pen, nested by safety nets
Something to prove, nothing to share
Gone gone gone

You made a dead dollar, a fortune from squalor
You gave all you had; now you want it back
but the bird in the cage, drips blood on the page
and newspaper demons want you to crack

You traded your sleep, for nightmares awakened
No blood in your heart, no beating to let the soul in
You have your pen, no ink in the blotter
You have the paper, but nothing to share
Gone gone gone
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 11, 2007, 11:35:25 AM
Beautiful, Devery, as always.  You capture a scene not only in the words themselves but also in the shapes of your lines.  You also reminded me that I love the word "jettisoned" -- although my one critique here is that it's such a jarring word, and has such a thrust to it, that it doesn't seem to fit with the general quiet beauty of the rest of the poem.  Take that or leave it -- my criticism often doesn't work, as I'm no poet, really.

"glistens" though -- that's perfect.  And the rest, including the rest of your poems -- yum.  Keep bringing them on board, missy.  They make me happy.

I meant to say earlier, to the Brothel at Large that, first, thank you Musings; kind words like yours always help inspire me to grace, or inflict (as the case may be), further offerings, and second, smartypants here picked out exactly the one word that I knew didn't fit but used it anyway because I was too lazy to find another one.  So, a valuable lesson has been learned, and that is to always use the first word that pops into your head except when that word is the wrong one.   :coolsmiley:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: albunde on October 13, 2007, 02:35:03 PM

The Letter

It's such a shame
to lose everything
But do you even realise
what you have lost?
Are you even aware
of what you want?
I know you've never felt
like you've belong
I know you could never
abide by the rules
Just rewind a few years
and watch the letter burn
into ashes
into nothing
and everything will be
as it should be.

It's such a shame
to take the path
that you have chosen
Are you any happier?
Are you any stronger?
You're looking weaker
with each passing day
What a careless thing to do
to write such a careless letter
Just rewind a few years
and watch the letter burn
into ashes
into nothing
and everything will be
as it should be...

are you any happier?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on October 14, 2007, 12:52:19 AM
i just sat down and wrote this.  putting words together, you know?  spur of the moment, spewing words, blah blah blah.  over-extending brain.


my masturbatory art is just as good as yours
and i'll be the one laughing
when it all comes down
the fibers are disconnecting
(one by one)
i can't get away from this place
and all you can think about
is what he hasn't done
and all i can think about
is everything i can do
so take it out
suck it up
there's not much time left.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Max on October 15, 2007, 12:40:20 AM
The introduction to a book of poetry I was working on. I found this in my notebooks, next to a sketch of Saint Sebastian in boxer briefs, chained to some metal piping. As I have no recollection of writing this, I cannot take full credit for it due to the fact that I don't rightly know if it is mine.

Foreword. (Mundus Vult Decipi)

Although never lazy,
All my activity nevertheless was like a glittering inactivity,
A kind of occupation for which I still have a great partiality,
And for which perhaps I even have a little genius.

Yeah, that's all your getting. Quatrains ftw.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 15, 2007, 06:54:30 AM
The introduction to a book of poetry I was working on. I found this in my notebooks, next to a sketch of Saint Sebastian in boxer briefs, chained to some metal piping. As I have no recollection of writing this, I cannot take full credit for it due to the fact that I don't rightly know if it is mine.

Foreword. (Mundus Vult Decipi)

Although never lazy,
All my activity nevertheless was like a glittering inactivity,
A kind of occupation for which I still have a great partiality,
And for which perhaps I even have a little genius.

Yeah, that's all your getting. Quatrains ftw.

My wish is not to take anything away from your delight in finding this gem, but it does seem to be a rather "poetic" (heh) description of a mental illness.

A similar image of Saint Sebastian resided with me for a time in my youth, to be overtaken always with a female martyr in similar circumstance.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on October 15, 2007, 06:59:36 AM
My wish is not to take anything away from your delight in finding this gem, but it does seem to be a rather "poetic" (heh) description of a mental illness.

Interestingly, the most thought provoking essay I read this week describes "sanity" as just a learnt device to mask our relative insanity. The more I dipped into this, the clearer it became, in a murky way.

Hands up here anyone who feels...."NORMAL?"




Ok, I'm still waiting...not many hands went up....
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: fishbulb on October 15, 2007, 07:13:59 AM
Yeah, hold on, I need to scrub my hands first thorougly to get the little evil gnomes off that send my brainwaves to other peoples little gnomes so they can read my thoughts and laugh about it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on October 15, 2007, 09:09:45 AM
Ah, I feel a poem coming on:


Her OCD
Is as easy as one, two, three.
One turn of the tap 30° east
Two taps of her toes; the dripping ceased
Three, last, but not least;

A cleaning regimen she must succumb
From little finger, through index, then finally thumb.
It's not routine, en vogue, or vanity;
It's all she can do to spare her sanity.

© Kenny Wisdom Godawful Made-in-a-Minute Rhymes 2007

ta daaa!

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Holmes on October 15, 2007, 05:00:12 PM
Ah, I feel a poem coming on:


Her OCD
Is as easy as one, two, three.
One turn of the tap 30° east
Two taps of her toes; the dripping ceased
Three, last, but not least;

A cleaning regimen she must succumb
From little finger, through index, then finally thumb.
It's not routine, en vogue, or vanity;
It's all she can do to spare her sanity.

© Kenny Wisdom Godawful Made-in-a-Minute Rhymes 2007

ta daaa!



i like very much!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 15, 2007, 11:12:54 PM
My wish is not to take anything away from your delight in finding this gem, but it does seem to be a rather "poetic" (heh) description of a mental illness.

Interestingly, the most thought provoking essay I read this week describes "sanity" as just a learnt device to mask our relative insanity. The more I dipped into this, the clearer it became, in a murky way.

Hands up here anyone who feels...."NORMAL?"




Ok, I'm still waiting...not many hands went up....

Relative insanity sucks.  That's why god invented friends.  I only raise my hand when I want the dj to put on "Warm Leatherette" by The Normal.  After some further reflection (can there be less?) I think the ditty is about drug addiction.  And now Kenny has brought us full circle back to...............out, out damn spot?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on October 16, 2007, 02:15:08 AM
Lady McB. has OCD

Interesting....
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: fishbulb on October 16, 2007, 02:05:47 PM
So has the Bush Family!

Well, technically, they've got Brain Syndrom, which under the latest DSM-III is classified under Obsessive Desire to Meddle in Foreign Countries (ODMFC)

(http://www.snowbooks.com/weblog/pinky_brain.jpg)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: virtual~mary on October 16, 2007, 04:17:48 PM
jesus, they even look like pinky (bush) and brain (cheney).

i feel something coming on too....but it's not a poem.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: fishbulb on October 16, 2007, 04:29:55 PM
Diarrhea chachacha!

Damn, I'm right back to my old habits again.
Diarrheailing threads.


I should not derail the poems thread. That was really bad.

Reapeat 100 times. Done.

I'll go spank myself now in the basement.

 :knuppel2:

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: virtual~mary on October 16, 2007, 04:51:20 PM
Diarrhea chachacha!

Damn, I'm right back to my old habits again.
Diarrheailing threads.


I should not derail the poems thread. That was really bad.

Reapeat 100 times. Done.

I'll go spank myself now in the basement.

 :knuppel2:



how poetic!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 17, 2007, 12:40:04 PM
I thought I'd lost you.
I forgot all about you.
I moved on.
I found others to play with.
It wasn't that I didn't miss you.
I just had to keep moving.
But now you are here.
Let me sing you again.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caju on October 17, 2007, 12:55:56 PM

I'll go spank myself now in the basement.

 :knuppel2:



That’s a euphemism I’ve not heard before.

Can I watch?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 19, 2007, 12:04:38 PM
I'll buy you ponies. I'll give you waterfalls.

You want more?

Fuck it. You are too high maintenance for me.
Title: Scars by Frances Landesman
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on October 24, 2007, 10:16:07 AM
A poem & song by Fran Landesman. (So good, but I didn't know where else to put it.)

SCARS

Don't be ashamed
Everybody's got scars
From our various wars
On the way to the stars

Don't try to hide
Everybody's got scars
From crashlanding on mars
With these egos of ours

Theres the one on your knee
Where you fell off your bike
Or the bite from a babe
that you love but don't like
Theres the mess that you made
without counting the cost
Or the cut from a blade
Or the child that you lost

Don't be ashamed
If you're covered with scars
On this planet of ours
Thats the way we keep scores
So I'll show you my scars
If you show me yours

In the streets and the bars
Everybody's got scars
On their way to the stars
Everybody's got scars

© Fran Landesman

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 24, 2007, 10:44:53 AM
I'm really happy because I just married a previous poem I posted here "The Gone Song" to music, and it really works. I will share a demo mp3 when I get it recorded.

Here is another song-poem.

I feel so empty, but I’m overloaded.
This loss is more than I can bear.
I know you think It's going to get better.
But this burden I can not share.

Older and wiser, I don’t believe it.
There’s no harmony or common sense.
I tell you I’m fine, but I’ve never been fine.
I’m just too numb for the present tense.

Live in the moment, I should know better.
The past looks all rosey red.
Don’t worry about me, why I’m not sleeping.
I’ll have time to sleep when I’m dead.

I see a pattern, that I can’t break out of.
I must love to make these mistakes.
Over and over, I trip on my heartstrings.
Yet still shocked when my heart breaks
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 24, 2007, 03:25:14 PM
A Choice

you told me,
dear Teacher,
that i would see
the underbelly;
that I would
lash my penchants
and odd dreams
to the seamy side.

would you rather
i be taken in
the basement
against my will?
at least there i
could look for
a way out:
the wooden door
of the coal bin;
an opening in the
concrete wall.

ah, but there
i lay, underneath
the house in the
damp sand and sharp
pebbles, my bones
so cold, my beautiful
wrists so common in
their new leather
bracelets.

i see the hacksaw
hanging on the wall
and think "if only";
but the old coal furnace
just hisses and groans,
so i stop struggling
and stare at the flame
in the dark glass and
fall into my dreams:

i walk through the
next room and up the
back stairway - into
the light - into
the warm kitchen.
on a small wooden table
with a red and white
tablecloth are a cup
of tea and cookies
with white icing,
but i cannot stop
or admire the beveled
glass doors, and now
i'm through the parlor,
almost to the front door,
but the knob is turning
and now i'm back on the
stairs and up to the
final floor with its
long hallway and porch
with small connected
glass windows, and wonder: 
if i could only make it to
one of them and crank it open
the world would hear.

but at the entrance is
a white, wicker chair, and
the back of a man sitting
in the chair,motionless,
as if asleep or distracted,
as footsteps pound the stairs,
and as i reach the chair and
bend and twist to see his face,
he turns with such fierce
quickness that i embrace the
black, cold eyes that hold
me still, terrified and transfixed
that such evil could pass straight
through my eyes and to my soul
and make it blank and bloodless.

this was what i had only
thought i had seen before,
in the basement?
 and now that is where i go, back
to where i will be safe, where
i will be taken again and
again and i will turn and look
at the flame and see that it
is just a flame and it will spark
and dim and it will
need more coal.

and the door will open but
i will not tense or anticipate
or think of the cool air or of
dreams - it will open
and be opened again and again
but not for me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 24, 2007, 04:52:36 PM
Damn Dev, that was intense. Good job.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 24, 2007, 11:38:42 PM
Here is the demo I promised to go with the poem I wrote. Don't be too harsh, it is an early draft of the song.  ^-^
http://armyoflarry.com/The%20Gone%20Song.mp3

The Gone Song

A whisper over your head, one note gives up the ghost
Spilling out through the air, hitting your barricades
You grip your pen, the walls go up inside
Something to prove, nothing to share
Gone gone gone

Once you had castles of sand, and monsters to play with
One sound you could embrace, you tumble down
You have your pen, nested by safety nets
Something to prove, nothing to share
Gone gone gone

You made a dead dollar, a fortune from squalor
You gave all you had; now you want it back
but the bird in the cage, drips blood on the page
and newspaper demons want you to crack

You traded your sleep, for nightmares awakened
No blood in your heart, no beating to let the soul in
You have your pen, no ink in the blotter
You have the paper, but nothing to share
Gone gone gone

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 25, 2007, 09:59:20 AM
Damn Dev, that was intense. Good job.

Thanks, Lar.  Intense it was.  I spent 5 hrs. writing it and was so exhausted I went home and right to sleep. 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 25, 2007, 11:44:44 AM
The Freak

It’s too simple, it used to work but now it drones.
You’re too careful; shake it up before it burns.
I can’t ride it; soon I’ll have nowhere to go.
Step off sideways, throw the gears and spin out again.

I just want to be a freak
Don’t need to keep myself in
Jump the fire when I feel safe.
Keep my feet off of the ground.

This might be it; I found something inside of me.
My eyes are open; I see it all when I am asleep.
I will forget it, if I don’t write it all down.
A new kind of feeling, that connects me to everything.

Feel so crazy, I can’t let go of your fears.
Don’t want protection; I just want to feel alive.
You left me too soon, but you seemed to get it all in.
So I won’t deny it, just move against the wind till I’m gone
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Matty on October 25, 2007, 04:50:41 PM
Anxious Contradiction

Feeling this way
It's quite amazing
Everyday I get this feeling
It's scary and frightening
but exiting and lightening
It doesn't matter
anyway, it's happening

I'm jumping around
and I'm smiling about you
I can't keep it down
I'm so glad to meet you
I'm also very afraid you'll find me
empty handed with nothing to give you

These feelings don't make sense I'm aware
But you won't know or even care
so whatever the situation may be
You'll give me all the chances I need

-Matt Perron
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 26, 2007, 10:50:51 AM
holy fuck. i am just coming up for air. holy, holy, holy hail. Fishy, chachacha all you want. it's alliteration gone wild! Devery. i'm done darlin' ...now it's my turn to wash the dishes. that poem actually SCARED me. and i'm old enough NOT to ever be scared, by say, Poe. but what you wrote scared the piss out of me. and note: upon entrance into these 3 pages or so, i see lying here my friends who i've missed for so long it's surreal. i'd write song lyrics about sanity, my own has recently been on a little-known record...uh, Cd called "The Wall" <>the worms are in, folks.

it's empty here, and you?
_____________________


the knuckles are dragging
as the belly softly hums
what's electric in the
elastic bands, the rubber belts,
the looping knots
and the scribbled pockets,
  what's electric is covered
with pores in which to exchange
linoleum to skin, backwards
carpet to nostril, backwards
ceiling to lungs, backwards.
what's at the tips of the
knuckles
the floor up to the chin,
the chin is holding tiny bubbles

between cheek and floor
sideways and crooked,
she is heaving
taking these last breaths.
so precious and so beholden
that it makes you quiver
when they slow it down
even one tick on the clock
is her finest hour,
her eyes going blank
out to space or
into one cold painting.
the wheels in an engine
spinning to rust.

and god
her grace as she had crawled
and mewed and burned her
paws and slumbered and ached
and mewed and stretched and
leaned and mewed and she couldn't
quite get there
but god
her grace as her belly went from
carpet to linoleum to try and get
further to the box and god she
was racked with every agonizing
point of her four feet we dazzled
at when she was a kitten and
god she
tried and calmed and broke out
in a five foot stretch and was so
embarrassed as one of her last
mews was a yowl, a gutter-embraced
Yowl of endings, as me turning
the corner

at 3 am

i laid down with her
in her own urine,
knowing just how far
she'd tried to get.
wasn't far enough.

being dizzy there
scratching her little chin
telling her she was good
and could go...
and like all my loves,
she paid no attention
to what i really wanted,
dying instead.

wrinkled and salty hands
felt it, motionless widened eyes
saw it, and my nose took in
her hair
right before the handles flew
off my own chest's lining--
then it was me who gave out
a caterwaul, and i had to bite
into my hand to stop it.
pulled her body closer
as if some cell of mine
was enough bait for god.

as if
3 am
and i had to worry about neighbors'
ears, and wouldn't they call the
cops and it's too early for that,
and aren't you a grown woman
and shouldn't you feel ashamed
to love some 10 pound furry thing
that much to lie in bed all day...
and god

damn it.
tell me where i'm more
than she ever was.
tell me that,
and i'll give you your
god.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 26, 2007, 11:13:00 AM
Pencil, oh how I miss you during your long absences.  :'(
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 26, 2007, 01:25:19 PM
Oh, if you only knew. It is me who is missing you.
and the tales of your music have yet to be told...
I am sorry, dear friend. It happens to those I hold dear.
I neglect my house, this place of random meetings and heartaches.
I neglect my real house, which holds a shitload of bills I simply can't pay.
I neglect my cuticles, my time schedules, and my diet restrictions in the worst of it.

But it is my friends--you Lar. I always come back here feeling like my head should be cowed and waiting to be smacked and not forgiven for my lapses. But like you, there are a handful, that are everything to me. Every thing. So this: :love3: Knowing I come back like this:  :embarassed: odd, but this poor little one is rare to find:  :icon_farao: it needs a home. like perhaps in Egypt or something...

I love you too.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 26, 2007, 02:02:17 PM
Oh, if you only knew. It is me who is missing you.
and the tales of your music have yet to be told...
I am sorry, dear friend. It happens to those I hold dear.
I neglect my house, this place of random meetings and heartaches.
I neglect my real house, which holds a shitload of bills I simply can't pay.
I neglect my cuticles, my time schedules, and my diet restrictions in the worst of it.

But it is my friends--you Lar. I always come back here feeling like my head should be cowed and waiting to be smacked and not forgiven for my lapses. But like you, there are a handful, that are everything to me. Every thing. So this: :love3: Knowing I come back like this:  :embarassed: odd, but this poor little one is rare to find:  :icon_farao: it needs a home. like perhaps in Egypt or something...

I love you too.

Hey, I know you have complications in your life, and I will always be patient. You do what you can do. I expect nothing more. I just worry sometimes.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: blindeffigy on October 26, 2007, 08:21:16 PM
This is a song I wrote.
Opinions?
:]
It's called:
"One Night Out"

Fucking is a long way from kissing,
and touching brings that out.
A slip of your tongue could lead to a lawsuit,
but I'd rather not figure out how.
Babies are made when two people are drunk,
but what about responsible ones?
They're just imaginary,
because nobody wants to marry --
everyone just wants to have fun!
Take off your clothes.
Nobody will know -
who you fucked last night.
You can lie to your friends,
because they lie to you too;
how do you think,
(no) how do you do?

Life is just a gamble,
but I'm not a gambler.
I'd rather shuffle cards than deal.
You can take off my coat,
but I'll put it back on;
because I'd rather it be my heart that you steal.
A look from the other side of the room
can lead to a cruel desire (oh yes).
If I pretend I'm dead now
there's no way and no how
you can get inside of my pants.
Take off your clothes.
Nobody will know -
who you fucked last night.
You can lie to your friends,
because they lie to you too;
how do you think,
(no) how do you do?

I'm fine!

Sometimes I think I should be naked on a bed
with a ribbon attatched to the top of my head
just to get some DAMN attention.
Just to relieve some of this tension.
Can you exceed my expectation?..
Or will this just lead to masturbation?
COME ON.

Take off your clothes.
Nobody will know -
who you fucked last night.
You can lie to your friends,
because they lie to you too;
how do you think,
(no) how do you do?

I'm fine!
Alright.
I'm fine.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 26, 2007, 08:57:22 PM
Innocence and Jennifer:  Now you've done it; it's gone to my head.  Now I'm destined and doomed to write - what is the word - hackneyed observations of home and hearth and woodland delights and then a quiet life filled with adulation of Frostian proportions.  The quiet seems fine, just so long as there's lots of money that goes with it.  Actually, just today I got in touch with a former poet laurete from one of the Eastern states, reported to be interested in new poets, but she said "sorry, it would take away from my own work" which I understand - really - but if I were in her position I would welcome hearing from people like me.  She is, after all, a former teacher of poetry and mentor of some enthusiasm, I'm told.  Is it possible to just stop?  Unless she was, of course, just going through the motions.  Hmm.  Well.  In this case, I'll never know.

Jennifer, I am so sorry about your kitty.  It is amazing that, despite your grief, you were able to capture it so perfectly.  But, then again, not really - after all, you are the one and only preferpencil!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 28, 2007, 11:40:29 PM
to ALL songwriters. let it be known that I DO LOVE and respect the hardship you go through to tangle together not only song...but some damn fine lyrics. was it blindeffigy that just asked for feedback? Yes. I thought it seemed like a damn good one-pointer. Meaning, most songs really have time for only one message, and that is what you've done. In fact, most poems only have one theme or motif or whatever you call 'em --but poems are different than song lyrics in at least one way.....................................I can't really give feedback on your song lyrics without hearing the song With the lyrics, can I? I know that sounds evil, and it's been an unusually evil and low week for me, so forgive. What I Can do is tell you that you've put together a recognizable song lyric format --and that I DO enjoy the direct...straightforward manner of the words themselves.
Like almost everything ever sung, written, and so on...this one looks born of some lusty or love "event" or more...I am hoping the person who is getting these lyrics is worth it--and since I haven't heard your music--I am hoping it is as good as the lyrics. There's nothing wrong there. Not a thing.

Do you want to know if it rattled me? Made me feel something? A little. First part. Whatever you do...keep the know (no) area and as for the friends. Consider whether the friends really pertain to the "goal" of the lyrics or are candy around it. It's fine to have candy around a poem OR song lyrics. But.....shit. I wasn't knocked off my horse, but pleasantly intrigued and surprised as I hadn't seen you around these here parts. For all I know you are the IT musician and those lyrics are Gold. I'm just telling you that "judging" song lyrics for me is simply a whole different thing than a poem.

A poem is a tale. At least a wide-angle shot of an observation. Songs can be also, but due to their repetitive requirements --chorus, bridge, repeat, etc. Not very many Shock and Surprise me with their ballsy lyrics. You ultimately have to decide. You know if you liked it or feel a little out of sorts about something about it? Feed more please. I AM glad you gave a new shot of adrenaline, and don't take anything I said as being an asshole. what do you want from the song?

what i got is a basically decent fuck song with a lovely play on the words know (no) in that part---but. i can't help now. Poetry is a little different.  Short and full of punch at its best. Long and full of more punch at its extreme best. (note Devery's and Innocence's work to see what flips my switches lately) Larry is the Person to ask about song lyrics, and he should take over for me. Larry? Will you help this person out? I don't know that they need anymore help, but they asked.

 That was brave. Do it again. Larry? help me out. I am trying to help but there is too much dust in this particular square. c a n't help songwriter but trying...

overall-----gut check= B- (mind you that is unfair, b/c i didn't hear anything...AND it really Was only My feedback and mine alone and i'm in an awful mood like i said....normally, you would get a B+ then I think) Do it again no matter what I or anyone ever says to you about lyrics/songs/poetry. No matter what they say. Do it again. O0
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: blindeffigy on October 30, 2007, 12:59:43 AM
Wow, thanks for the feedback!  That was a lot more than I thought someone could say.

:]]

I really appreciate everything you said,
and I try to write my lyrics in prose poetry format.
When I write anything else it's always prose,
and my lyrics..well..lyrics are just poetry put to sound.

If you want to hear my music you can go here.
http://www.myspace.com/blindeffigy

It's all old demos.
Bad quality, some songs have messups, so don't judge too harshly.

Thanks again!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 30, 2007, 02:46:11 AM
blindeffigy--going to go to your link, and a mighty thank you to you as well. :coolsmiley:

I respond when someone asks for feedback ad nauseam because I really do give a shit about poetry. People for that matter. And as in anything in Art, I often feel that you are either "hit" hard by it--or it's a "miss" and there is some serious searching you have to do to understand why. Make sense? Hope so. I'll tell you more when I here your link, k? Just wait on that. There are so many links built up that I feel sometimes as though I am becoming a link myself...


hello?
___________________

come in and make yourself comfortable
and tell me
tell me
say
about how you did it again,
only add the small things like how
Air
felt.
spittle, foggy, crisp, and clean.
i love you both.
i do.
and i need a bucket, right there under
the cabinet saddling at your nose.
i should have some water they tell me
so breathe into my leaves
because it's fall now,
and i am
quite possibly, probably, proudly, pointedly
telling you.
see me go, no hands.
see me go
don't let me out of the house again
because she was rude at the market and the
man in the car cut me off
and my whole month has been
unbearable
and i really can't afford therapy
or anything else for that matter,
and i feel
taste or disposed of
something Awful coming.
something Awful.



it's not much, and it isn't quite poetry, but I am officially "stuck" and there is no cure, but to keep going at it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 30, 2007, 09:07:27 AM
I really have little to say about blindeffigy's words, because I wouldn't change a thing. I like the style, and I like what you are saying. Just keep working it.

The song "God is a Walrus" is fucking awesome.

You have a unique voice. A bit pitchy at times, but aren't we all at times? In time you'll get even better, and you are already pretty damn good.

What matters is that you are so young, and you already have your own musical and lyrical voice. I just found mine a few years ago and I'm in my mid-30's! I can hear The Dresden Doll influence, but you don't carbon copy at all, you have your own take on things.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 30, 2007, 09:21:43 AM
yesterday winter
today we drift, drift
missed you on monday
sunday i wish, wish

lost you in summer, where did you go?
buried in bitter leaves, waiting for snow

the ground is cold
lonely we sing, sing
mystery shadow
in darkness we sleep, sleep

found you in winter, why did you leave?
a whisper of tears, i wanted to grieve
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: blindeffigy on October 30, 2007, 03:54:16 PM
I really have little to say about blindeffigy's words, because I wouldn't change a thing. I like the style, and I like what you are saying. Just keep working it.

The song "God is a Walrus" is fucking awesome.

You have a unique voice. A bit pitchy at times, but aren't we all at times? In time you'll get even better, and you are already pretty damn good.

What matters is that you are so young, and you already have your own musical and lyrical voice. I just found mine a few years ago and I'm in my mid-30's! I can hear The Dresden Doll influence, but you don't carbon copy at all, you have your own take on things.


Thank you very much.
It means a lot to me that people sort of like my music, or like it in general.
The reason why my vocals are so pitchy is because well..
Haha..this is sort of embarrassing, but..
When I record my vocals, sometimes I forget how my own song goes,
so I have to pretend to follow along with the tune.
Usually I don't perfect a song before I put it up,
because I get so excited for others to hear it.

When I preform live it's better,
because I actually WANT to sound good.
Haha.

Oh, and I didn't just find my lyrical voice.
I've been writing ever since I could write.
Which has been about uhm..12 years,
and I've been singing all my life.

I'm glad you can hear the Dolls' influence,
and glad that it isn't a carbon copy!

;D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 30, 2007, 04:13:21 PM
But you see, I've been writing since I was 16, and it took me until I was 32 before anything sounded like me, before that my influences were my voice. Now I have a larry sound.

You have a head start on me by leaps and bounds. Rock on my brother.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: blindeffigy on October 30, 2007, 05:53:47 PM
But you see, I've been writing since I was 16, and it took me until I was 32 before anything sounded like me, before that my influences were my voice. Now I have a larry sound.

You have a head start on me by leaps and bounds. Rock on my brother.
Well, thank you.
:]

I assume the links in your signature leads to your music?
I will check them out.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 31, 2007, 02:55:40 AM
sweet baby pale face.
honey grey eyes turning green
and back to flickers of orange on my
stubbed ember
cigarette.
honey blue sunken chin.
the hour glass that pops up on this
advice
is the exact amount of time
i continue to spend with you.
that there
hitched-up bosom You bounced
like a gumball machine
  stuffed up a canteen of saliva,
your hair twirling in my fingers
and my eyes on those slacks,
those high
high boots...

baby dawdle drug addict.
drinking on the way to the hotel,
your hand slipped through the wedge
of your seat
and froze my right leg with
streamers from a stolen Stop sign.
tender baker clothing ex foliating Nun.
bringing me crackers and soup
sneaking off with the morphine
tipping the bottle
as I sunk out the bed
below the floor.
laughing lover who swore.
i knew you would have killed both
of them for me, baby.
and when i showed you the stain
your hand fell on mine as slow
and slight. trembling with anger
what they done to me
what they done to me.
i didn't need
anymore knives than i already had
Collected.

sweet baby hour-slip.
waking me from nightmares and finding
you needed
to give yourself something better
than my face. my arms frozen in
soldier tactics, but willing.
anything for the pain.
anything for the fun.
anything but me kicking the bed
and grass flying out behind my heels.
my right eye was closed almost
Always in a half moon,
and it was those same eyes
that drew you in,
centering you on a mantle.
the altar in the steam of our
dying living room.

i gave you my
dry skin.
you done killed me more
than yourself.
more than them.
you'd done shot the helpers,
stealing the pantry and their
salaries.
killed the police with a
violin.
vigilante beggar.
caught our songs today
and looked in That box you spent
three years building with one
feather and a bra.

i see my death in there
cracked candy lips calling my name.
i see the exact spot you
done
took
my inner thigh in a field,
and now i can't walk
without a bevy of bird sips.
this dry belly skin is still
waiting for your lotion.

my long gone second ticking
heartbeat stopped when you
done said.
always, eternity, and your
stupid vice ran over the bay.
me
rounding the corner just in time.
to see your head slump,
breathing denied.

Emergency Overdose
and you done killed them both
without even stopping to look
at the ugly mattress waving back at
Us and spotty with hairy strangers.
you done must have gone there
when i was purring under the
ultraviolet dripping
I.V.
Your
hips scolding my crotch and
you saying "yes, yes, yes,
Please, please, please."
and no
no
i was in for it as long as you
stayed on top of my one
broken finger. my one jutting
tooth.
my blinking skull ramming so far
into yes,
that a paper clip clamped down and
Started eating.

never again when the leaving
 turned left over a Yield sign
   bent in the hurricane of our
    combined wordless
       bantering. bartering. baiting.
you left my leaving with a promise
five pictures and one epic romance,
all that fucking done did us wrong.
now toasting your pink crevices
and gazing nose
because you don't even know all
your offerings
were for yourself
and mine
now
in chicken bones that rattle in your
feathered naughty box.

my fossil under your chest,
dribbling
and waiting to be discovered
by two young men
ready to dance
in the muck,
i'm so prepared now without
you.

all the clothes folded and
your smelling tongue
laughing
as the clock puts the letters
in yellows.
you're laughing
watching me go down.
you're laughing
watching them disable my
orifices...
under the ultraviolet
x-ray machine the rays name you
Carnivore.

sweet baby done with me.
honey blue artist swan.

go then.
i'm
flaking
off in atomic
chivalry,
and you done
never raised to say

thank you.


mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. i did Not just write that. it is a stolen love letter from a three year old. make that four. and by the way, blindeffigy, everything Larry said--I concur. you're on your way. on your way. and Mr. who gave the poem above me, thank you. It IS going black, isn't it?

this here poem needs work, but i've been going at it now. help me out Dev, Inn, Lar, Mus --anyone. where are the flowing parts stopping? what tactics can i use to .................hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm. i shouldn't steal. i will have to walk away from it and come back when i can see it better. mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 31, 2007, 09:27:35 AM
Oh pencil. That was really delightful.

There was a flow, but it was beautifully broken in some sort of Tom Waitsian-gone female kind of way. Does that make sense? Hope so.

Still my keytar gently sweeps.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 31, 2007, 10:19:11 AM
Oh, you two!  Jennifer and Innocence - just when I say to myself "Hey!  Where's the love poems?"  here you are with your remarkable deliveries.  There will be no critique from me today, 'cause what can I say, I'm simply blown away.  Heh.  Is the chasm between us really that wide?  No, but right now it feels like it.  Those were both great and wonderful poems. 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on November 02, 2007, 12:26:07 AM
Kate

I could have walked you
to the station
but I sat at the
kitchen table and
watched the clock.

At 9:55 I thought
of you hiking
your dress and lifting
a boot to the first step.
I imagined you quietly
finding a seat and
carefully putting your
things beside you.

Yesterday at 9:55 you
were in my bed listening
as I went on and on about
something or nothing
and you turned silence
into a kind of art
I never understood.

We walked to a bar for
a drink, those hips
that droze me crazy
covered with a long, white
sweater opened in the front
and I took your hand to
cross the street and
told you you were
beautiful.

You said you would miss me
and I thought it must be
true because you came all
this way when I never called
you and two days later
you were here.

I had a mattress on the
floor, a salvation army
couch and an oak Mission desk
that I bought for $25.
This was where I did my work,
in the old silence that
let me think and comforted me.
We found a wooden beam
on the shore that you and I
pushed end over end along
the beach and carried to
my car and up the stairs
for my new coffee table.

On the wall was a framed piece
you had drawn of a young
Lou Reed in a crucifixion pose,
eyes cut out from magazines and
silver hearts with glitter.
We called it "Satellite of Love."

I drank a coffee with peach brandy
and went for a walk over most
of the Northwest part of town.
A friend from school jogged past me,
eating an apple. I smoked a joint
and a cigarette, then stopped
at my hangout on the corner and
drank a beer. The pool table was busy,
but I looked past it and watched a girl
sitting by herself at the bar.

I didn't want to think of you, but
at home, lying on the mattress, I
touched myself, but I missed your
quietness and stopped.
I grabbed the blanket and lay down
on the couch.  Before turning out
the light I looked back at the
empty mattress, where you had been
just yesterday, with me, at 9:55.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 02, 2007, 01:01:40 AM
IF there is a God. It just sat here and drank tea for 2 hours looking at Innocence's and Devery's 2 poems. Right here. Right now, or then, or Will.

Innocence. I was wrong. There IS something wrong with you...I am afraid to tell you...you are a poet. And. You are not your age either. I am tapping you out at age 70 or so, give or take 40 years...:]

Devery. Even in the light, there is something dark in your trunk. You keep breaking your heart like that, and there will be no way I can help you put it all back together. You are a bitch. Now I will not be able to look at the clock and see 9:55 without thinking of this...
To torture you. I will only give you my time: 3:33.

And now I must go and chop off my hands and forget about ever writing anything again...I'll just let you two take the show, thank you very much. (there is no such thing as an ego. there is no such thing as an ego...no such thing as an ego...no such thing)

I keep talking on and on about nothing and everything. I was a jackass child...

Golly Gee what has just smacked me?   :-X

ps. when you chop off the one hand...how do you chop off the one you used to chop off the other? it seems my teeth can't quite hold the handle. dammit. dam...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: blindeffigy on November 02, 2007, 04:07:33 AM
I'm not that great with poems, but I try.
Here's one:

"They Know I Long"

I miss the touch.
It's a craving I can't ignore.
Every sound..
every small press;
exciting to say the least.
Just a small
PING!
Oh, how I'd do anything..
just for one more..
feel.

As the days fall by me..
I wonder how much longer?
How f  a  r  t  h  e  r  it is from my longing fingers.
How desperate I become,
and how many times I hum the same song each day.
Is this what they call
in
san
ity?
It can't be,
because I find myself to be sane,
but..
is that how it starts?

I gaze at the photographs of their bodies.
They seem to be gleaming on the screen.

Are they singing to me again?

It's just another imagination.
They taunt me, I know it.
My breath is becoming shorter,
and each action is an impulse!

I'm going crazy-
THIS IS IT!
I feel my pulse..
I feel..
the piano.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: blindeffigy on November 02, 2007, 01:51:07 PM
Blindeffigy, for the sake of diversity, that was just wund-a-full.  :)
Ah, well thank you.
=]

I don't take too much pride in my poetry,
but I don't think I'm awful.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: JasonWakefield on November 10, 2007, 10:12:46 PM
I've just written this little ditty in the past ten minutes:

I Am Your Mirror

Welcome to my world of what the hells.
I'm as dirty as the devil, born empty,
But aren't we all.
This poor black rainbow,
Is six foot tall,
Not six foot below,
And no, bald isn't a hair colour,
You've ceased to grow,
I find it easier to exist
By pretending you don't,
Otherwise my furniture
Will be made from you.
Gotten used to me yet?
I'm as subtle as a sledgehammer.
Are you feeling like a child,
Whistling past the graveyard?
I pray with my legs,
Everyone has a goat these days,
If I'm yours, you're mine.
Which is more useful,
A church or a lighthouse?
I'm sorry, you've spelt dog backwards.
If I paid you enough
Would you walk backwards?
Does my forked sword hurt?
Right where it matters?
Why kill yourself when you're already dead?

Which truth would you choose?
If I were you,
I'd crawl back in the womb,
A warm and cosy tomb.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 13, 2007, 02:15:16 PM
ACK! look at my pretty darlings GO. and Innocence. I'll take the tree scenario for creative entry of the year. And a mighty hello to you, and you, and another you as well. I shall not give anyone PPDD?? intentionally--rather, only those that deserve it. And you, my apple, do not. :love5:my elder? my elder knows too... :love5: and the rest of you are in the stable, waiting to break free, or eating and knowing your due date. bravo Jason and blindeffigy!



all she remembers is
that one time behind a better
fortress of a wall where
people played plunge the
doctor
and isn't it funny what she
drew!
dead horses in art therapy
are worth hours of endless
toil, days of switching the
basic flick.     flicking.
--you know what i mean.

a sort of dying during birth
a kind of intake at the
Curve before the car hits the
tree
and just yesterday I saw
for the first time.
a helicopter come in and
shuttle a dying man,
collapsed head in hand
to some sanitary place
where other people Wish,
want, beg
to take His place
like dead horses, all four legs
blown in the socket
and one gunshot in the eye.

but here, here I will show you
a different way to thin
your hips and no scolding for
a choice in lipstick.
here, right here in the places
of passings and goings and
tea, coffee, credit cards all
bowed and Maxed,
follow me to the tunnel.
under here, here
right here.
hold my hand.

it's a slow go of it
and you have to moan out of
the race track...
we need a different kind of
paper mache to mold what
was once Ugly.
pound it in the face with
your forehead and I promise
that here or there at some
corner in a field of sand
dunes...

-------------------------------2
i give you sea shells that
you can lick,
changing their color to
pink.
these were my parcels
when I was being taken
by the jockey,
swollen feet burning loose
of being mastered,
and all four legs like
popcorn
on the rails.

the difference?
i may be belly-turned
like an open roasted pig.
but my "spit"
is now our spit,
and even as we roll forwards,
now a little bit backwards--
aint nobody going to
shoot my friends.

my lovers sneak in at
night in the middle of my
hay
hey

sizzling up close and saying
"i saw you looked a little cold"
and i nuzzle my younger
off to lessons, sweet apple.
a phantasm pulling her roots
out and sprawling them to her
Own School. the whole world's
been shaking wet, sweet apple.
i pray without wafers and kneeling
   there are no more...   quit that.

shots taken of my electrocuted
Elephant.
the horror of which my humble
elder strokes out of my hair,
humming something about
Spanish moss and gravy,
neither of which we feel a desire
to mention.
our polite entries are folding
over napkins, shaped like flamingos.
___________________________________3
and no.      isaid QUIT IT.
don't show the men lined up
to be hung, swinging in a loop
like bags of potato poets.
copies of lynchings and
a kiss on the left and on the
right.
what's right is the Spanish moss.
our gravy song cleaning a
frozen bald barn.
red paint faded like a kitchen
worn from bacon grease.
perched on a median.

i Do take you be my Woman.
i Do take you by the pinky.
I do take you to stand Mster.
I do wait for both of you.
the railways shut in ghosts.
here comes the trains.
one on the right
another on the right,
gazing towards the right.
it'll
give me a 15 minute nap.
i'll hand you my horsey
eyes.

second only to an ostrich
in size. befitting all the facts
dropped in egg yokes along
the road.
a kitchen worn to threads.
the spinning starts when
to the right
and to the right.
i find your barn as red as an
apple.
i find your palm pilot pieces
discussing surgery at my knee.

Spanish moss
gravy
and an apple.
a broken horsey with molars
in the front.

am i chewing you?
and grazing you?
am i          stopping that.
i've seen my accident on tape.
the jockey flew a furlong,
no remorse for the fact.
a few rocks in my hooves.
just like fingernails.
and i can gulp so well
i become Hrungnir.
a gnat has my attention.
now a fly. infinte buzz.
the jockey flew a furlong.
and the angry bettors

oh on oh. spin the famous
watch again. my leg snapped
off backwards on the rail,
and now the stable boy barely
touches the wall. tense like the
albino gene that kills my kind.
the Turkoman and the Tarpan.
my turds fill up their fossils.
and you're on one side
a' smilin'. the other, well.
attending my knee and singing.
apples and Spanish moss
gravy in red kitchens.
by the roads
1/8th a mile is a cracker jack
furlong for residence.
even so.

____________________________4
all of which rumbles.
all of this rumbles.
take this board down
with chalk.
we're on fire
in the nest of a stall.
a splendid bolstering
speed of fire.
these loves passing
In

I never want to roll
over too quick on you.
instead.
the sound of your
snore,
your breath.
your soft shoulders heave
making me feel...

take these shells.
you can lick them
and they will change
color.
i lied           and now Stop.
you won't just get pink.
a dash of blue, even yellow.
crawl 100 yards and lick
again. salty. all our mossy
fruit is salty-sugar.

i'm your horse and pony!
the shape you make with
multiples of fives,
and you allow me my three.
love my three limbs.
you and you.
recall.
my skin is just a bit more
sensitive than gravy.




--------------------------------------"we" have been modified. we may be modified again. :icon_rr:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Surabaya Johnny on November 13, 2007, 03:52:45 PM
I wrote this off the top of my head, not nearly as good as the ones I've been reading on here, but until I can post a proper poem of mine... enjoy;

Dark circles gathered under his eyes
The night formed in a jubilee
Champagne and cheap beer flowed
Girls laughed and gossiped, chorus boys flirted
He felt a mist roll around him

A cold grasp caught his throat
He ceased to sing the melodies known
Only to those who dare to seek the decadence
Where the queens of the night prowl
The truth he had been hiding

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 16, 2007, 12:26:00 PM
hey Surajingleding Johnny! (joke. sorry.) if that just "rolled" out and plopped itself down out of nowhere, I would certainly like to see more from you!

MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE!!! (THE BITCH STAMPS HER FEET) (the calmer side says, "honey. don't scare the kids" --then the BITCH COMES BACK AND SAYS, "BUT WE DON'T HAVE ANY KIDS YOU STUPID PRI__!!!"

then the poor poet above this runs away.

DON'T run away. Keep feeding please. Truly.

oh. "you and you" and you and you, for that matter. i revised my "horsey" poem above and am happier with it. i understand it. i don't care if it makes any sense to anyone else. SO THERE!!!
 :D >:D :) :coolsmiley: angel :happy11: :o ;) :'( :buck2: >:( :sign5: :violent1: :embarassed: :tongue2:<<what is that?? sort of cute...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on November 17, 2007, 10:37:25 AM
Next Round's On Me

Take it on the chin.
You don't need
to win
this one.

In fact,
I'm not sure
this is even
a contest.

It's obvious
from the blood,
you're
quite thin skinned
but,
bleeding isn't weakness.

Crying about it
is.

Rub some dirt on it.
Walk it off.
We'll talk about it
later,

over a beer
and
another shot.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on November 20, 2007, 01:08:58 AM
oh, how clever
they are and
dutiful
watching the
fresh bruises
turn dark
and ugly

ears kept
vigilant
listening for
admissions
while restless
hands sift
through notes
and scraps
for evidence

yet her skin
remains unmarked
and clear
reminding of
children in white
dresses and
little blue suits
hair brushed and
combed and clean

smiling parents
take them to
the altar for
their communion
with the sacrament
and with God

but he had taken
her innocent
heart - had
reached right
through her chest -
had held it and
stroked it like
a savory morsel

then hid it
with other talismans
and placed a stone
within the vacancy
that she carries
with her still as
a mark of shame
she didn't earn

her skin now
translucent
radiant against
her protectors

as fog imprinted
with the bare
branches of the
morning tree
she steps
to the edge
closes her eyes
and smiles
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on November 20, 2007, 09:48:33 AM
Words Can Kill A Poem

Leave
the vocab list
in the back pack.

Words
forced to fit,
or worse,
tossed around
without care
have been known
to grow restless and

kill a poem.

rob it of meaning.

and

show no remorse.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on November 20, 2007, 10:47:44 AM
Rob, that is very true but I admit all I could think of after reading that was "Rob it of meaning".

Nonsense(??) Typing

Johnny-come-latelys, beware...

Why not?
Fruition of the past belongs in the now,
not vice versa.

Blame it! Blame it!

The monks would be pleased with you.
The Presbyterians would be lost within your supposed order.

Notable only in that you were 21 years old when they first truely struck you and began the major demolition work.
Notable only in that you were unresponsive for over 18 years.
Notable only in that it meant something.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Surabaya Johnny on November 20, 2007, 12:47:00 PM
hey Surajingleding Johnny! (joke. sorry.) if that just "rolled" out and plopped itself down out of nowhere, I would certainly like to see more from you!

MORE MORE MORE MORE MORE!!! (THE BITCH STAMPS HER FEET) (the calmer side says, "honey. don't scare the kids" --then the BITCH COMES BACK AND SAYS, "BUT WE DON'T HAVE ANY KIDS YOU STUPID PRI__!!!"

then the poor poet above this runs away.

DON'T run away. Keep feeding please. Truly.

oh. "you and you" and you and you, for that matter. i revised my "horsey" poem above and am happier with it. i understand it. i don't care if it makes any sense to anyone else. SO THERE!!!
 :D >:D :) :coolsmiley: angel :happy11: :o ;) :'( :buck2: >:( :sign5: :violent1: :embarassed: :tongue2:<<what is that?? sort of cute...

Thank ye, kindly. I have to say I'm overwhelmed by everyone else (that's why I never bothered to post anything until recently). I always feel like my writing is inferior to that of others.


Parisian nights are swept in beauty
Lights dazzle and a man plays “La vie en Rose”
On his little concertina
The melody drips and flows, across the parks
Over the buildings
Into the souls of the weary, the battered, the crazed
Poets,
Actors,
Preachers,
Sinners, all of them, captured in the song
A whore lends her raspy voice to harmonize
With this distant yet powerful sound
For this moment, the world is tied together




Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on November 20, 2007, 01:14:00 PM
It's all about me!

Don't tell me not to reference
Myself within my poems.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 21, 2007, 06:08:24 AM
Sura-jingle jangle Johnny. This one was even betta 4 me. The last line that "ties" the world together. I also like that you brought a whore in to share in what becomes the Total. This is a laundry-list poem of what spawns into something beautiful in Union. Golly. yin-yang ping-pong. Something is always splintering. Something is always holding together. I haven't yet found a poem that either pronounces the ending as such --by which I mean to say... It's inevitable. perhaps part of being human. our lonely gasps and our exaltant cries of jubilant "i found what FITS TOGETHER, eh!" If there wasn't black, would there be white? Vice Versa? Still, know that there are many people in here who have written a shitload of poetry, and some have only given (at least in here) 1.

I, myself, prefer more than 1. This is because I am a true believer in really only one thing. Even Rob with his verbose and nauseatingly wordy poems--I can take it. Once you start writing anything, even if it is complete fiction, it is part of you somehow. Always will be. Always. Do not lose it--even if one day it seems like a scrap of piddle to you. It will go down how it needs to go down at the End. Whether you become famous and rich (RARE) --or your family finds it and thinks, "just who the hell WAS our beloved??" It's still you.

I'm sure Amanda gets tired of playing Coin Operated Boy--but she still plays it. Some days I imagine she doesn't feel like it, and some days she does. All the same, she is now officially doomed to having this song as a piece of her...her...her...what? HER SELF? (and so the earnest and increasingly arrogant jackass starts to realize what she sounds like and turns off the volume control on producing more poetry) One last thing. You are not above or below anyone else's work. You are judging yourself against what you've read in here. Knock it off, as my Dad would say...if you are going to judge your writing at all. Judge it only against what YOU feel is good or lacking in your writing.

Innocence, Devery, Gargantuan, Larry, and me. We all write slightly different. We all shock ourselves occasionally with "playing" with a different style, etc. Sometimes --at least with a couple of people I named--they may feel, "oh, shit. that was awful" Usually. Almost always. They are wrong. And even IF the poem is a little under the Best Thing You EVER WROTE--so what? Practice makes perfect. And that little cliche is endorsed whether you are a musician or a writer, because it just is True for some reason.

It is, as my usual, very early. 5:30 am. Do not count on me pretentiously blabbing at this rate all the time. And, for what it is worth, just like I did when I was accused of plagiarism in college...and just like when I was told "you have talent, but consider changing: A, B, C." If you don't like the suggestions or my babbling, ignore it. Vonnegut's English Prof's told him he'd never amount to diddly. They were wrong I think.

Poets. The real ones. Meaning none of us officially, but all of us unofficially--it's quite rare for them to chastise someone else's poetry. I think this is recognition that smacking someone around for the way they write or even what they write--is rather counter productive to what poetry even IS, yeaes? Yes, I thinks. The only one I've seen made fun of is Frost, and he hasn't even had the courtesy of offering any poetry in here.

Innocence. I will come down from the high, high heavens and smite whoever this "don't" is--unless this is a fictional account--or you have already put the bottom of your boot into the mouth of the Evil One.

Devery. Someday very soon. I will call you and be hysterical about whether I should use an extra conjunction in some poem that is twirling around in there somewhere. I'll also call because you appear to be a shape-shifter. Shape-shifting poem-wise, that is. In a delicate way, and mysteriously. And yes. I still have to print out Every Thing past page 10 in here. Ting has been neglected and I had a dream about someone that could help her possibly........we'll see. Once stagnant this long, you can never tell.

both of you. i would comment on your poems directly... i will leave it at this: the fact that you two are writing these gems brings me nothing but pleasure and worry. both of which i am grateful for... :love5:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on November 21, 2007, 11:41:59 AM
40 lines not about me

One line in 41
is that what I've become
to you

Someone
to be mentioned
in passing
and
poked
with a stick

All the while
laughter welling up
in you
deeper than the
dark pool of tears
I fight
to stifle

day

and
 
night

We had something once

take it?
take it!

You have taken it
and tossed it
aside

It is clear

I see
the young and
tender ones
have moved
into that place
in your heart
where I once resided

Would you
at least be
kind enough
to box my things
and
leave them
on the lawn.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 22, 2007, 05:29:56 AM
Rob. You are here again, plodding out your poems with some rapidity and that makes me happy. There is need for your poetry. There are requirements that are fulfilled. There are people who not only appreciate them, but adore them. A weird quote, "What you write is better than what you are." Accept it or toss it, there is something inside of that ---something that would only appeal to perhaps someone like me. I refuse to put your stuff out on the lawn. That was the best poem from you (for me) that I have eaten in the last few days. Thank you. If you'll excuse, I am going to continue crying now. There is no shame in both dusting off those annoying and trivial hurts, and at the same time crying about it in writing. If I do not flush the toilet, it will overflow. And no. My life Has been a wonderful jaunt--I am lucky, lucky, lucky. That is why my poetry is So absurdly pathetic for the most part...yin yang ping pong.


"I grew tired of the gender of things..."

-------------------------------------

a termite is digging in on my cheek,
as soggy and bold as a beached whale
peering through its great One Eye and
telling me that wood for the furnace,
wood for the stove and warmth,
wood for the paper,
is nothing like flesh for the insect.
the termite is a traitor and a revolting
swirl of mass that will be found out
to be a greasy, dressed-in-black
dirty criminal in its time.
lasting as far as my cheek can go,
and perhaps further through the tongue,
and then down into the throat where
the bot fly takes kittens,
and then passing the fly with its missiles
on a cold fire, into the pit of this
stuttering stomach.

and acid will announce itself and eat
my pretty, lovely, driven and misunderstood.
Termite.
oh, i would have given it a home if it
could have gone up the nose and into the
brain. a soul or God or Santa or a Buddha
sits there belching, waiting for Mama to
come home and then a quick kiss on the
cheek again.
a dialogue of traveling exploits that would
bust the doors of an insurance salesman
with its annoying, prickly, circus of dry
notes.

oh, if the termite had visited just years ago,
what a festival of skin it could have rejoiced
and called for Allah to bring it In on a Wave
of broken spoons and forks without spikes,
eaten bare by a cousin--caterpillar, caterpillar.
walking up my thigh. surprised how wet it was
years ago, the heat of July and a name of a
servant called Mammy, a rude Aunt Tom speaking
Shakespeare without understanding a single
letter.
all those letters caterpillar, larvae of my drums,
finger up my nose and giggling, termite! your
Aunt Tom ran up my slackened thigh, the snot from
That nose comes from the stinky private spot
Termite would have been fond of, I know.

What a home for you in there, the arches and
backwards alleys where the yeast could break
out in a dance and make a socialite scratch
the fuck out of her crotch, oh termite, the caterpillar
took my salt and pepper, my assortment of
rare coins and the tunnel for a prick that
Aunt Tom politely avoided, fingers all numb and
juice withheld this time. like a lime. like a lemon.
like the fat in my cheek you are digging through
Termite of my belief! oh, i bow to you and sing
a hymn. the hymn of relief and the hymn of dying.

your time is limited to funnel, funnel, funnel. hurry
as there are spiders crawling between my toes.
Aunt Tom has left with a note that says,
"a prick would have been better" a prick or two
Can be nice, but there is little time left for we
are entering the End Times. The grand exit for the
cheetah, the blue whale, the bees are buzz buzz-Undoing
Byzantine chants and Russian Fairy Tales--Always.
food. stranger. incest. betrayal. liar. liar. liar.
the warnings fly by in Africa and incantations as rudely
Permanent

as our skin flakes into dust, the ocean crushes rocks,
the billions of years it took to skid directly to the Milky
Way corner where a Red Star will eat its planets
like French kisses. border assaults and the bees are
Buzzing, busy-blue. spotting the dying arch of an
arm on a tree and calling out to the crows, and I refuse
to let the crows eat my beloved, awkward, and now
Humbled guest, Termite of my Own! Termite to cuddle...
unlike the bees, not as awful as they portend, grotesque
yellow masks at a ballroom dance sanctioned and pivoting--
and refusing flowers. refusing flowers as if they are
suddenly queer. as if the gender of their role in
nature was absolved by...Termite, little white thing
of nails. rods. drills. a machine tackles and misses,
as I cup the little man. Aunt Tom.
Peck on the cheek...

you require no more help.
small lonely only criminal termite.
come to my cheek.
cum on my cheek.
male or female.
i fake the orgasm.




_-----------------------------------You are responsible for this. Go directly to Her "hornet" poem--to a lesser extent, "consorting with angels" You are asleep. This one is a little different. A little bend you've given without knowing. And it's of course not only You. But I count...multiples of 5, and i give my knees...or would that be my cheek? (revolted? t'was a joke) Rob deserves credit too. That literally flew out, as we say. I imagine. 4 hours or 4 minutes. Subject to revision of course.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on November 22, 2007, 08:16:12 AM
"I grew tired of the gender of things..."

-------------------------------------



If I would of (heh) KNOWN that after I "left" you at 3 am you were going to write about termites and god and argue in the Supreme Court the reasons for keeping Mark Twain on the shelf for the kiddies - well, THEN I wouldn't have done anything differently anyways.................... "And she (I) was happy to read such things" and to know that the Authoress made a pact with the angels and said "shoo, you" to the devil.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: JennieJ on November 22, 2007, 08:54:05 AM
I wrote this months ago. It doesn't have a title. It's a bit...hmm.. how shall I say... I don't know. I wrote it after a particularly "saucy" dream. Boy that was  a nice dream... Hmm... I wonder what the hubby is up to  :o... hmm.. Oh sorry. Here's the poem:



Falling into you I'm losing myself-feeling your flesh around me.

Your lips on mine and my fingers entwined in your hair.

Shuddering, I catch my breath and realize you are not really there

But if I close my eyes the thought returns, and I feel you once again.

Your breath, hot and sweet, sending shivers down my spine -

Even the softest touch cuts much too deep.

I stop breathing at the thought of you and suddenly begin to weep

Tears of bliss and pain stream down my cheeks and burn my skin

Afraid to wake and find you gone -oh where do I begin?

Your mouth parts as I pull you toward me.

Your eyes lock with mine and your smile -sublime.

I sigh and my heart explodes

Exhausted I wake as you fade away like music from a dream

Something beautiful but fleeting which was never what it seemed
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 22, 2007, 09:28:57 AM
not a thing wrong with that Jennie-J! i had a dream like that once.

before the termite of course.


and instead of Tom Sawyer, every child while bowing to the Mosaic law in their school and posted in the Supreme Court--as well as taking time to pray for Easter eggs and an extra buck for an "A"--should have to read "Abolishing Christianity" by Mr. Swift--and Twain's--"The Bible According to Mark Twain" --then, upon rising in mass and through gibberish in Latin--they should proceed to the playground and burn such books. for we know the dangers of not being holy, don't we? the Vatican just announced that there is no such thing as Limbo a bit back...this took them approx. 4000 years to realize?

it will be another 4000 before stem cells are allowed to possibly cure a multitude of diseases, but never mind that. we all know only sinners get disease. Condoms are worse than Aids too...

did i get your message wrong, oh sage one? I really, really need to sleep...oh, Devery. I WILL convert you. I WILL bring you to your knees before God and serpents, have you hold those poisonous serpents around your arms and seize, throttle, and bash your soul about--speaking in "tongues" until you finally. finally.

see the light.  angel<< :sign5:>> :violent1:   --and a guten morgen and nacht to U
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on November 23, 2007, 10:46:11 PM
I need to find
a cubbyhole to
curl up into
in the dark and
my own sweet
silence but then
i'll need the
smallest light,
a seashell sconce,
to cast a shadow
for bonding with
my twin in her
own adjoining
cubbyhole
recording heartbeats
of the unknown other
after a lifetime of
separation and a
desk for writing
letters in the
dust and then
a window for viewing
the red, frozen
willow standing guard
on the shore,
beyond it the ice
dotted with small
buildings and specks
doing their
strange business.

I'll find the door
and come back to
common sounds and
larger specks
with mouths and
eyes
perhaps i'll speak
and say
i'm back to where
i am.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on November 27, 2007, 09:12:39 AM
My love comes
wrapped
in full moon
morning

turning water
to crystals
in zenith sun.

Twilight spills
her secrets as
fresh snow
falls blue
and full on
darkened
landscapes.

In sleep I see
my love,
my meadow bird
listing.

New morning
moon so
lovely like
my love
floating pink
petals in
glass.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: imaginary friend on November 27, 2007, 12:43:16 PM
Oookayyy...poetry
here we have a thread designed
just for that purpose!

plur
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on November 27, 2007, 12:53:48 PM
My love comes
wrapped
in full moon
morning

turning water
to crystals
in zenith sun.

Twilight spills
her secrets as
fresh snow
falls blue
and full on
darkened
landscapes.

In sleep I see
my love,
my meadow bird
listing.

New morning
moon so
lovely like
my love
floating pink
petals in
glass.


good use of color, and morning moon is an interesting juxtaposition.  I can see this poem.  Challenge: write me a poem I can smell.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 29, 2007, 03:40:21 PM
It appears Devery, that I should leave you alone with 2 broken fingers --and I am struggling -fuck. I should have broken my hand sooner, fallen into a pit of misery, and left you alone to continue your Book in Homage to Frost. (err hahaha) No. Stunned. Always. Where? Why? I should never encourage anyone again...except...
"Woman Like A Man" D. Rice B-Side should be dedicated to my ex. And here she is, lying across the arm of the chair, waiting to F__K any single thing.


knew it, but not when--
that the call would be
hysterical and frantic,
like a dog in heat.
lost in some bar you'd never
encountered before
and the heroin
of my fallen heroine
collapsed and poised
in a circle, rattling her tail,
ready to drop those fangs.
13 minutes on her cell phone,
wanting to fix by sewing
and lacking thread--
no problem for the lippy
Monster Mom she loses
in a two-lane maze.

confirming the condition:
bleeding on scraped knees and
giggling about that--it reveals
All our love poured out
on the street, into the drains,
on the drips and tiny feet of Rats.
my small feet included and deleted
letter by l e t t e r.

my dear vagina host, it was
some sort of joke your Mom
spilled on the kitchen floor
or better,
down the Sink you once dared
dared, laughing at my quizzical
fat face.

"put your hand down and i'll
turn the disposal on for just a
second..."

and so the coincidence that
my hand was broken
like a chicken neck,
when i needed turkey.
it's thanks -give to me day.
it was a covert secret drunken
spell
and you shouldn't remember it
you can't remember it
you won't remember it--
shed your skin Mrs. Rattler.
shed it into the mouths of
all the delighted pursued,
the creases of Kitsch heads
like mine
waiting to exhale and let you
die a ridiculous death.
alone.
an infected skinned knee i
wonder...

cause Jumble Jo has money
and he's healthy and 
you fuck him on top like your
Mom did when she bashed the
side of that head just as thunder
makes a chandelier tinkle.
You were brittle it seems.
So play the same way taught
and dominate, subjugate,
terminate in a waltz.
and wasn't it...cum at the
same time, you said?
cum at the same moment?
Jumble Jo's coming back tomorrow,
and tonight
you regret.
oh, you slur over two minutes
and i allow it like a piglet.

some shrapnel aching to dig
deeper. some way to Be the
folding, smiling, warm hues your
Mother should have given without
Bribery.

but this is so old, the new wrinkle
in my brow is laughing at my
ear. i'm a fool waiting to hear one
word. i'm her fool, her Riot in silence,
her beacon back to art.
my mouth is now almost under
Hers,
and when I look up
I dare to look down.
I see Narcissus stretching on my
lonely chair. Picking her teeth with
fifty dollar tweezers that insisted
we Need, need, needed.


My Love
it meant little to you to share
the same bowl with me,
my hunger may have amused,
but it could not detain your wretched
cruel and flawless Mother.
as the minutes crawled down,
i did not breathe. i looked under
the table
for a train to knock me dead.

you are the conclusion
of why children never turn into
adulthood without grunting,
possibly never and as a casualty-
all my screwed-in dead ones.
without a heap of trash bags
to lug on their backs.
no, you'll never forget it.
never be over it.
and be just like her.
heroine taking heroin,
wanting to try everything just once.

feel my fist connect.
you have 5? minutes left on the
cell phone,
and my shoe spirals through
burning the side of your face,
like Your MOM birthing you
and crapping a ton of misery
in your timid lips.
the birthing has been reversed,
and i have shoved you back
into the dark
so whine, cry, bitch.

a canal like her cunt
resembling somewhat the pink
labia surrounding yours-
an innocence that should have
been the bruised color of my own
lovely curls.
 stained glass that has
gone horribly beautiful and odd,
all this time without the skinniest
fingers you hold...
no knuckles belong in them,
and yet they once belonged
in me.

find Mama next time you're
Tripping and he's out with Boys
slinking in the woods
laughing at their farts,
age 65. age 10. spitting duels
for husband. find your Ma.
go find your Ma
in the mirror
where you placed your hair
with thirty bottles of conditioning,
straightening, bonding,
adhesive
for your day.
look at you now. closer at the nose.
your "good" side is a
narcissistic-bloom
 
of a woman dying with a line of
Men coming up from the soil like
weeds.
to touch the illusion of a warranty
all thin fingers and a hidden rattle.
doesn't matter if the rattle was
your toy, or now your tail-
the delusion of safety confronts
Us
as you hurry and say

you're running out of minutes.
could i call your friend's number...
seven one seven

and i am deaf.
i am deaf.
and you are crying.
my pink woman.
my beastial snake.
and dumbcluck.

i don't know if
my fingers broke
Now.
before or after
you called.
or why.



sheeit. this needs a ton of work..........................a ton of work but i have to go and only have a few fingers at hand. this ending sucks and is fiction, but it felt that way...shit. advice. serious...the ending is screwed, and i have to fix it. but later. and Devery. Fishy. Innocence. Larry. Everyone--i've missed you 2. ps. ROB. whoever has "dissed" you--it's not me. never. If anyone thinks that I have forgotten their writing and efforts--how wrong that is.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on December 03, 2007, 11:41:16 AM
Dad is like Darth Vader, a hateful bitter man.
He's more booze, drama and machine than actual human.
I'm not like Luke Skywalker.
How am I supposed to find the good in this man?

He can't be my father.
I looked at him and my blood ran cold.
Pity and sorrow were the only feelings
chasing their way through my brain
as i first laid eyes on him.

high school was racked with
self-doubt, lashings out at mom,
and trying to find myself in
bottles of beer, and ben's pants.

On Graduation Day, I balled all the way to school,
drowning in sorrow at the fact that my father
wouldn't even so much as be expected to show up that day.

Life seemed like smooth sailing at my
six to two thirty job.
She asked me who he was and I responded,
creating this chain of events, and puting them
quickly into motion.

His ex wife trotted into my life soon afterwards.
She was a nervous wreck, unable to eat and
horrified at my existance.

The kids found out the week of NIN, BDS, Work and Alex.
We met at the local Pizza Hut.
I wore a dress, lipstick and heels for Paige.
That week was full of emotional breakdowns,
stress, heartache, surprises, bonds and peace finally being made.

The kids know and love me.
He's stressing them out over Holidays and the Roach family.
It's not fair to any of us to pay for the sins of our father.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 03, 2007, 05:10:34 PM
Mandolin--1st I miss you. 2nd--if you're going to write poetry like that, then you should continue to WRITE as the mood strikes you. Some lovely images in that one, and I bow in your direction. :coolsmiley:


in the a.m.
the sun's blinking through
a strand of cloudy blinds,
all bound up in a girdle.
pink tints hurled as loyal and
faithful as no person could
Ever be or squander.

this isn't gambling,
with a promise to keep
at least fifty for a bill,
make that forty--
before leaving the table.

here is the sun that always
makes the body go fishing,
aroused in so many
bald personal kinks.

And

frost looks dismayed to
find the moon has left it--
as if in doing so, it means
the romance has resigned.
not even leaving a note
on the pillow,
a blasphemous Cheater.

I can't imagine how
both partners met
on a dance floor,
but I believe it to be
why Dawn and Dusk
each hold their "D"
tight in pockets of
tides slurping in
and fondling the sand
Out.

standing out on the
porch,
watching the frost start
to wind down the face
of the windows on the car,
hoodwinked and dazzled
by the pace of light.

this full dilation by 
increasing broad shoulders,
swirling yellow into the
batter,
i want to lunge into the
interior Cold, and watch this
talented ice turn to water,
just as fire to embers,
children to adults.

how fast it all goes was
declared by science in
uniform recognition,
all straining in some
machine
whether real or imaginary,
whether pink or yellow,
singing about carbon and
water.

water to frost to water,
All of it toying with the
Ground, tickling sides.
me in the backseat of a
car shaking my breath
like a martini.
my jaw opens and i realize
the presence of body heat
will speed up my Sunny-
Frost show...

to be selfish, thankful, and
guilty all at once.
the Sun dismantling the
ice in this or that spot
with a wry chuckle,
even the smallest nature
Watch is full of change.
and not a thing the moon
can do about it.
revenge comes at night.

i get out the scraper
before the toes turn black.
take the Sun's side for
Now.
and scrape off the frost,
helping it run towards
the ground, so that it may

Rise
again and again while
i resume my love for the
clouds breaking in their
shoes, the Sun firing off
verbal nettles.

perhaps slightly forlorn
to see the frost
fall down all winter
Long.
to be infallible is the part
forgotten when it comes
to our Star.
the burden it carries passes
even the astronomer
as meaningless.

today the feeling for this
dear frost and sweet sun
is like finding that the
cat
brought you a mole
on the porch--
giving Mama the dregs,
dead animal gifts.
gross and appreciated.

pink
yellow
water
falling off a car.
once clutched
in an absurd and human
conviction.
 

-----------------------------------------------------------------blallalalaalal
dgapgdfafeijwgghaoirgja;dfjaigikpafdf[aejargjapjasdjfajfegarhadkjfa;djghhiokk
jfoahaghadja;dij;anmcviahefgrg;oirgh;aroigha;orgh;adjf;adj i had space to fill somehow. sorry. :violent5:


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on December 04, 2007, 03:41:49 AM
Shame?

Yeah, I have that, too.

It feels too goddamned human.
I can't stand it.
It makes me want to change.

I pray to God, asking him to exist.


-freetyping 1 - Shame, slightly edited, 12-4-07 3:35am E.S.T.


I don't care how bad this poem sucks. It is truth, from one human to those who can identify. That is poetry to me. Saying that which cannot be said concretely because the fickleness of words cannot capture things of the soul, unless used in a way that transcend secular thought.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: albunde on December 09, 2007, 10:21:21 AM
Prayer

I will walk to the horizon
and ask the sky for silence
just for a minute or two
whilst i bow my head
and pray for the day's demise
There will be a new tomorrow
i am certain
There will be a new tomorrow
i am certain
Everything will be ok
how can i be so certain?

Who am i to say
that i am an eco-system
when i am empty?
This is a prayer for me
This is a prayer for you
Just tell me that there will be a new tomorrow.

I noticed you were fighting
when i was already bleeding
and i ran to the ocean
asking the waves to bring you back
but you never came.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: albunde on December 09, 2007, 10:26:17 AM
Pictures

I could turn myself
inside out
with this guilt
As you turn yourself
inside out
with your obsession
and don't think that i don't know
because i know
She said she found the pictures
beside your bed.

How is it
that i influence the way
you look at your own reflection
Why is it
that my willingness to help
will only underwhelm you
Just as my consolations
refuse to console you.

Are you ok?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: sleepingcoyote on December 11, 2007, 10:12:21 AM
I sometimes poem.  Here:



U-35 and I-26



your shoulders roll fragile, fluttering
moth in the cold; i am wearing only

indifference to highway scars.
when all the clothes are gone,

what's important, in the dark?
not your nudity, not the skin

you call tired, not the veins,
not the moles, not the breasts

you're afraid i'll see.
it's the smile.

this is what drives me to passion,
this smile and smell of you,

herbgarden i thought i'd left
to my tail-lights, under jungle-gyms

in the park, freedom i didn't know
from handcuffs.  soft, powder snow.

you are so almost, so slight
fancy, thin streak of please

in the moonlight.
i've seen more than your body

scared back to sixteen
on a midnight mattress.

call these few wrinkles creases.
this skin, parchment; these veins, blue highways.

i will make you a map i have unfolded
to find us both back home.




Hi.  We have similar taste in music.  Yay?

________
Ross

while you and I have lips and voices, which
are for kissing and to sing with,
who cares if some one-eyed son of a bitch
invents a machine to measure spring with?
-ee cummings
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: sleepingcoyote on December 11, 2007, 10:56:28 AM
It appears Devery, that I should leave you alone with 2 broken fingers --and I am struggling -fuck. I should have broken my hand sooner, fallen into a pit of misery, and left you alone to continue your Book in Homage to Frost. (err hahaha) No. Stunned. Always. Where? Why? I should never encourage anyone again...except...
"Woman Like A Man" D. Rice B-Side should be dedicated to my ex. And here she is, lying across the arm of the chair, waiting to F__K any single thing.


knew it, but not when--
that the call would be
hysterical and frantic,
like a dog in heat.
lost in some bar you'd never
encountered before
and the heroin
of my fallen heroine
collapsed and poised
in a circle, rattling her tail,
ready to drop those fangs.
13 minutes on her cell phone,
wanting to fix by sewing
and lacking thread--
no problem for the lippy
Monster Mom she loses
in a two-lane maze.

confirming the condition:
bleeding on scraped knees and
giggling about that--it reveals
All our love poured out
on the street, into the drains,
on the drips and tiny feet of Rats.
my small feet included and deleted
letter by l e t t e r.

my dear vagina host, it was
some sort of joke your Mom
spilled on the kitchen floor
or better,
down the Sink you once dared
dared, laughing at my quizzical
fat face.

"put your hand down and i'll
turn the disposal on for just a
second..."

and so the coincidence that
my hand was broken
like a chicken neck,
when i needed turkey.
it's thanks -give to me day.
it was a covert secret drunken
spell
and you shouldn't remember it
you can't remember it
you won't remember it--
shed your skin Mrs. Rattler.
shed it into the mouths of
all the delighted pursued,
the creases of Kitsch heads
like mine
waiting to exhale and let you
die a ridiculous death.
alone.
an infected skinned knee i
wonder...

cause Jumble Jo has money
and he's healthy and 
you fuck him on top like your
Mom did when she bashed the
side of that head just as thunder
makes a chandelier tinkle.
You were brittle it seems.
So play the same way taught
and dominate, subjugate,
terminate in a waltz.
and wasn't it...cum at the
same time, you said?
cum at the same moment?
Jumble Jo's coming back tomorrow,
and tonight
you regret.
oh, you slur over two minutes
and i allow it like a piglet.

some shrapnel aching to dig
deeper. some way to Be the
folding, smiling, warm hues your
Mother should have given without
Bribery.

but this is so old, the new wrinkle
in my brow is laughing at my
ear. i'm a fool waiting to hear one
word. i'm her fool, her Riot in silence,
her beacon back to art.
my mouth is now almost under
Hers,
and when I look up
I dare to look down.
I see Narcissus stretching on my
lonely chair. Picking her teeth with
fifty dollar tweezers that insisted
we Need, need, needed.


My Love
it meant little to you to share
the same bowl with me,
my hunger may have amused,
but it could not detain your wretched
cruel and flawless Mother.
as the minutes crawled down,
i did not breathe. i looked under
the table
for a train to knock me dead.

you are the conclusion
of why children never turn into
adulthood without grunting,
possibly never and as a casualty-
all my screwed-in dead ones.
without a heap of trash bags
to lug on their backs.
no, you'll never forget it.
never be over it.
and be just like her.
heroine taking heroin,
wanting to try everything just once.

feel my fist connect.
you have 5? minutes left on the
cell phone,
and my shoe spirals through
burning the side of your face,
like Your MOM birthing you
and crapping a ton of misery
in your timid lips.
the birthing has been reversed,
and i have shoved you back
into the dark
so whine, cry, bitch.

a canal like her cunt
resembling somewhat the pink
labia surrounding yours-
an innocence that should have
been the bruised color of my own
lovely curls.
 stained glass that has
gone horribly beautiful and odd,
all this time without the skinniest
fingers you hold...
no knuckles belong in them,
and yet they once belonged
in me.

find Mama next time you're
Tripping and he's out with Boys
slinking in the woods
laughing at their farts,
age 65. age 10. spitting duels
for husband. find your Ma.
go find your Ma
in the mirror
where you placed your hair
with thirty bottles of conditioning,
straightening, bonding,
adhesive
for your day.
look at you now. closer at the nose.
your "good" side is a
narcissistic-bloom
 
of a woman dying with a line of
Men coming up from the soil like
weeds.
to touch the illusion of a warranty
all thin fingers and a hidden rattle.
doesn't matter if the rattle was
your toy, or now your tail-
the delusion of safety confronts
Us
as you hurry and say

you're running out of minutes.
could i call your friend's number...
seven one seven

and i am deaf.
i am deaf.
and you are crying.
my pink woman.
my beastial snake.
and dumbcluck.

i don't know if
my fingers broke
Now.
before or after
you called.
or why.



sheeit. this needs a ton of work..........................a ton of work but i have to go and only have a few fingers at hand. this ending sucks and is fiction, but it felt that way...shit. advice. serious...the ending is screwed, and i have to fix it. but later. and Devery. Fishy. Innocence. Larry. Everyone--i've missed you 2. ps. ROB. whoever has "dissed" you--it's not me. never. If anyone thinks that I have forgotten their writing and efforts--how wrong that is.


Can I give you some editing opinions on this?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 14, 2007, 12:58:05 AM
anyone is free to give me editing options--or any options--or any opinions on anything i put in here. and btw. what's fair is fair. i was drawn to read you, and now that the reader has done so, the writer feels a dash of exhaustion, a smile, and a moment of..."hmm, would i have done it ____?--or is it brought to the dinner table in such perfect measure, and so personal, that perhaps I should not touch this with a global foot pole?" I don't mean to sound the shit, but by now--unless you are new to this land (and Hello if you Are!)--I think some of what I am trying to get at is what someone once called "the essence of the thing."

take apart what you have read from that poem. do you take it literally? do you take the juxtapositions of the snake, the reflections of her mother's shoe smashing her face, the anger/confusion/desire/need/dread of the entire situation...ahhhh. fuck. i'll simply help you out here. the beauty of our beginning together is in direct opposition to the complete destruction of our parting...(every lover hurt feels this, but without it--how very few "dramas" in the cinema would exist, and how many books that tear your heart to pieces would endure--and how many poems would you actually take the time to memorize "like a pan of knives" b/c you simply need 2?)

oh. i heard amanda palmer recently in one of her blogs say that she felt somewhat ...mmm...fake/false in regards to being "heartbroken" --and yet. i would invite her back to her music, where she goes on a frequent basis. she hurts as much anyone does, but i think at the time she wrote that--she was on a rather "up" or numb day. floating by...forgetting all about Timmy and 4th grade? i dunno.

so, please. i will take absolutely no offense. you can turn the whole thing upside-down. it was written in a hurry, a flurry, and i don't lose my "original" even if it needs work. and I'd be interested in seeing what you come up with, because if it is anything close to what I was actually Saying--and you can figure that one out--you're not only a poet/writer--you should be my therapist.? a small joke.

to you and albunde, i am simply curious. it is odd this little place in here. i wish when certain people crawl in that they would come back with more. to each their own--but for you. i hope you continue to bring your own in, and you can toss my --i suppose it's poetry anytime. you have me engaged and even honored --hopefully you understand that to take that much interest in someone else's writing IS an honor in itself. i simply want more from you. more.

oh, coyote. i see you are a cummings "fan" --and i know some of his writingBreath, am fond of what i know. i will tell you that i am on a Sexton binge. there is something to be said for the lack of conjunctions, the lack of words that need not be repeated. then there is the flipside of that. the more verbose style. i think if you look long and hard enough, it's a matter of taste--and more importantly. the "style" itself that makes these people famous, is usually fluid. dependable. i am not sure that i have a "style" --it's more like...the mood of the subject itself determines the style for me. and perhaps that is my...lack of discipline? something to consider. i'm just glad no one has plopped in as a Frost fan yet... :icon_king:(old joke)

humbled........................me
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 14, 2007, 02:16:52 AM
this is an ugly, ugly "narrative" poem. read it. forget it right after. i have been dry for so long that i have to scratch the dust off to even find my bearings. and no. i don't need a shrink. this is my shrink. the sequence of the stanza's--off a tad i do think. time can change anything, although i doubt the Earth's gravity will change all that much. did you know, it's about...you'd have to lift 200 lbs. on the moon for it to = 20 lbs on Earth? (round about numbers, but damn close) amazing. what is more amazing is when you are so sick that you can't even walk to the corner of your street without being winded. when you are little and healthy, you can never conceive of such a thing. time can change anything?



one week in bed or on
the melted chair,
swayed under my weight.
my baby boy walks by
and purrs with his timely
egyptian face. i try to
smile the infant's warmth,
and fail.

my knees are crippled
and in constant salsaThrobs,
working sideways to sleep
shifting the whole falling
breast
up to my chin when it's
watering time. up to piss and
up to eat cereal, and down
again. salsaThrobs noticed.

oh jenny! jenny!
where has our tough,
rounding corners to catch
an extra base, balls up and
knuckles in, a smash up the
middle, and oh, she once
flew.
flew like a viper.
caught everything in hands,
buried A's like moths snatching
lightbulbs. flying or was it skidding?
seemed like a viper anyWhichway.


head to the floor,
new schools bubbling up between
coast and corn
never in fashion, braces and
glasses and everything falling
in counted synonyms when
bored.
head to the floor,
hidden cans with words that
gurgled as infants to the
same writing over and over
until the holocaust
actually knocked on the door

politely asked to come in,
sat quietly on a rocker
and when asked if it needed
anything.
Exploded.
everything smelling of burnt
Toast.

oh, jenny! our jenny!
look at her patience, writing
notes with one hand while an
unfortunate chews on the other...
she'd say, "there, there, my love"
and smiles would roam the
workplace like bunnies. she
could be anything.
she might bring the sky down
and hold it for a bit.
she can juggle anything.
some hospital visits required.


from the instant the thing
was consecrated and grew
a tiny timid brain.
from the instant they gazed
at the birthing of this new
breed without skin.

she was already swollen.

not talking to anyone.

selfish and depressed.

as good as gone.

oh, jenny
she's gone ill and don't
you know. try not to look at
her as that...
she does the best she can
doesn't she?
doesn't anyone?
she's our baby, baby girl.
and even when we're gone...

the melting chair
and salsaThrobs
and watering cans.
get her up at least to piss
and take some pills.
encourage movement at all
times, no matter how small.

time can change anything.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 15, 2007, 09:29:51 PM
albunde--where have you gone? you may be "new" to me, but come back. Devery. We are so late on Ting it's silly. After the holidays? YOU are overdue on your own poetry. I give you one day to give me one stanza at least. And if you can't put an entire masterpiece together, then send me a pm with a tidbit in it...
Anne and Emily swinging in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!

Revision #33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333...
 "half crack'd"


come to me witches,
no need to swirl around that
bare, bald mountain musical
Piece.
i am of you and because of
you, around your drab dresses
and above them
as well.

Beelzebub herself.
the rich have seats in the
best spots for Opera.
but for my witches,
i offer my copious rhapsodies
allegro! crescendo!
now kiss me slowly,
so much the more of It
Starts in the salient moan.

Right
before the brass start
trumpeting
for Gabriel.   

my Smut's Mythology.

1 can run so fast lightning
ceases.
slits its wrists.
in the tub obviously.
head lopped to a tilt.
pills and booze to get on.
make do.
Just as you already saw
how, no need for the Y.

yes. lightning.
its head is captured Here.
(click on "Here")

this next slide Officer
is a picture of my spread legs.
a perfect pawn shop cunt.
sewage spilling out or On, with a
cricket standing proud.
ants and raw meat are what
you See Now,
but look at my baby's foot!

look at your feet Witch!
a bunion is nothing like
what smells Jolly
without ever showering
in this fickle weather.

let's consider
another photo in time
lapse.

1-half foot sticking part
way out,
not the common way to
release children from the vapors
of gut baggies.
but judge me as
my mother's toes are
pink and Before you.
before her was me before
me was before her,

and you're becoming a
golden member of needing
no time to live in when
this Mass is done. you will
be me before time was before
yourself.
looking all sullen, lips
pursed and narrowing.
Narrow or demanding a
penny for a hit or prick.

baby ma's foot needs
tickling just
as much as my penis.
no, my dear rolled-eyed
Reader.
why you're so afraid of this
hermaphrodite
Lover--
I have buckets of bodily
needs. My feces perhaps
the Best of it--

This
is only a reaction to being
Awful      ly
unusual yourself.
forget the college stories,
and the fact your birth
Marks

have made you run so fast
you have no need for limbs.
your copperhead
Snakes'
private abdomen
supplies 2 dicks for 1.
i am now
wagering bets you can't
fuck for 16 hours straight
while humping.
Use the club pass.
The one that bars the niggers
will not please me...

i love my black beatific
sorceresses also.
please turn down the Bias.
toss your pennies in
a fountain
and my Satanic visage will
even swallow you there.
make a nice fat wish-prayer.
are you confused
that they are not the same?


my mother's little babe leg
is halfway out my vagina.
my dick has
discretely placed itself
in your mouth during
intermission. wake up and
pay attention.

swallow. (you knew that!)
i noticed in your pictures
that wreaths were put on
top of both those budding
penis nuggets
as they grew. and how the
1 lies to the right.
1 to the left.
Obviously we are snakes.
Worms are wiggling out of
the gates of heaven.

meaning: the moon.
and by introduction of myself
as Beelzebub,
i was also introducing you.
a union of union of union--
and everywhere.
lubricant...

there is bounty in lust, your
Individual
finger knows you best.
We are becoming
born of them, around them and
even descending below
Them. let's call for a strike.
let's stop my cum before your
cheeks gitjizzled.

i promise i will only be
true about this once. or did
your prayer pennies go 4?...
All the time we are together.
flying and bouncing marbles
off Eros' face stuck in tar.
a quick titter at Cupid's fat
Ass. aha!

let's get rid of those
ancient things. those
messy memories full of
crippling birthdays
where we both know
daddy and mommy
were forcing their smiles
About You.

lying about the cake.
the kazoo's you never had.
the time you were made fun
of for having an erection too
Interesting.
or bleeding through those panties
and running in terror.
we know Every Option
 on how a body
can be buggered, raped, and
 still be a piston in my bed.
I know how to woo you

away from shame.
you are in full view and smell
of my soiled and fetid
crap.

oh, yes.
i know everything about
All of you running. hiding.
Sad ones, in the bad seats
at the Opera. let's make it a
concert and light our heads--
all dicks and cunts Ablaze in
a furious riot to rush the Stage.
get up on top of me,

my cricket will step aside.
my sewage-filled cunt,
my mother's leg flopping out
like a white flag flaps for peace.
I will even forget this child for you.
I am not the kind to love the pack-
doggies. But if you are a dog,
we can work on manners.
Option #2. I'll wave my
dagger
and BindUs as Wolves.

look at my nipples stand up for You!
the bravest soldier in any attack
has the hardest teats.
my 5th one on the left never gets
Hard.
but my nipple skin covers where
you are sitting. 

not to mention.

your view by now.
you see me as vulgar
and i hug your
dick-lips,
tenderly plucking the rest
of your wreaths,
from your crossed legs.
i've snatched your erected
Mountains.
your hymens' flesh.
and now that we have fucked.

you can stay as long
as lightning hits.
slashing wrists while
Laughing on opiates.

open your eyes now that
I've ravaged you.
Ripped your intestines
out and blended them for
breakfast. You can be me
can be you and me eating
Ourselves Now.
yes.
keep me Always.
Pennies from Heaven.
my ticket's punched for you
  Super Fine Witch.
go ahead...

talk your way
Out.



oh. no  no  no nonononnonono. this is not for children. and perhaps i will delete it, as i am feeling this is Quite Possibly. Too disgusting for even myself. I'll think on that one.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: TitsOnTheRadio on December 16, 2007, 03:24:02 PM
Your last sunset ... (I'm no poet, but this just came out of my fingertips)

The night of your last sunset has come and gone.

It still rises in the morning,

and sets at night for me.

Our last farewell was not so pretty.

Tubes and bandages and blood,

is all I remember.

Our last kiss, you were cold and stiff.

I wasn't affraid. It was still you,

and your hand that I held.

I will never be the same. That night, you took away from me,

the only thing that was good.

A huge hole, left in it's place.

I scream silently, everyday.

Mad at that last sunset, that took you with it, and never brought you back.
 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Shawn on December 17, 2007, 04:18:25 PM
Your last sunset ... (I'm no poet, but this just came out of my fingertips)

The night of your last sunset has come and gone.

It still rises in the morning,

and sets at night for me.

Our last farewell was not so pretty.

Tubes and bandages and blood,

is all I remember.

Our last kiss, you were cold and stiff.

I wasn't affraid. It was still you,

and your hand that I held.

I will never be the same. That night, you took away from me,

the only thing that was good.

A huge hole, left in it's place.

I scream silently, everyday.

Mad at that last sunset, that took you with it, and never brought you back.

Heartfelt and beautiful. It reminds me of a poem that a non-trad student at my college wrote about the death of her husband. I'm sure that you'd like it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Shawn on December 17, 2007, 04:26:19 PM
Here's what's been going through my head lately. These poems are the most honest and raw that I've written in the last few years...

Take Your Optimism

I can't see the ground underneath the snow
the ground that's falling
even when I'm not there
and I'm not there

I'm taking it all in
as it comes along
and it's coming fast
ripping me like the wind
at a mountain's peak

I look at this ring on my finger
and wonder where it all went
follow your heart
to oblivion

Take me back
to where it all began
so that I can fix the wrongs
take me back
I won't be long

I'm owed nothing
I never am
perhaps because I AM nothing
perhaps less
how else can I explain
finding myself at this junction
yet again?

Yes, yes
I know that's overly negative
but that's my right
and not something that can be taken away
so you can take your optimism
and stick it up your rear

12/13/07  late afternoon
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Shawn on December 17, 2007, 04:34:36 PM
Thanks For Thinking Of Me

Well, it seems that you're having fun over there
without me
Of course, in your mind
I'm hardly a memory

No, don't let our former relationship
or my heart
stop you
on your way to happiness

I used to think
that I meant something
even after we ended it
but it would appear not

You're open to me winning you back, eh?
well, then I suppose the facts
that you've cut off practically all contact
and are going out on a date
with your lesbian best friend
shouldn't bother me, should they?

Thanks for the, "Thank you for thinking of me"
when I told you that I'd fight
to win back your heart
at least you acknowledged
that I said something
which is the only straw that I have left to grasp

I'm not at my nadir
but it can't be too far
not that you care
as you shove me further into your past

I guess that it's easier to forget
than it is to look me in the eye
and say "Goodbye"

12/13/07  late evening
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Shawn on December 17, 2007, 04:41:36 PM
Glint

So, is this really what I meant to you?
a person that you can forget
when my existence becomes inconvenient?
well, too bad

I am not a figment
of your imagination
nor a ghost
or a wisp of air

Perhaps I'm a bad memory
no more than a glint in your past
but I am still very, very
real

How dare you throw me away
like yesterday's garbage!
I deserve better
I AM better than that
I am better than you

The gleam of titanium catches my eye
and makes me think
"was there ever a time
that this wasn't a lie?"

I used to think the world of you
but you've taken that world
and ground it
to dust

I would have died for you
died for us
but since I no longer exist
in your mind
then I'll just have to die for myself
but not yet

12/16/07  early afternoon
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 17, 2007, 05:07:35 PM
he gave me the first drag of a cigarette,
and kicked the ball to me
gently challenging my legs,
their cunning and prowess,
unknown to me.
he flung daggers that went into
their sheaths upon striking,
my torso returned the assault,
playing sword-fight
with weed, stick, toy

and always ending up in the dirt.
rolling like so many marbles
down the bottom of the back
yard,
down to the huge willow tree,
and behind that to the trail
in the woods we had forged,
daring Robin Hoods'--
blowing cap guns at imaginary
foe's...

discretely turning away from
one another to pee
by the dead tree limb
we would roll over and search
underneath
at times.
him. daddy#2. blonde locks flipping
Off their fingers
at driver's passing by...

him, all limbs akimbo, and
slim with thick lips.
it was the timber of his voice
that would call me when he knew
i was just scared enough
as he had hidden
and it was growing dark outside...
i'd come running as a dog
to food.
he'd proudly place me upon his
shoulders

and take me over the blazing
cookie sheet of a street,
known only to me as the horror
of asphalt.
my feet never roughened enough,
and his flopping without flinching,
he'd start into a jog, stop quickly
and hold me tight upon the
canoe of his shoulder blades.
me laughing with brother.
the Laugh that brings all beings
to union.

and as he dared to reach further
to find something to accomplish.
be productive. clearly it Was
a production! A play! A coup!
The resistance worn down on one
afternoon...

my head lying next to the toilet.
something between my legs.
and the reason he is not
invited to Christmas...

a gentle boy all the same, and one
with defects I would come to know
as "simple" while he was adding
to his brain,
speed, acid, booze, Any Thing.
the call home after he ditched
high school and the family
dinner table,

I had said nothing of our Changed
Play. I had offered no reason why
my hair was unwashed and I wore
only jeans. A denim Robin Hood
to the hilt...
running down the gym dribbling,
all the girls in shorts, and me in
my Jeans. Lips snapped shut like
can flaps.

oh, dad.
it was not so much that you failed
Me. you could not have known
until my mouth became unhinged
under the pressure
of a centrifuge move to
the coast.
no longer raising my hand in class.
no longer talking or bringing
in friends.

when you got the phone call
that your son was hospitalized,
your daughter had simply beat
him to it,
and there in the halls of a rancid
shower-- a grown woman watching
close. some pieces of me were
left swirling around the drain--
chipped soap scraps.
and though i have been forgiven
for punching you at age 13,

your son. the one that carried
me through cliffs, and told the
neighbor Virgin Princess to
Leave Me Alone.
to stop teasing me on the bus
where a crowd would watch
as i turned the sway of my
seat
to look out the window,
growing good at the trick of it.
not listening to the jabs
but Seeing all of them.
she left me alone after his
warning, for i was his wife.
his buddy and little sister.
his dream to be productive.

all those years ago
he was festering something awful
and your anger at Him
allows you no forgiving
of Me.

i know. even so. that the only thing
you have in your shoes
to provide to him as he
glides over asphalt
the rest of his days,
is a check.

here and there.
certainly at Christmas...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: sleepingcoyote on December 18, 2007, 12:54:37 AM
Hmm.  Let's see, tonight.

she says
           (fear)
she carves her name
onto red candles with
(She says)
fear smells like piss and cigarettes
and she says good
she says catch
me, i'm the best at falling, me
i'm the best at
she says
fear carves her name onto red
candles are about to
       (burn)
she says burning it at both ends
brings you closer to the she says
catch it in the middle and it won't burn
                 (your hands)
she says,
fear smells like carving
her name into candles the color of piss
and cigarettes if you catch it
while it's burning,
keep your hands
out of (she says)
catch me,
i'm
burn-
ing.



And prefer, I've been on a Rumi kick, lately - some Sufi poetry, in general.  Hmph.  Tired.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 18, 2007, 10:45:25 AM
Sleepingcoyote---Bravo!! Rumi and Sufi? Describe, pls? I am one of those odd poets that has chosen only a few to kick my shoes off and digest fully--rather. Poetry found me around age 10-12. And. Lately. I've been considering posting those, as they are hysterical--and already full of my...

oh. Troubled? Outlook upon the world. This latest poem you offer is even More to me somehow. The stuff of heartbreak and relationships would be a robin's egg I'd inspect anytime...

your style of writing reminds me of...
no!
it reminds me of an edited version of some of my own, only better in their direct nature, and lacking some of the overtly--long-winded ones that i have posted...

but. this is the trick of any writing i suppose. never knowing if what your mind has offered--the "sound" of it, i suppose, is truly reflected in the format of your choosing. and always, impossible for me to know which # revision--or original--is the better...(i don't have an editor living with me, which is something that i would pay for--perhaps i could afford...mmm. 25 bucks a month for that special service?)

i had been afraid i'd scared you off or that you misinterpreted my honest response to you--but I am glad that this is not the case. i find your own poetry to be the stuff of specialty. your own style suitable to my eyes/ears/stomach??
how one comes to the question of "taste" in these matters is a gut-check. My gut-checking on You and the poems that are affecting me here in this thread should be obvious...? So. Keep coming in. Please? :D

ps. i can't help but wonder who this woman is, whether past or present, and the forces she brings, candles burning at both ends????????
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 18, 2007, 04:30:30 PM
a paradox.
(perhaps a catch-22?)

one has a wound
that is festering,
willing to take the
whole body down.

it is the stuff of
mucus and clay,
the molding of cell
to cell, and the inability
of the body
to Grin.

the mind knows nothing
of this, except for
the printed instructions
and warnings for the
bandaid dressings
a miscellaneous
doctor
has presumed to be
beneficial.

(having been schooled
and memorized the # of
bones in the body, these
wizards lack sympathy
in direct proportion to
the need of it...)

or perhaps. you have
found a wise one, and one
that knows the sand of
your disposition
by reading a chart
and shaking your hand.

(this is much like looking
in a crystal ball. or perhaps
reading the palms?)

and so it goes...
that right at the moment
when the hospital calls for
their part of 666666666....$$
that you will never have,
and make 10 buck payments
On

when pestered.

(One Runs to the Pharmacy)
(One slumbers in with their
Disease and Waits for 2 hours
for 4 pills)

One can only afford one of
those precious jewels.
And.
searching through the aisle
for relief,
one will undoubtedly

purchase the wrong
bandaid.
press it over the wound
of Misery.
and watch as the wound
Lives.

the rest of the body
falling Off.
right there.
smack-down.
outside the gates

of the health
Store.

(the ambulance will
not arrive in time. the
technicians will taunt the
choice of bandaid chosen)

even when the heart
Stops Dead.
pitapat. thump-de-
Thump.
eyes glazed and
open to the Sky...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: sleepingcoyote on December 18, 2007, 07:05:56 PM
Sleepingcoyote---Bravo!! Rumi and Sufi? Describe, pls? I am one of those odd poets that has chosen only a few to kick my shoes off and digest fully--rather. Poetry found me around age 10-12. And. Lately. I've been considering posting those, as they are hysterical--and already full of my...

oh. Troubled? Outlook upon the world. This latest poem you offer is even More to me somehow. The stuff of heartbreak and relationships would be a robin's egg I'd inspect anytime...

your style of writing reminds me of...
no!
it reminds me of an edited version of some of my own, only better in their direct nature, and lacking some of the overtly--long-winded ones that i have posted...

but. this is the trick of any writing i suppose. never knowing if what your mind has offered--the "sound" of it, i suppose, is truly reflected in the format of your choosing. and always, impossible for me to know which # revision--or original--is the better...(i don't have an editor living with me, which is something that i would pay for--perhaps i could afford...mmm. 25 bucks a month for that special service?)

i had been afraid i'd scared you off or that you misinterpreted my honest response to you--but I am glad that this is not the case. i find your own poetry to be the stuff of specialty. your own style suitable to my eyes/ears/stomach??
how one comes to the question of "taste" in these matters is a gut-check. My gut-checking on You and the poems that are affecting me here in this thread should be obvious...? So. Keep coming in. Please? :D

ps. i can't help but wonder who this woman is, whether past or present, and the forces she brings, candles burning at both ends????????

Sufism - http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufism
Rumi - http://www.sacred-texts.com/isl/masnavi/msn01.htm

On concision in poetry:

Writing is editing is trimming away unnecessary words. 

On the last poem I posted:

It's about my friend Drew, who's busy juggling her life, while wearing a blindfold - keeping the fact that she's gay from her parents, school, raising her girlfriend's child, and she's scared of things.  S'all.

On editing:

Post a poem you absolutely want to workshop.  I'd love to talk about wrenching on it, and I'll be happy to give you my opinions.

However - I'm not going to blow smoke up your ass about your work - emphasis on work.  We also may not agree about poetry - it's important to bear this in mind.  Workshopping is an exchange of opinion in the interest of growth - for both parties.  It just needs to be honest.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on December 18, 2007, 10:07:07 PM
Workshop this

Fondue
Fondle
Fondly frollic
Fast first
Fist firmly
Finally
Filthy
Freeze...


Fine!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on December 19, 2007, 02:32:53 PM
Devery. We are so late on Ting it's silly.......
Anne and Emily swinging in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!

Revision #33333333333333333333333333333333333333333333...
 "half crack'd"


come to me witches,
no need to swirl around that
bare, bald mountain musical
Piece.
i am of you and because of
you, around your drab dresses
and above them
as well.

etc.


oh. no  no  no nonononnonono. this is not for children. and perhaps i will delete it, as i am feeling this is Quite Possibly. Too disgusting for even myself. I'll think on that one.

Yes, I see.  An old piece for an old thing put to a new use.  Always worthwhile.

Thanks for the Anne and Emily kissing image; another new thing to warm the heart on these cold days and nights.

And - yes - finally, a new Ting, although it is far too short and insubstantial:


The Return

The Other spoke
again
after centuries.
Ting listened and
did not believe,
putting only the
unspoken words
into her notebook.

Her room was smaller
than when she
was favored,
with an inside wind
for her penance.

At nightfall, she
curled up in the
icy cold and
waited,
for she had nothing
left.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: sleepingcoyote on December 20, 2007, 12:10:48 AM
Workshop this

Fondue
Fondle
Fondly frollic
Fast first
Fist firmly
Finally
Filthy
Freeze...


Fine!

as an alliterative experiment, it's worth looking at.  As a poem:  There's no arc to it, no tension, no metaphor, it's just a list of words.  Interesting assonance with "Fondle fondly frollic" but there's no cohesiveness between the three words other than noise.  Also - 'ly' as a suffix, in poetry, can lead a reader into boredom. 

So.  My workshop stance, here:  Alliterate me a complete, coherent thought.  There's yourworkshop.

--yote
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on December 20, 2007, 09:55:24 AM
as an alliterative experiment, it's worth looking at.  As a poem:  There's no arc to it, no tension, no metaphor, it's just a list of words.  Interesting assonance with "Fondle fondly frollic" but there's no cohesiveness between the three words other than noise.  Also - 'ly' as a suffix, in poetry, can lead a reader into boredom. 

So.  My workshop stance, here:  Alliterate me a complete, coherent thought.  There's yourworkshop.

--yote

Perhaps you have not spent enough time with this piece.  You see, it is a poem, there is an arc, there is (sexual) tension.  Let me give you some insight into this master's piece, then give you another run at it.

Fondue is my lover (you couldn't have known that).  I guess some punctuation, a comma perchance, could have helped clarify.

Next comes a list of commands, or requests, I'm no Brute...yes they are requests.

Fondle- self explanatory.
Fondly Frolic-also as above.
Fast first- a request to cleanse herself before performing the afore mentioned actions.
Fist firmly- sorry if I offend, but I like it a little rough.
Finally- at last.
Filthy- that hand is going to be a bit foul.
Freeze- stop.

and last, a compliment to let her know that she has pleased me.

Fine!- she did a wonderful job.

Maybe you need a little more experience deciphering the masters.  I will work on bolstering my suffixual arsenal.  Thanks for the advice.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: sleepingcoyote on December 20, 2007, 06:58:55 PM
as an alliterative experiment, it's worth looking at.  As a poem:  There's no arc to it, no tension, no metaphor, it's just a list of words.  Interesting assonance with "Fondle fondly frolic" but there's no cohesiveness between the three words other than noise.  Also - 'ly' as a suffix, in poetry, can lead a reader into boredom. 

So.  My workshop stance, here:  Alliterate me a complete, coherent thought.  There's yourworkshop.

--yote

Perhaps you have not spent enough time with this piece.  You see, it is a poem, there is an arc, there is (sexual) tension.  Let me give you some insight into this master's piece, then give you another run at it.

Fondue is my lover (you couldn't have known that).  I should have been able to infer it, or pick it up contextually.  "You couldn't have known" is equivalent to "I'm too lazy to show you."  Alliterative Editorial Comment:  Fail.  Also, it's totally unclear whether fondue is the name of a person, or hot cheese, in this instance - a distinction which the poem hinges upon, as hot cheese has no fist with which to grip your no doubt throbbing member and cannot fast - barring, of course, low-fat cheese, though I give you a hint more credit than that.I guess some punctuation, a comma perchance, could have helped clarify.  Punctuation is master's work.

Next comes a list of commands, or requests, I'm no Brute...yes they are requests. Show it.

Fondle- self explanatory.
Fondly Frolic-also as above.
Fast first- a request to cleanse herself before performing the afore mentioned actions.  While I respect ambiguity, "Fast" in this line, is too muddy to indicate your desire for a skinny ho to cuddle with.
Fist firmly- sorry if I offend, but I like it a little rough.  "Firmly" is too weak a word to indicate a rough handjob.
Finally- at last.
Filthy- that hand is going to be a bit foul.
Freeze- stop.

and last, a compliment to let her know that she has pleased me.

Fine!- she did a wonderful job. 

Maybe you need a little more experience deciphering the masters.Maybe you need to write a better poem.  I will work on bolstering my suffixual arsenal.  Thanks for the advice.  You're welcome.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on December 20, 2007, 08:49:49 PM
Also, it's totally unclear whether fondue is the name of a person, or hot cheese, in this instance - a distinction which the poem hinges upon,

I'm Cheddars Cousin...Who the hell am I supposed to get with...Arugala?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on December 21, 2007, 03:32:59 AM
I am fond of ambiguous and mysterious poetry...as well as head-on collisions.
Innocence. I probably can't reach you before I leave for the trip. You should continue to Write. You are truly unbelievable, and I leave my heart at your step--knowing you will pick it up! Devery. I'm giving it my best shot for now!

The Exchange
_______________
Charlie rounds the corner,
heading to the Plaza.
the bass is so high
that Ting's legs look like
buoyant toothpicks in a
candy jar,
ricocheting off the door
and her pill bottles as
one of her pump's frowns
under the front seat.


her head jogs loose like
a rabbit's foot key-chain
in a child's clinched Fist
while bobbing for apples.
and then she remembers
as the lights change to orange,
it is time for the meat cleaver
and the paw
of the butcher's fat hand to
fall again...

Charlie's door slams and gives
Ting the scent of cooked duck.
she knows it's table #35,
but not whether the hair that
will be sitting there will be
firm red, black coal, or blonde-
 frivolous.

groping for her cell phone,
the door fumbles from its
clicks and red velvet,
and her right leg falls into
the sip of a green gutter...
as the Red Cement rides closer
to her nose,
a flash from a camera

sends her arms soaring into
the window and the bulge
of His midriff,
her teeth grinding like salt
into crystal,
and her mind excusing a
decade of disco memories
in bathroom stalls...

Charlie grabs her by the
back of the neck,
and shakes her like a dead
chicken--
Ting's feathers
discharge themselves from
obligation,
and she finds her heel
pounding the front of
her foot for oxygen.

the car has gone into White,
and she flows up
onto the curb like a notebook
heaved out of a drawer.
she looks down her legs
for wool stockings
and eye's the rip in her hose.

no one is on the sidewalk.
her legs meet the concierge
upon turning to the left,
as a toddler in a bell boy cap
beams at her bosom
like it's cooked orange duck.

Ting halts. The cell phone in
her purse has escaped,
leaving the rest of the imprisoned
Objects to run wild.
a white rabbit's foot
made into a clip-key-chain
finds her hand.

middle pocket.
a ringlet of cut claws
under a tapestry of silk
nibbles.
Bites.
Finishes.
diving into her wrist
like a cleaver spanking Fat.



???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Holmes on December 21, 2007, 04:12:44 PM
Baby darling breaking hearts
push back your hair.
You're a thorn of sweet religion.

You're the slipping steps
by the chapel lawn,
the crisp of fall, fall
fallen leaves.
You're the sharp in glass
the beauty of love
illusion of love
and fantasy
of delusion.
My peace and perfection.
Baby darling warm as wood,
open your eyes.
My heart can be yours.
Your pages are
my Bible.
You're my pretty piece of
perfection
they don't know you.
Listen. Listen only
to me.
Baby darling, mystery-lie
Open your eyes, and
push back your hair.
Break my heart.

i love it, it's beautiful.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lil' lindsay on December 21, 2007, 07:23:26 PM
catching buggies in my room
watching racecar buggies
going zoom zoom zoom
little buggy dances
couples tied by thread
buggy sixty-niners
giving each other head
buggies with their legs pulled off
in the sink like boats
buggies in the mayonaisse
on daddy's eggs and toast
buggies in my cooter
to see just how it feels
buggies in my brothers hair
to hear his girlie squeels
i don't like barbie all that much
dolls bore me to tears
but taking lives
just cuz i can
has been fun for all my years
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: TitsOnTheRadio on December 22, 2007, 09:26:10 AM
I was going through some of my stuff that my dad loaded in the Jeep when it was sent back here. He had tucked this in with some of it, and I just found it a couple of days ago...it, apparently, was clipped out of the newspaper, a long time ago...

When I come to the end of the road,
And the sun has set for me,
I want no nights in gloom-filled rooms.
Why cry for a soul set free?

Miss me a little - but not too long,
And not with your head bowed low.
Remember the times that we once shared.
Miss me - but let me go!

For this is the journey we must all make,
And each must make it alone.
It's all a part of the master plan;
A step on the road to home.

When you are lonely and sick of heart,
Go to the friends we know,
And bury your sorrow in doing good deeds;
Miss me - but let me go.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mäire on December 22, 2007, 01:44:40 PM
Swollen eye
Chipped ear
Bloody mouth
Scraped paw
Battered heard
Aching tail
Missing nail
It begins to hail
It does not bother me
'Cause you see
I’m a city stray
Find a shelter and get kicked out
Find a fish but it bites back
Find a human with no heart
Cold blood
Sets us apart
It’s not like it could hurt less
Oh but maybe one day someone will car for the city stray
So now I go to the only place I know
Down deep below
A place where no light glows
A place where only rats cast shadows
A place away from the blackened snow
A place down deep deep below
The sewer
But no not even the rats
not even they
care for the city stray
I walk back down the cobble stone street
Where only city crooks meet
Down to the ocean
I set my cracked paw into the frozen water
The salt stings
But my heart sings
Now I know
Oh now I know
It’s time to go
Oh it’s time to go

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: imaginary friend on December 22, 2007, 02:08:15 PM
angst: a vehicle
for going at very high
speed in a circle

plur
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lil' lindsay on December 22, 2007, 06:11:49 PM
nobody likes my buggy poem
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lil' lindsay on December 22, 2007, 07:06:22 PM
youre a twisted ninny. i like you.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: imaginary friend on December 23, 2007, 04:04:48 PM
nobody likes my buggy poem

Too derivative (ask your mom) of Shel Silverstein's work.

plur
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: TitsOnTheRadio on December 24, 2007, 11:29:16 AM
There's a special place in my heart
that only you can touch -
a place where I can go and feel you near.
Throughout the day I think of you.
I see your smile, hear your voice
and in my thoughts you lovingly appear.
The way we loved each other
makes it hard to be apart
so since I can't hold you in my arms,
I'll hold you in my heart
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 02, 2008, 08:46:19 AM
When I arrive back "here" I am always happy and surprised to find more people coming in, offering more jewels into the busting stack of a box. No pun intended.

Advice seeking: I had thought about the different types of poems in here, and the variety of "types" that they hold. Whether you want to call them by their format types, or how they might resemble your current favorite poet(s)--or as to their intention(s)/emotions. Meaning--in love 1's, anger 1's, melancholy 1's, inspirational 1's, mysterious/arcane 1's--and on, and on...

I think that due to its continuing additions, I sometimes hope people go backwards and randomly pick page 3 or 14 or 22. You get the idea. Why? Because if you simply drop your own in (which is a Fine thing, isn't it?) and haven't looked at the entire thread--you might be missing something that will inspire you to write again...

I have called that art/poetry "ping-pong" before, again, inspired by something you see in someone else's effort(s). I had thought about breaking down the poetry thread by introducing a breakdown of types ^^^. Then I thought that was silly, and only a matter of convenience for people that are looking for a specific kind of poem...

Some  Begging: Just as a previous "young" (?) woman offered--it would be interesting if the poet(s) would say where the poem came from. If it just slipped out of their fingers without Thinking (free writing?)--surrealistic ideas, a "true" life event, etc. OR--if they have no idea whatsoever where it came from--any such information would be interesting and possibly helpful for whoever is reading it. By all means, don't give away your "secrets" about the poem if you prefer they remain that way. However. If you are feeling like not naming names, and can skirt around it being toooooo personal--give ME (i don't care about anyone else...NOT TRUE?) more insight into what you are trying to convey.

If you haven't dozed off by now...I always found it annoying when my teachers asked, "what do you think the author means?" Okay. Sometimes it's obvious, like, "he didn't mean to murder her." Most of the time--especially with poetry--there is no way of knowing what the author means 100%. What I interpret and what someone else does--possibly, likely, completely different. (heh. funny) So. I begged. Ignore it if you like.

Just someone consider both things: A. is there a way of breaking down the Kind of Poem Offered--should other possible poem threads be started? (i fear this is a book people aren't reading sometimes...of course, they could just lack interest or be lazy buttholes') B. Consider giving insight to where your poem comes from--should you know...

Finally. Let's consult the administration about profits to be made from both the Olde Box and this one re: all the poetry and proceeds that could make $$ for the Dolls or --even more selfish--"Us"? Sound nuts? I have read some really poor anthologies...it's possible. Maybe. Someone ask someone in charge? Ahhh. We shouldn't exclude the lyrics thread either, as some musicians might find that engaging. (as well as non-musicians--get the Dolls Companion Book?--same idea basically) Oh, hell. Someone tell me if I have taken too much ecstacy. Forget it. impossible. It would have to be $$ for the Dolls, and someone outside of the thread would have to be an editor--then someone would feel "dissed" and feelings would get hurt...the CIA will waterboard all of us...i dunno...

Now I feel dumber than a box of rocks, but I can't help my pitiful ideas. :uglystupid2:

ps.

if you like e.e.cummings--and haven't checked out Cesar Vallejo--you should. some similarities. ignore all the exclamations, and there are some fabulous turns with metaphors, and yes--made-up nomenclature, surrealist qualities--a fantastic find from Santa. it will make you blink a few times i bet.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 02, 2008, 04:41:57 PM
Okay Ms. Cheeky! Welcome back to YOU. All of my poems are Thoughtcrimes.


he carries in five foundation
Poles crackling on the back
of arthritic fires--refusing a heat
Pad to take the inflated heart
for sale to town. there, with lucky
Power, he might pause. forget losing
the brown wisps that boasted
Picayune cardiac arrests. much as
the man seated himself on the

Bench with weights spilled like dice--
startled and tired knuckles...could've
Bellowed for help, but it was impolite
to ask for assistance at 40. the way
Hercules glowered Atlas down at dinner,
ripping knots of flesh out of his nose,
Heaping those grand shoulders up &

Down while sighing the breath of--a rabid
Dog loose on the plains, dismissing yarn &
Hurtling backwards. shot without a license
Holding a gun, he scratches the door with five
Big Pillar's for retirement and waits. the
Bow plunges into fruits and yodels out thick
Pacifying sugars. aroma therapy-ittle. robust
Pants lying next to one calculating cigar.


the dinosaur knocks. pale, soft. glassy.
giving away the next check-
Mate. "they just say 'mate' now."

a Doric Column. the fifth
Pillar left. Drops.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on January 04, 2008, 02:38:01 AM
Devery. I'm giving it my best shot for now!

The Exchange
_______________
Charlie rounds the corner,
heading to the Plaza.
the bass is so high
that Ting's legs look like
buoyant toothpicks in a
candy jar,
ricocheting off the door
and her pill bottles as
one of her pump's frowns
under the front seat.


her head jogs loose like
a rabbit's foot key-chain
in a child's clinched Fist
while bobbing for apples.
and then she remembers
as the lights change to orange,
it is time for the meat cleaver
and the paw
of the butcher's fat hand to
fall again...

Charlie's door slams and gives
Ting the scent of cooked duck.
she knows it's table #35,
but not whether the hair that
will be sitting there will be
firm red, black coal, or blonde-
 frivolous.

groping for her cell phone,
the door fumbles from its
clicks and red velvet,
and her right leg falls into
the sip of a green gutter...
as the Red Cement rides closer
to her nose,
a flash from a camera

sends her arms soaring into
the window and the bulge
of His midriff,
her teeth grinding like salt
into crystal,
and her mind excusing a
decade of disco memories
in bathroom stalls...

Charlie grabs her by the
back of the neck,
and shakes her like a dead
chicken--
Ting's feathers
discharge themselves from
obligation,
and she finds her heel
pounding the front of
her foot for oxygen.

the car has gone into White,
and she flows up
onto the curb like a notebook
heaved out of a drawer.
she looks down her legs
for wool stockings
and eye's the rip in her hose.

no one is on the sidewalk.
her legs meet the concierge
upon turning to the left,
as a toddler in a bell boy cap
beams at her bosom
like it's cooked orange duck.

Ting halts. The cell phone in
her purse has escaped,
leaving the rest of the imprisoned
Objects to run wild.
a white rabbit's foot
made into a clip-key-chain
finds her hand.

middle pocket.
a ringlet of cut claws
under a tapestry of silk
nibbles.
Bites.
Finishes.
diving into her wrist
like a cleaver spanking Fat.



???????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????????

And now, back to where I left off.  You asked if I could do a stream of consciousness type of thing.  Well - here it is, in all its imperfections:


Ting - The Return - Part 2

The night came
like a jailer
preparing for
the morning
punishment
she had let
the Other find
her, her freedom
being just another
long bondange
episode
but this long
wait in coldness
would be too much
although this
had been what
she longed for

so she went inside
herself
and saw that
there was so much space
she moved past the
corner box
empty
no safety there
or comfort
and down across
the hill and
upwards a small
light beyond
the trees
she focused and
went there
entered
put her feet up
and in her dream
she died and
the Other found her
and put her mouth
on hers and forced
Her breath inside Ting
the Gift of Life
but she was gone
she had found the one
place the Other could
never reach
and was finally
safe and
free

but then she looked out
in the predawn light
and saw the Other and
Nen on the patio that
faced the sea and
there was the girl
from the black car
hair black and long
and filled with curls
and her heart sang
to see it all
again

Ting turned for just
a moment to check
her room in all
its bare starkness
and looked back
outside
she saw the wind
the outside wind
that sealed her in
her room
the girl was gone
Nen had moved to
the corner and
rubbed his hands together
against the cold
the Other stared out
into the empty space
and down, down
into the sea.

and Ting knew she
would not die and
would face the new
day and would
embrace the pain
and she would once
again be in Her favor
and she would someday
find Her weakness and
would take back what
had always been hers.

in another time Ting
might have smiled
she found the basin
and splashed her face
and called for her maid
that would not come
today.

she could wait.
she was used to destiny
taking its old, sweet
time.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 05, 2008, 12:41:44 AM
The Lobby Ambulance
______________________

Ting saw the cookie next to the
desk clerk's hand, one mouth-sized
hunk removed so easily
that a forensics's expert could
easily identify Mr. Polish,
the name so full of consonants
and her constant mispronunciation
of it rolling over her in a quirky way
like seaweed on a
shoulder instead of a thigh--
the Pul-ick-ni-gin-kle-est
cookie man.

absurd and abrupt, the top of
the polish cookie man's toupee
had a perfection
that the arches in the cherry wood
beams,
rolling up the ceiling as cathedral
glass constructs,
could only attain through artificial
breast implants.

yes. it was much like the
wedding she had once had in Latin--
lying all the way through while
the Other gave the ring and Ting
Away to the butcher.
his daughter's black long hair
was so greased that St. Paul
bounced his orange lights off her
brow and down her nose.
no eyes. why not? why were they
hidden?
(no. it could not have been Him)
it could not have been him.

through the haze of a foggy t.v.
screen-lamp, the iceblock had ruptured
her fingernails and was most disturbing.
Ting was separating faces she knew
into cubes. imperfect round cubes with
salad dishes to the sides of their heads,
all with the number 35 tattooed with
stamped out shredded carrots...

going backwards, the thump of
a magazine table, a woman's luggage
Set, and the oriental rug that covered
everything in lace stiletto smears
made her deaf and teased.
most of all
more than anything
the pressure in her armpit made her
want to giggle and bring it further,
the dangerous horse named in Polish
seemed to fall in love under
her nose, her eye, her
red, red leather skirt.

Nen now prying them through his teeth,
administering C.P.R.
as even the bell boy cap-head swarmed
but would not touch.
the Other walked over her eyes and
Ting reached up to tickle her inner
thigh.
or at least get in behind her knee.
at least get in behind the knee.
the girl from the car was now an

ambulance technician.
hostile and pounding her for answers
like the trial for sorcery where she
had been checked for devil's bite marks.
extra teats. the fog made this blood-
taker ask over and over and over...
"allergies?! take...drugs?! did you...?!!!"
she was blonde and her breasts were
slightly grazing against Ting's own
chin.

and that is where she had always
wanted it most. the area around her chin.
how fitting. a tribute. the fog sliding cubes
into rooms where one chair and a desk
were waiting to watch the Sex of it.
a picture of the ocean tilted on the wall.
Ting was lifted by the Other,
who looked like a bell boy but was certainly
Not.
the blonde girl technician from the car
covered her mouth,
and Ting yelled into a Styrofoam

cup.
might as well have been a pillow.
might as well have been a chunk of
flesh.
tossed out of a fat man's hand,
caught in jest in Nen's mouth,
the ambulance taking notes as it
ran over a lady on the sidewalk

and it just couldn't be possible.
not even possible it was Ting's mother.
but it was her mother that held her
hand over her mouth.
hand over her mouth,
time and again.
the blonde technician taking notes
after her arms were strapped.

a line of gravy dripping fast
her clothes cut off from her.
some blonde technician still stamping her
fingers in anger, writing numbers that were
cubes made into circles. Ting told the little
girl, "you aren't my daughter!" and was amazed
to find the hand of the bell boy

sneaking up her leg.

he was all over her.
all over her.
from entrance
to fall
to exit
to ride.
the bell boy was all over her.

and Nen seemed proud to have a
protege'...Nen seemed proud to have
his life again.
These were Ting's last thoughts
before her pulse
covered her mother's mouth on
the sidewalk.
no. not the sidewalk after All.
she covered her mother's mouth
so the Other would not become

embarrassed.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: shoeless on January 11, 2008, 10:43:22 PM
A fluid
Weighing down my chest
Leaves me heavy
Breathless
Unable to lift or
To be lifted

You never wanted to lift me

Your ego
Weighed you down
Until you sank
Below
(Below even me)
But I didn’t know
Initially
It wasn’t what I wanted

I wanted a companion
And those words
(The ones I read)
Those words
You said them clearly
But they were vile all the same
Contaminated
By the filth that is
(was)
Your ego

(I felt a pitter-patter
I think you brought the rain)

And I found that when around you
My throat
Severed itself
And I bled
Through my mouth
We both could see it
Pouring

I left on your
Involuntary command
When you said you didn’t care
Anymore
(But did you ever?)

I can hear your laughter
Still
Across the red sea of dust
That is my home
(For now)
I’m parched
My throat has dried
I hated you
But still you kept me
Hydrated

If I could stay at your motel
One more time
I wouldn’t
Make it through the night

David
(Go to hell)
I think I love you
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on January 11, 2008, 11:10:00 PM
My Two Cents

Shave and a haircut?
Two bits
won't buy you shit
anymore.

A dime a dozen
doesn't even
mean anything
these days.

A penny for your thoughts...

Yeah, right.

It'll take
a 5 year guaranteed contract,
a generous signing bonus,
stock options,
vacation, sick days
and
non gender specific family leave

to get me
to give you
my intellectual property.

Here's a dime.

Find another
forty cents
and
call someone who cares.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: roboticvampire on January 13, 2008, 07:39:21 AM
Older now, but still one of my favorites.  Also available elsewhere online.

Blue Boy

I.

I am not a prostitute.
At least that’s what I say whenever some
dirty and burly, bearded oaf decides
to give me just a little pinch and ask,
voice gruff, and breath reeking of drink and spew
for services even the girls won’t do
at prices that are, frankly, insulting.
Old Polly says, “Never you mind those loafs,
they just want to get a rise out of you,
though, you really are too pretty to live in
this part of town you know.” I guess she’s right.
I certainly do stand out from the rest,
silken blue trousers, matching vest and coat,
and darkened curls that I always keep clean
and coiffed. “Your vanity,” Polly says, “is
what always gets you into trouble, boy.
Why don’t you sell those gaudy things and buy
something more practical?” She’s right again,
I know, but Thomas gave me these and said
it would be quite a shame for one like me
to hide under the muck like all the rest,
and he’s always been kind to me, and smart,
he says someday I’ll be the darling of
the high society, and he’s always
darting off from one parlour to the next,
therefore it stands to reason that he knows,
more than Polly, what he’s talking about.


II.

And so I do my best to scoff and say
that, “I am not a prostitute, you dolt,”
which makes them laugh and pucker as they turn
and go back to the shadows of the bar
or alleyway where they will keep an eye
out for the next, choicest, viande d’homme.
“Where did you learn such foul language as that?”
Old Polly asks. “I bet it was from those
rich fops you’re always running around with.”


III.

One evening Thomas comes and picks me up
in a carriage that’s too fancy to be
his own. “Come on, my boy,” he says. “I’ve got
quite the surprise for you.” So I climb in
and we speed off into the night, stopping
at a stately townhouse in a part of
the city that I have never been to
before. Then Thomas goes and rings the bell
and instantly the door is answered by
a man in a black suit starched stiff and square.
The man motions us in without a word.
I don’t think I’ve ever been in someone’s
parlour before, other than Thomas’
of course, and can feel excitement begin
to tickle up and down my spine. Thomas
smiles and whispers not to be afraid,
that these are kind and powerful people
and all are anxious to meet me, his friend,
and before I can think of a reply
the man in black has already opened
the door and introduced us both, smiling.


IV.

Inside the room are a few older men,
older than Thomas, richer too, and they
all grin, jollily, like grandfathers,
at Thomas and myself. “Thomas, my boy,”
one of the gentlemen says as he gets
up and, setting down a half smoked cigar
embraces Thomas like father would son.
“M. Durcet,” my Thomas says, “how glad
am I to see you here again, it’s been
too long.” “Too long, my friend,” M. Durcet
responds, keeping his eyes on Thomas for
just long enough to be cordial before
turning to me and smiling, baring teeth
yellowed by years of fine tea and cigars.
“This must be the young man you told us all
about,” he says, placing his hands on my
shoulders. “Well, come my boy, and have something
to drink,” he says, his hands slide to my back.
“He’s just as you described Thomas,” he beams,
the man in black comes over with a glass
of fizzy juice which I, prompted by my
host, do drink down in a single, big, gulp,
causing all in the room to grin. M.
Durcet guides me over to a chair but,
before I can sit down, slides in and pulls
me onto his lap. All the other men
burst out in laughter their faces red with
merriment, and I cannot help but laugh
along, for though I had reservations
at first I must say they’re a jovial
bunch, fun to be around, and what’s a bit
of oddity in what they ask of me?
They really are just like my grandfather,
except they’re well to do. So if they want
a kiss I can’t help but comply, for though
they’re old and smell of wine and mold they are,
I know, because Thomas himself has said,
they’re gentlemen, and gentlemen always
know how to act, and Polly said the same
thing too, once, a long time ago.


V.

The room is lit so softly by candles,
which cast their striking shadows on the walls.
I swear I’ve read this scene somewhere before.
My head begins to spin, from drink, that has
to be its cause. I think I hear a laugh,
a giggle really, coming from somewhere
just out of sight, now here they come, I think,
I can’t tell, stumbling over the chairs
strategically placed, it seems now, but stop,
remember what they said, and what you said,
and promised him, “do not embarrass me
in front of all my friends.” Oh Thomas why?
This certainly is not the kiss you said
I might have to endure amongst these men.
I gag, I cough, I try to run, but can’t
and don’t, for reasons I don’t want to say
or even know myself, this drink, it must
be wine, how else could I completely lose
my wits, can’t even think, can’t even speak
when, there, I see M. Durcet standing
in the doorway, and there’s nothing else I
can do except stand there as well, held by
all of the rest, and shut my eyes, so I
can never see from them again.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 19, 2008, 12:02:06 AM
Bravo!! I don't have a heart, am not a prostitute (though i try), and don't have 40 cents, either. If I missed someone, I shouldn't :coolsmiley: have. Fantastic.


she has silk and brooches,
bracelets of gold, ivory keys,
the rarest of gems,
and all of them, each piece that
might save ten lives or twenty...
but her hands are tied from such
humanitarian affairs,
and instead her business is
only the business
of dealing the heir.
bursting her sack open with a prince
swinging out, both twigs slicing with
agile swords...


she can't imagine the pain that it will
take from her body,
only the price of the prince
and the Hold, Hold, Hold
it will give her from being flushed down
the well should her insides fail.
even a female would not suffice
enough, and this is the way it Was
and why they still put the baby
girls out to die in some other lands.

there are only so many useful things
a thing with brooches can do.
silk and ivory and gems and lover's
glances, "making eyes" over a long,
long, long table
that we call history...
and I will call Her.


2.

tonight I see Jocasta
loving her son in sin,
not recognizing the father
that laid him outside.
the sugar of his lips sweet,
his bravery and beliefs
as earnest as an
Angel.

and had not his very presence
stopped famine and unrest?
had he not been innocent himself
in slaying his father at an
intersection.
an intersection is where
Everything Happens.

Jocasta doesn't see that the
clean and sparkling diamond
brooches
will quite soon
bring her running into the dirty
streets.
running as she stabs At her
eyes,
the needles blunt and tearing
the flesh around her eyes first,
daring her further,
and so she does that thing.
that urge we have all had...
at least once and ignored
but. But. But.

Jocasta
pokes them out like plum
pits.

3.

on a different continent,
a place so hot, they say,
the hunting itself must be
kept short owing to a
great
great
thirst.

the people are so black
they would look like tar
if it wasn't for their teeth,
a pigment so dense that it would
seem to carry water itself,
but it doesn't.
it simply tells the sun to give
the feet a break
for the long days in sand.

the mirage sees
the lost tribal member
long before the man will put
his teeth into the dirt
and choke to the distant rhythms
of animal skin
drums
 
waiting for God to give, help,
Hold. Hold. Hold.
it is not too much but everyone
at an intersection
in the sun--
to ask for food to sustain.
to ask for shelter to sustain.

frequently...
disease will come and wipe
the slate clean without
a single human
understanding the riddle.


4.


I wanted to take the chair out
from beneath God when he sits
for dinner at the longest table
in the Universe,
wanted to goose him in a bar
as his lumpy butt slips by,
and play the animal skin drums
with my brooch stuck in my eye.

I wanted to do this to show
the injustice of the service.
That it is not a pretty pretty
jewel of a thing
to know death to be real.
But with one eye out already,
I am looking for That One Savior,

swirling my head around at odd
angles
like a ribbon knotted way too far
to the left.
perhaps the right.
doesn't matter much to you
doesn't matter much to you...

look at your shoes.
underneath are the Dead
and they will be asking questions
from and for you.
drums, brooches, and the infinite
mirage...




ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. shiite.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on January 19, 2008, 10:47:47 AM
I will keep an eye out for you. 

This is the first time in a long time I have stuck with one of the longer pieces in this thread, and I was handsomly rewarded. 

The answers are out there.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: shoeless on January 19, 2008, 11:59:25 AM
I have an
itch
on my back
in the one
place I
can't scratch
I think
it's eating through
my flesh
but the
pain
isn't that bad

It's spreading
to
my chest
I guess
it must
be a
rash

Your little
army
in
my ribcage
shooting holes
all
through my
veins
No wonder
there's
so much missing
and so little I can do

All this lotion
hasn't helped
All I wanted was a
stroke
I know I
could make it through
anything
but a heart
attack

Clear

It must be
genetic
and that's why it
doesn't
work

All
it
does
is
burn

But
it could simply be
that
I don't have
a doctor

Just a
good-for- nothing
nurse

All I want
is to
be
resuscitated
finally
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on January 19, 2008, 12:08:11 PM
Would it be too much to ask you to change the "But" in the second stanza to "Now"?  It really bugs me.  Other than that, I love it.  I will respect your decision either way, but it will continue to bother me unless you change it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: shoeless on January 19, 2008, 12:24:20 PM
That always bothered me too. I'm not sure I like "Now" much either though. I was thinking of maybe change it to "And". What do you think?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on January 19, 2008, 01:27:02 PM
That always bothered me too. I'm not sure I like "Now" much either though. I was thinking of maybe change it to "And". What do you think?

I think this would work better:

"It's spreading
to
my chest..."

there is a well-placed "but" later on in the poem.  "Now" and "and" would both detract from the immediacy of the condition, in my opinion, which at first glance sounds weird because how more immediate can you get than through a "now" - in that case, it would be the surplasage of the word that detracts from the immediacy.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on January 19, 2008, 02:12:41 PM
Yes...it reads very well that way.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: shoeless on January 19, 2008, 03:05:31 PM
Edited as just "It's spreading". Danke, alle. I think it sounds good that way.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on January 20, 2008, 12:08:24 AM
Jocasta and the tribesmen...and God


It took a little while, but this one kind of snuck up on me.  Maybe it was the "4." 
Brilliante!

And now, for something completely different.............

as she slept
dreamless
in the cold room
her imaginings
of morning and
the Other at
her door
slipped down
through the
memory lens
as certainties
came to dust.

instead:
a smallish noise
from when the
first heat cooled,
when the heaven's
roar cradled
the Other's
birthing cries
in its hasty and
perfect womb,
when She first
dipped Her fingers
in the dense
configurations;
the static
continued on its
ordered path
arcing beneath the
seven moons and
through the
delicate turnings
of spirit that
is Ting
coming into her,
fusing skin to
bone it came;
as she woke
she saw the Other
in the afternoon
light at the door,
waiting
for her
soft and
still
waiting for
the new Queen

she moved her
hands, stiff
and soiled,
buried tight
between her
thighs
regal now
she stood
on a floor
of bat wings
fingers unclenched
to release
the same ball
of light that
released Ting
and bonded her
to the Other
at the false
ceremony

the power
she onced so
feared
and adored
was hers

she met the Other
and kissed her
hard on the mouth
the cruel and
lovely mouth
that took her
breath and
kept a spell
of shattered
selves now
neatly melded

and with eyes
open and piercing
she took Her essence
pulled it deep and
tasted white tears
and pulled Her tight

and when she let go
the Other
was gone.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on January 20, 2008, 12:47:49 AM
I tried to start a audio/video thread for poetry slamming and reading, but it was not well received (here, anyway). I'll add this here. Maybe it'll be more at home.

"Read your poems aloud. Do it on audio. Do it on video. Do it in the wrong hole. Just [this message suspended for copyright violations]."


For those of you who haven't seen it on Violating Voices:

http://www.youtube.com/v/CCn3bcQa7cc
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 20, 2008, 01:41:17 PM
I am just destroyed now. Devery, you are a bitch for writing the best part in the Tingian saga. I am stealing part of it for a sig. As for shoeless, I was also running down your poem with ease and delight--this was fun. Wyatt. You certainly have a point. I already said it. There is a reason why poetry started out with bards, etc. Running into cafe's, and the open mic's now----I love a good verbal poem, but I ALSO love to read them. There are some books, for instance: "The Spoken Word Revolution" --2 of these now. Which have a cd to listen to the poet, as well as the written version. I see this as perhaps the best possible of options for those who really want to know not only how they perceive the poem--but how the artist Says It--which reveals more about its meaning as well...

If I had the technological capabilities I would do something like this--as you have. I don't. And that is just the sad way life can be...some of us with video camera's and downloading capabilities. Me. I am lucky to spell "lucky" on a good day. Rob. You can give me your two cents any day.
oooooooooh. Ting. Ting. ting. Devery you are in deep now. You have melted...is the Other really gone? Nope. I won't let that happen. Still. Refer above, as I can't get over it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on January 20, 2008, 07:52:02 PM
oooooooooh. Ting. Ting. ting. Devery you are in deep now. You have melted...is the Other really gone? Nope. I won't let that happen.

the Other...gone?
you mean like forever?
i don't think Ting can live without her.
yes, she's smart, and tough and beautiful, and now she has a few duties to attend to.
but.  BUT.  her heart belongs to another.  always and forever.
it's a good thing space and time and reality are meaningless in this little saga.

She'll be back.  Don't you fret your pretty little head about that.  And thank you so much for your kind words. 
I am so fortunate to have you as a friend and writing buddy.   :love3:

and, of course, now Ting is waiting for you............
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on January 20, 2008, 09:12:04 PM
Wyatt. You certainly have a point. I already said it. There is a reason why poetry started out with bards, etc. Running into cafe's, and the open mic's now----I love a good verbal poem, but I ALSO love to read them.

Well... here's the written version, if i haven't already spoiled it.

Flapjack
Why flapjack
It's like a pancake
Only diff'rent
Step out into that landscape
An' my soul spreads across it like batter
Sizzlin' black highway burnin' its grill marks
Into my soft belly

Makin' it solid

Lou'siana's nice and no-stick
Humidity
Slick buttery oil
Hot
Ain't no oil today though
Only juice is what cooks out the flapjack

An' sunshine, tha's just steam

Bridge sure was some sort o' panhandle
Dust and sweat flour roux
Griddle cake sliiide on into that shack
Flapjack's gotta eat too
Woman looked as serious as she was wet
Oiled like the roads down in the bayou
I saw a glimmer
One moment
One second she wondered
Big an' black an' shining, shining, shining
With sweat
For a second, I had her
Embracin' the mystery of Flapjack

Half man, half road

There they were
Floatin' in that pan
Questions and laughin' an' "What's wrong with you
White boy out in this heat
Peel that white right off you
Come in here take a load off
Have you some niiiice pork barbecue"

Pulled pork barbecue

Flapjack's pan was hot that day
Though
There was no laughin'
That look o' hers was a drop of oil in the pan
Tsssssssssss!
Gone...
Gone with her inquisitive gaze
Maybe not a gaze... too short
Long enough to see it wasn't paranoid

Or angry

Weary, sunbaked
Cracked sandpan Arkansas dry
Her pan 'ad been hot for a long, long time
Cookin' and cookin'
Slap board grease shack
Like the flapjack an' the flip jockey
In one big soul
With fiiine, FINE soul
Magic soul

Fools can't see it

Flapjack sees it
Sucks down the pulled pork barbecue sandwich
An' a shot o' Turkey
'Cause it's balls hot
'An the pan gots to need more sizzle in it

Fry boy

Big shot Flapjack
Cash stack an' back pack
Slapped a twen'y on the counter an' dared her...
Dared her with his eyes to give him change
'An she smiled again
This time with her mouth an' for two seconds

Two whole seconds

"Crazy boy
Watch that sun, boy"
Heh... gold tooth
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 22, 2008, 09:55:55 AM
Thank YOU BOTH--Dev & Wyatt. I liked hearing it Wyatt, but your kindness in writing it was also a gift. This way I can go back and forth, back and forth --as much as I want.  Dev. I am "winging" it here. (it will not be worthy of Her, but i'll try)


Dr. Nen & Sister?
-------------------

she felt nothing but a slight
buzz in a vacuum,
and down at her knees
a beautiful jellyfish withstood
a cage of hands, just to wrap
its strings
up her torso,
producing a chorus line of
rainbow jets.
it was surreal and real,
unbelievable but true
that a horsefish the size
of a pinky nail now let
go of its sack of babies
right on her pupil.

she was delirious and bent
over in laughter at her white
and rough servants,
telling them their needles
were useless against veins
already plunged and cleaned
so many times
that rubber fishing boots
and cracking clams,
eating crab and lobster butts...

it all looked like a restaurant.
tittering at the thought of
being an appetizer,
her every motion was sent
backwards by restraints,
and verbal telephone bills.
her cell phone was in
her left hand,
and she hit the pound button.
Charlie would come
and flick off the retarded
with one bicep coiled
around a neck...

they had the half-sterile tube
far down the throat,
rolling their eyes,
swaying the gurney like a
ten speed going uphill for
the first time.

without so much as
a wakeup call,
an R.S.V.P. letter
or apology...
all the hands came off,
and Ting finally felt that
her feet were safe in the
peeping kiosk.

but the room.

the room was stenciled
with chicken gizzards,
black as her bedroom with
the butcher was, where no
moon litter
ever came through
the sink of a window
at her right.
at her right.

to the right.
was the slick black long hair,
that smile small in the left
corner,
her sister's high forehead.
sitting on a calendar and sundial.
decapitated.
a meat cleaver and sickle
placed like flowers on
the morning-stand.
the basin as red as the slaughter
floors

above her.
the bald and shining
scalp of the butcher
had screwed her younger
sibling
through starvation
and the yield signs of orange
called Torture.
she was dead. Sister was dead--
gone.

alive only on a calendar,
her body she had watched
go from pink
to pearl bark with periodic
hives,
was served to peasants
in meat pies.
Ting was sure of it.
sure of it.
sure this dark room
with one light opening in
the floor...

positive it was her turn
to be orange duck,
split open like a clam.
an oyster on a treadmill
passed her thighs,
and up from the floor came
the burned face.

never revealed, but under
bound leather. the burn
mark slid down his neck,
rippling like limitless satins,

producing the guttural moisture
and noises only
plunged rubber boots make.
crotches sucked apart
like drains taking snot
and doggie pubic hairs...

Dr. Nen.
paging Dr. Nen.
calling Dr. Nen.

he rose up between the sheet,
phallus in his palm,
zippers covering his eyes.
Narcolone
Narcolone.
the light in the floor shrank
like a feral dog
and the smell of menses
hit a water basin.

her sister's head whispering
next to her and detached
from the reel.
"take his zippers off"
"take his zippers off"
scratch and buck,
you majestic steed.
puncture with your
hooves...
kill the ranger with one
dense Kick.

the Other would come
Charlie would come.
the pound number was being
tapped and read by the blind.
Dr. Nen
tightened something around her
ankles,
climbing under her back.
he put his hand-phallus
on her neck.
one zipper let out a spurt
of mucous.

the room went red.
the basin went black.
the jellyfish left on a wave
and walked out.
the butcher came from a
corner in the ceiling singing
psalms...
Dr. Nen
licked her lower back
with his curled long
toe nails.

Ting's breasts fell out
of her bell bottom jeans.

something beeped a long
second.
something somewhere put
a spoon to her baby lips.
the Other
removed
the cardiac
Cart
as Tall as a thimble stuck
in her nose.

the Other sighed,
clucking and swaying
in the bathroom stall.
"tisk, tisk..."
"we shouldn't"


paging Dr. Nen.
his zippered nylons
Cut Through.
the cardiac Cart
ran its thimble sky-
scraper up his burned neck,
spilling the
 red-bloody-water-Basin
 full of clams with black hair.

Ting screamed.
screamed.
yelped as the
feral dog had done
for months outside the
oak door.

she
watched fire slice open a
black notebook,
and ran
holllering-whispering-calling
Sister.
i am so sorry...
sister.
i didn't know...
sister, please. Please.


crawling on three legs
and yelping in heat.
losing her Eve's blood
from a dog's vagina,
her feral sister slid
on the notebook
and struck thunder
with one black paw...




-----------------------------------------------hey, Dev. i tried???
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on January 23, 2008, 12:51:28 PM
Crocodile Tears

The crocodile cried
last night
as we each
said

Goodbye

We're better
off
this way

I'm sure
that
some day
we"ll agree

What we've lost
was

Never

What we thought
we had
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on January 23, 2008, 06:04:58 PM
Dear Mr. President,
When you tell this story to your grandchildren
who will be the boogeyman?
Tell me, who is the big bad wolf,
sharpened teeth, bloodied mouth,
feeding off the innocent
who’ve lost their path in the woods.

Or are you just as confused as I am
as to how this story began
or how it could ever end
“And they lived happily ever after.”



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 24, 2008, 04:38:28 AM
damm Musings...who is the boogeyman? let me take a guess. Rob. Who done did this to you?




you said

there was always something
wrong with me
and you were
and are
                 correct.

now look in the camera as it
passes your silver anniversary.
your peculiar knees Itching.
the forecast says
Cold
with a ninety percent chance

            of doom.


--------------

and as much as you hate
your mother.
you had no problem
taking my own.
her
pension, retirement
and 401K money.
dad included the way
fathers are.
check in hand.
face chewing gum.

you can't fuck my father.
and you can no longer
fuck me.
but you will fuck a turtle
or perhaps a fork
if its got a dime in its
pocket.
a dollar for some mascara.
a hundred to pay your
cell bill.

---------

dear thief:

when i duped them into
believing
trusting
thinking

you were taking care of me.

You Frankly Did.
in two manners.(?)
one finger inside me.
one flashing in front of my face.
another watching the show.
another dancing in the kitchen.

another reading the weather.

--------
despite your hard work
and efforts.
something always appears
to be
wrong.

something always seems
to be
wrong with you.

something is hiding your
keys every night.
and they have told you
since your youth.

something is wrong with
You.

---------

from this distance I can see
your child say to you in just
a few years.
Mom.
i can't give you enough.
but you can give me your
pension when I leave
tomorrow.

i will never be enough for you.

and you will tell it that the
wicked witch was
really grandma.
but grandma isn't there
for the birthdays. So, you 
might just as well

tell your baby teen
that its
relatives were all captured
by Bigfoot.
the loch-less monster.
or stuffed into the acid
of Pandora's Box.

---------

i can hear you 
in the nude
while baby's friends' mouths
drop. and your husband
chews on the remote.

you say: *she will repeat it*
(she will say it twice)
(she will become the eraser)
you say:


Honey.
i never did anything but love you
with devotion
and generousity.

and it will laugh.
call you Narcissus.
watch you as you check
your Vain Face in the mirror.

run away with a lesbian.
run away to college.
drink its brains into the attic.
and send you an email
saying...

good luck ma.
i'm gone from the shiny
House you've wrecked.

without so much
as smoke in the air.
without so much
as their baby skin
Smell.

good luck ma.
you can send me a check
for the telephone
bills.

---------

i am watching you become
the monster you demanded
to leave.
i am letting god or satan or the
Congress

pass a bill against your next
attempt

at finding yourself

by giving birth

to a hundred disrespectful
mouths.

they will steal the mascara
and put stains on your
leather interiors.

you do understand this.
you will not accept this.
and they will call the police

when you show up
to visit,
apologizing and
blaming it all
on Bigfoot.
Pandora.
and
the Loch-less
monster.


----------

why you think he will
come in for the rescue

is exactly why
you never will.

-----------

my last promise:

dear Con mistress,

i will go to art school
and send you my pension,
start flossing my teeth
more than once a day,
and send you one last
valium.

all of this hard work and
effort

if you will simply

stop.

put on the condom.

catch the sperm.

and cease giving out

birthdays.

--------

they will hang up the
phone on you
they will hang up the
phone on you
they will hang up the
phone on you.

and send you

the Bill.

---------

her (my) her (my)
last declaration:

peace now.

all the sex has
been

stripped of it.

our bones are

bending.

your face
for the bridge.
is Not
your child.

let it go from

you.

--------
Bank Statement:


call your mother

for the final

account

balance.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Goodbye-Umbrella on January 24, 2008, 05:11:53 AM
Our Bodies Are Lampshades
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on January 24, 2008, 09:05:37 AM
I've been in a 10-15 minutes per a poem writing spurt.  I kind of like it.

Response poem to Amanda's spoken word bit in threads above: 


In this world we are drifting

One oared man
give me your hand
so we can row together
in this red boat of mine
towards somewhere…

Don’t mind
the splintered boards
where the last men
broke their way through
I’ve got a tin can.
It’ll be all right.

We’ll hold candles
when it rains
I’ll watch the shadows
across your face
And say:
“That one looks like Africa.”

And in the wind
you’ll fly a kite
let go of the string
and say:
“Look at how high we can go.”

Heave-ho, let’s go
the trip will take days
and my little red boat
won’t stay afloat for long
once you step inside.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on January 24, 2008, 05:56:04 PM
North Indio Summer Nineteen-seventy-something

The slurried surface
of
the city streets
was viscous
from the summer heat

Imposing and oppressive

Though we never tried
to
fry an egg

the sidewalk
always
took its toll
on shoeless feet

The constant
buzz buzz buzz

Buzz
of
Chicharras
in the air

We'd
climb the trees
and
pick them
from their perches

Glassy wings
and bowties
huge and luminescent
buggy eyes

A quick examination
then
tossed into the sky

Rotten Robbie
and
Terrible Troy

Fat Frankie
and
Elephant Boy

Boompa
Dot
Baldy
and
Carrot Top

Slipping
sliding
on cardboard sleds
down Jackson Hill

Dead Bermuda
served as
desert snow

It's
as close as
some
of the neighborhood kids
would ever get
to knowing
how
the real stuff feels

North Indio
Nineteen- seventy-something
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 25, 2008, 02:13:57 AM
hot damm. i want to shed the lampshade, climb into Musings' red boat, and end up back in north indio...



he let them kill him without fear but certainty.
ghandi and mlk jr. strolled into the coffin as well.
the martyr is the martyr that swings a rope around
its own neck, so that one day.
perhaps one day.
we will stop throwing rocks at one another.
for no good god damn reason.

forgive me for i know not what i do.

forgive me for i know not what to do.

forgive me for i know not who i am.


and yes. i am ready. take out your guns.
go ahead and fire. a piston with powder

to punctuate my skin.

i will not be late this time. my procrastinating
Days

are determined to be an early appointment

with death.

all the same.

all the same.

it hasn't been as bad as i had thought.
it hasn't been as good as i wished.
and it hasn't been the fault of anyone.

i am coming home early.

doesn't matter where home

IS.




yeah, i know. it's not a poem. shhhhh. my metaphors are lining up outside the window. they knock. i am not answering at the moment. shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. quiet. i am going to sit back and watch the magic spread without me for a little. consider this particular "poem" (not) a random thought Not to be put in random thoughts.
keep going Musings. Keep going Rob. Keep going anyone.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 25, 2008, 09:14:23 AM
the Nature Channel----and Woody once said, "to me it's just like one giant restaurant."




i've seen this many times.
the attack starts slow
like flirting.
there is a raid in the water.
fish willing to die in order
to spawn,
pushing past their best friends
for the pit.
a heavy-breasted bear
visiting the same place
its elders always did,
dips its hand in and strums
a guitar.

the crowd goes wild,
flapping like an umbrella
hit by custard bombs.

candy fishes come out with
heads pulsing left and right.
as if it was a miniature tornado,
as if air could invite gills
to the party,
the fish tries one more time
to do a somersault
back into traffic.

now we watch the inefficient
filling out of applications,
someone in human resources
has forgotten their briefcase,
and the candy dish is stolen.
lights in a hurricane
don't bob and weave the way
boxer's do--they arc. arc over
to the rain and wind
asking forgiveness,
arc over the river bed and
exhaust themselves
into pickles.

we throw a curve to kiss.
we throw a curve to hold.
we mate in the humping arc
that mammals know.
we date for the need to
swerve,
and this is why a roller coaster
feels like our wheels have
been rotated.

get back into the fetal position.
get back into the womb.
go over and get the candy.
there is so much curvature
Left to Do.


watch the old art, more sage than
Art. the girls circle the antelope
with shoulder blades surfacing
against the air,
tiny waves smooth out their
hair on the sand.
this will be muscle vs. muscle,
jaw against spine-filled Neck,
fang against bone.
snap your finger sideways
when the twig appears out of
shadow.
it will break without the awful
business of suffocation,
quick like the right way to hang,
faster than lightning tapping on
a golf course,
meaner than the first time
one cries from hunger.

the first move to mate
starts at the neck,
and the perfect sense of ending
life at the neck
announces itself on the intercom
over your cubicle...

muscle, jaws, teeth.
we have so little of it
there is a reason to call Him
a "bouncer"--
one head can hit pavement
with more rapidity
than a glass cracks
when ice is thrown on heat.

notice the glass splinters
look just like our arteries,
tree branches are upside-down
underneath the breathing skin.
This grace of roots
flipped towards the sun
is lost upon our lotions,
lost upon our eyes.

we are absent from the tree,
but it is preoccupied with
Us, giving us enough space
to kill our curly cars.

put us back in the basket,
and back in the pouch,
back in the rocker,
and back in diapers.
we look to the water to feel
something other than being
a rolling lump.
it is too long to stay
land-bound for candy.

get on the ship,
sweetheart. get on the ship
and look at where the ocean
is Actually
Clear. our minnows never
looked so precious.

come home from vacation
without any luggage,
but a crate of Rum.
the elephant and giraffe
like a ripe fruit as well.
on that continent,
and at a certain time of year,
the fruit makes all of them
fall down drunk,
telling their foe and best
friend,

i love you, even when you
must be
my candy dish.


even so,
a hiss of water bows and
prays under our feet.
though we choose to ignore
the moon's pull,
the tide will not disregard us.
bodily debris are eaten in the deep
by a line of blind albinos.

there they don't have to brush.
they don't have to floss.
they don't have a dentist.
and at any moment.
right now for instance.
the giant squid will wrap its
sneaky legs around Even Them,
and kiss. kiss. kiss.

the blades of grass outside my
house ask with reverence:

do not sit upon me for long,
as the sun is coming
and these are my kisses
to the sky.
my pack is my pack.
my land is my land,
and you are welcome to visit.
as this is a Hungry Railroad.

the lion women send
out their court appeal:
do not smell me
do not see me
for i am after you because
the milk in the fridge
is spoiled.
baby needs some candy.

my kiss is the beginning.
my kiss is the end.
my kiss is the candy.
and my kiss will take yours.








should have stopped it earlier. wait. there is a lion at the door.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on January 25, 2008, 12:56:05 PM
It was hypothetical, I assure you.  I have had the line about the crocodile swimming around in my head for some 15 years.  Now it is finally free.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: dangerpants on January 25, 2008, 01:21:57 PM
Crocodile Tears

The crocodile cried
last night
as we each
said

Goodbye

We're better
off
this way

I'm sure
that
some day
we"ll agree

What we've lost
was

Never

What we thought
we had


I think you'd find in interesting that the Spanish phrase for "crocodile tears" is "crying with one eye..." I find that dreadfully poetic.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on January 26, 2008, 02:16:37 AM
crying with one eye IS interesting, as well as "dreadfully poetic"

as for me. i am glad Rob, that you have set this one free --esp. since it has been SWIMMING around that long.

funny how many people i run into that still don't know the difference between a croc. and an alligator.

although the difference to us is somewhat like this: "hey. look at that Thing. it sits there on the bank doing nothing." and then. a giant SWOOSH. the whole lot goes in. so much faster--even on land--than you expect.

this is my best and last shared memory with my Uncle. Me. My early teens. We are on vacation in a Florida state park. We walk along the bank and spot several alligators toasting in the sun. We keep walking. Closer. Closer. Let's say we even get within about 2-3 human body-lenghts of the whole crew. One of them. Perhaps all of them. Find us to be a bit too intrusive.

they could have turned and devoured us. they chose the water instead. My Uncle looks down at me at the same time I look up at him. The looks on our faces? ahhh, well. I guess you have to understand what it looks like to have a quizzical face at the same time urine has almost unleashed itself...

this memory last shared before his death? my Uncle? my Uncle fought cancer with only one eye occasionally tearing up, but never falling. Even when diagnosed as terminal, he left his one eye open. Even when he couldn't eat or do anything but ruminate, he kept his one eye open. And I know. He never cried a day in his life.

over his coffin, i spilled all of mine.

i remember thinking...how much more ironic and easier it would have been if those alligators had taken us both into the muck Back Then. But then. Those are funeral thoughts. And funeral thoughts are best left to another poet.

perhaps. Frost?  :violent5:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on February 14, 2008, 10:16:03 PM
The wind sae cauld blew south and north

If
the eyes
are windows
to the soul,
a closed mind
serves
as a locked door-
forbidding entrance
to any interloper
foe and friend alike.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on February 15, 2008, 10:49:33 AM
i was reading some of my older poems, JESUS I had problems
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on February 15, 2008, 01:46:39 PM
Didn't we all?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on February 19, 2008, 01:39:20 AM
Strange. There isn't a single poet I have ever run into in here...


As for me.

No problems ever.


That is why people write sometimes, I heard.


ps--i don't read any of my past poetry. then i would have to fix all of it. that is called Editing. and i obviously don't Edit. therefore...

I am not a poet?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on February 19, 2008, 06:09:41 AM
he fell
out of a flask,
teeth between knees,
flowing down the pavement
in rapid breast strokes
too slow to count.

i picked out
one licorice stalk
left standing in a side pocket
and placed it down on
gravel,
next to where i guessed
his mouth might be.

i would take the vomit
of candy hardened by my
own lime,
over the smell of him
rolling there in piss
and god-knows-what

a stuntman
suddenly leaped on or off
lights in the entrance,
making my own glasses
wreck themselves over the
distances between flesh cakes.

i said
fish cakes.
i said
crab cakes.
and then counted to three
just to make sure...


his twiggy legs brought my
mouth so close to my chest,
that i licked it and stared
like it was time to Finally
change the thermostat for
winter.

my breasts knodded,
put the baskets on their heads,
and slid out clean,
like a knife splitting
pea pods,
when hands would have been
simple enough.

the top of my
head became The Pepper
Shaker as noted,
pulling skin off the scalp
and making a small
flag of my hair stand up
upon rolling over.

i rested
waiting for him
or him
and i said fish cakes
and counted to three
just to make sure...

the lights to the entrance
blinked at me with long lashes,
seductive enough to take
the pots and pans down,
make a dinner of the licorice
stick,
and call it even.

and then the lights exhaled
dark like the hollowed-out eyes
in a small bust of Mozart or
even Beethoven,
and that is when I remembered
the smell of hair,
what flame to it meant...

you only put your hands
on that kind of action
Once, babe.
then you bend down and
count to three,
never witnessing darkness
move on the ground
in shadows
quite the same before
 
or after...


he lunged and that was
fine by me.

i stole his flask
for a year or so.
maybe more or less.
impossible to know really.
strange the way the days dive...


knocked around like a
cherry by a straw,
casual swings that roll
that bull-headed berry,
over the froth of a
choose-your-flavor
shake.


you can ask them Not to
put the berry on top,

and they will
not listen.













Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: robby on February 24, 2008, 08:44:28 AM
7

a new grade
  an end of sorts
      everyone has grown apart
           and everyone is fighting
we're shooting bullets at each other
  back and forth in the cafeteria
      but i'm running out of bullets.
           i ran out long ago

i don't want to fight
  but i can't control it
      i just want to run away
          hide from this war
no one will survive
  we've all already died
     they think they've won
          but i'm reloading my gun     
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Goodbye-Umbrella on February 25, 2008, 02:40:20 AM
There once was a cat named Tabitha. One day Tabitha destroyed the universe. Tabitha lived on the moon, with all her friends, the Moon Cats. All the Moon Cats thought the earth looked very pretty, but knew it was a dangerous place so never ventured there. Out of the corner of her eye, Tabitha caught a glimpse of the prettiest butterfly she had ever seen, and like any playful cat would, started to chase it. Tabitha was so enthralled with the crystalline butterfly she did not even realise when she had drifted off the moon. Tabitha continued to chase the butterfly until she suddenly realised it had led her all the way down to earth!
”Oh dear!” She exclaimed, “I’m on Earth, I must leave or else I won’t be back in time for supper!”
Tabitha tried to fly back to the moon, however try as she might, she could do no more than jump.
After many attempts to fly, an
angel shaped statue spoke to Tabitha.
”I am Gravity, I will love you forever” said the stone angel.
Tabitha was very puzzled, however she could not ask Gravity to let her fly again for it seemed the angel disappeared. Tabitha looked up to see the butterfly she chased to Earth still flying.
”How is it you can still fly, can you teach me?” Tabitha asked the butterfly
”No,” it answered, “I am Chaos and you are Time.”

Tabitha and the butterfly lived on Earth for a very long time, and spent most of it staring at the moon. Tabitha had never seen how beautiful it was until she viewed it from Earth. The two watched civilisations come and go, and felt the universe constantly shrinking.
“Why does it shrink?” Tabitha asked the butterfly one day.
The butterfly fluttered about Tabitha until it reached her ear, then whispered,”The universe shrinks as you do”

One day Tabitha came to realise she had become a very small cat. So small she could fit on the butterflies back.
”Take me back to the moon,” Tabitha asked the butterfly, “I miss it ever so much and it may not be too late to make it back in time for supper!”
Tabitha jumped on the butterfly’s back and the two flew high into the sky. The butterfly’s wings started to become very tired, and they wondered if they would make it past the clouds. Suddenly an angel appeared before them. It looked very much like the angel Gravity, but it was not made of stone, but light and it shone brighter than any full moon Tabitha had ever seen.
The shining angel spoke, “I am Physics and I can no longer love you”
As quickly as it had appeared, angel named Physics had disappeared from the sight of the butterfly and the cat on its back.

The butterfly, no longer tired soared out of the sky and into space, however where the moon should have been was now a very large silvery light. This light was not like the angel of Physics, it was far less bright, but much more warm, and it smelled like the supper Tabitha once enjoyed with her fellow Moon Cats.
Tabitha looked back at Earth only to see it was gone!
When she looked back the silver light spoke to her, “I have wanted to find you for so long and I know you have wanted to find me. The universe was always too big and kept us separated, but you have made it smaller and smaller, until now there is nothing left but you and I, and soon there will be nothing. Tabitha now noticed that the Butterfly was gone, and she entered the light, which disappeared as she did so, following the scent of supper and the sound of Moon Cats and Kittens meowing and playing about.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: jtaylor on February 25, 2008, 03:41:14 PM
That was such an awesome story.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on February 25, 2008, 03:43:39 PM
down the alley of
brightly colored pills
trying to find sleep

the worn carpet in
front of my couch
announces like an
Angel until the
stark overhead light
hits and says "get
a fucking grip"

but I forget and
refocus on the side
with a broken wing
dipped in blood
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on February 25, 2008, 04:41:34 PM
I don’t want death
nor life’s insistent
conversation
         
I want that other thing,
that single, ringing
sound that is deeper than
its echo.

A single sound
heard in passing
as if days pass
one by one?
         
And you would reflect
that it is nothing.

Now.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Goodbye-Umbrella on February 25, 2008, 07:53:35 PM
That was such an awesome story.

ah thankyou!!!  :D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on February 25, 2008, 08:32:09 PM
Devery-- great to see your poetry, as always.

I've been writing poetry at 2 or 3 AM, with weird results.

Newest example, on the myspace:


"The mind is a horrible thing
to waste" he says.
I nod,
lick the battery
he hands me.
It tastes different, spicy,
not unlike
the twang that comes
out of his mouth
when he tells me
the things
I already know
that he already knows
that I already know.
Tomorrow,
he'll buy a magazine,
we'll flip through the pages,
cut out the vegetables,
reconstruct our lives
out of paper mache houses.
I'll make salad,
and he'll tell me
that I'm good for him
and I am
as long as he keeps feeding me
batteries
to stop me
from trying to bite the twang
out of his mouth,
as long as he buys a magazine
to stop me
from cutting a tomato
out the middle of his chest.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on March 01, 2008, 03:07:43 AM
Bravo everyone!!

I just stayed up until 3 am writing --you won't believe this. A "happy" poem --for me. In honor of all the wonderful poetry that preceeded it, no less. AND. I hit ONE button...when the whole damn thing disappeared, I went backwards to try and capture it. ALAS!! It is GONE. GONE FOREVER. and i am so pissed off --here:

i wrote a poem
one about love
it was about taking a chance
on strangers

and now i hate them.

^^^^
nice of me, huh?

No. It isn't true. But dmanamamamamamammmit. FUCKED. FUCKED. FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on March 04, 2008, 01:33:35 PM
it won't get thickened,
splitting the walls of steel
into blocks of condensation--
considering the apple's fall
away from gravity's turgidity,
swelling the way to an insect pool.
or better, the malfunction of an
emoticon posted on a desk's sludge.
all about scenery. all about joining
 
five senses effortlessly.                                                                                                                                                                                                 
strangers flow towards their
Work
on cement rugs hanging like
drapes over the hum of subway
tokens...

between the water bottle and
coffee mug, a nod turns and locks.
one has a second to decide,
a possibility of winter swirling
in its childhood Angel twinkle
to read or announce a start--
that juicy magazine headline,
determines the age of a ripened
grape descending in a stagger,
as brick-backs insult hot shades

bolting a feather from the lock,
yielding to a phone number's chance,
the lonely bingo ball sans marker
hops on the bean's sweaty hands.
introducing the family-friend crew
to the blood workshop and hazard--
this is the peaceful enterprise
of luck pressing a domino agent.


---------------------------
the risk is a permanent membership
as victim in a forum,
lips sealed by rubber bands,
tightened into round mannequin
gestures where screams are
locked and nodding,
suddenly sage about the facts.
---keep the hands busy
---keep the mind occupied
---keep the shoulders back


quit locking with fools
owning stock with darling pets,
but by all means smoke
to consider--
colors splay with stick figures
made of chalk and oak trees,
living can be spent in rolling
pennies into shank-outfits,
breath being the sugar the finger
distills.

the head might rain in plural
moon-made frills.
let love and amorous lace
sink into the populace.


----------------------------

no.
i lock and nod with a man
who could desire to lift my
mouth, and prove to be a twirl
from his knees to palms
where the flying is imaginary,
deemed too dangerous by the
current edition of doctor spock--

write this down:
skeptics have the loudest wrestle,
and these are playful rites
where ceremony is made to
stay in the corner, peeking
without a swiveling carpet
or monster...
only the required manners will
help pass test after test before
Love.


we nod and lock in cacophonous
bear stories,
fixing our feet into positions
lost, recovered, and dashing...
i play the indian
he plays the cowboy,

and when the cap gun aims,
the corner couldn't hold a
bicycle if pedals and spokes
began to count higher than
a chimpanzee.

i'm willing to pray for the genocide
to take me, as the hands
holding the frame of my watch
will be my friends' way of
nodding, stealing the peace pipe,
and locking skin to skin
the way an iron ought to shave...

--------------
friends are like this,
oceans without warrants and
passports dunking the cargo
into the rat's lucent boneyard.
cleaning these remains with ammonia
and bleach are the only way
her fox smells the hasty arrival
of sand-filled shoes.

here are the shortbread treats,
the only tea she'll take with cream--
but this heresy is allowed
like the blemish on a fine shirt
where mouths utter silently--
one finishes the bite at precise
measurements where the other
lifts a broken compass,

as soon as ice falls, sleet
demands the wine to portend a
daily walk where the parrot
saves the blasted cafe's and little
else, but the magnet suffering
from malaria is wise to all
attempts

for candle-lit invitations--
don't make her sweat without
the clothing from her lovers,
she'll use the sting from a fossil
to bury the body she holds
without a shelf to put it on...

build me woman,
one lego into another, as
crooked, wily, ugly as a lantern
stripped of iron but bursting with
water-blushing lettuce...
my tux is ready and all suitors
are perplexed.

what kind of guest holds a
cigar where she wants--
guzzles vodka with fruit ledgers
tied in nooses that go ignored,
unless her hand inspects the
rough fibers and cries
for all the hung,
for the raw meat,
strong-arm tactics

----------------------


we all lean so far into
our own fantastic daily routines,
desire bouncing so wide over
crackers, cereal, and snacks,
it isn't hard to choose a critical
matter, swinging the circle on
a tether where weight can
Break the Bottom of the Balance.

but it won't.
 




                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: dangerpants on March 06, 2008, 01:29:21 PM
Old poetry from when I was slightly shorter:

darling, grab my coat from it's incessant hanger, it's time to create, it's time to destroy. take the cat down from it's little kitty noose, it's time to create, it's time to destroy. anybody who is somebody started out as a woman and turned into a boy. and anyone who is someone knows that it's time to create, it's time to destroy.
------------------------------------
Your secrets are never safe with me
I've got a loose mouth and a
           looser mentality.
And I know you've tried to get through
           but it's all because of you.

Please don't pull that stupid line
I know it well as were it mine
----------------------------
My feet grow downwards
filling the soil with
metatarsal roots
forcefully keeping me
rooted deep into sorrow,
my empty head fills.
I let the soil's nutrients
syphon up my blood
and out my eyes.
Thinner I grow
as I grow taller-
older-wiser
-deeper into
loneliness.
Decimate me,
I'd give my life for
blissful ignorance.
Replant me, put my roots
between your tracks,
isolate me in sound.
Break me, split me,
explode me into
bloody plywood
boiling on your headlights.
Your Spirit, your Shadow, drives through me,
past me,
looking for another lonely tree to break.
-------------------------------------
You can't say all this was unplanned
So thank you, thank you
            for my blood stained hands.

Mother says you're an angel with an angle.
the likes of which I could never tangle
You're the source of bad poetry- bad songs-
but you're never wrong, never wrong- never-

Please don't pull my stupid hair
I never loved you- never liked you- never even cared.
Please don't touch me with your hands
you'll never be- never be a man
             you'll never be my man.
-------------------------------
our song was up for sale, unbeknownst to us. the highest bidder has inherited our lost notes. my knuckles are bleeding, and i'm not sure why. the stockings are hung above the fake fire place, disheveled. this time of year is the worst to be alone, kay and belden dominate the radio. you think a little holiday spirit's gonna make us fall into each others arms? the christmas tree isn't even real, the pine scent from my past will stay there. objection, objection, redirect sustained.
-------------------------------
When did you disremember?
the half-life of your truths
has retrograded them to nearly lead lies.
And suddenly,
the colour of our eyes means shit.
I don't know where I'll go with this...
but I'd still go anywhere,
so long as you were there.
I never remember your mother's day,
but I'll always remember ours.
Soft lightning and hard rain.
The blinking clock
     with no time.
And there's no time left in our space-time continuum clock.
So don't remember me, don't even try.
I'm disrememberable.

I'm disengaged.
-----------------------
Green tea and cigarettes
Enter lotteries and place my bets
They say I’ll never lose…
But I’m heading for the noose.
------------------------
an impassive shore, an abusive tide, that takes me away from the things that are mine.
forget what i want and forget what i need, this alien gray must replace all my greens.
i'm erasing all from my comatose mind, i'll never get back to the things that were mine.

and i'm dreaming of when fireworks were
when fireworks were real
and when i was meant to have a heart of blood
and not of steel.

i've become cold and i've disagreed, i've thrown away hopes and dreams and needs.
i've accepted the truth that all things must die, and i've said my goodbyes.
i jumped through each hoop, and went where she leads.

and i'm dreaming of when flowers were
when flowers were real
and when letters put after my name mean less
than what i feel.

so i have some advice to the young, who would never think to swallow their tongues,
that beauty is truth and truth beauty is a horrific and terrible lie.
know only thyself, stay where you love, and while you can, fill your lungs.

and i'm dreaming of when love was
when love was real
and i'm waiting for that which was broken to
forget to heal.

no one is sorry and everyone changes your age and your mind sure won't explain this you know what you're doing and know what you're taking but still don't know why my heart is breaking don't take me away from this don't drag me away from this i need to get back to these things that are mine.
------------------------
springtime, this is your disease. a cold throat and warm heart that you've pushed on me. i find myself aching, yearning for air, being smothered by a cinder block prison of knowledge. this freedom i paid so much for is captivity, the butterfly i flew beside was torn intwo shreds by the screaming silence of disuse.
----------------------------------------
the reverie gone now calls to my bones, tearing apart my insides with begging, internal pleading. please, remember when thunder was clouds colliding? who are you, where are you, how old have you gotten? my inner child is now all but forgotten. it's harder to tie a bow on a soul than to suck out the whole. the return of breath in my lungs has the effect of some great, deadly drugs. so lay me down into the lull of your lullabye, and as i rub my little streaking eyes, tell me that you want my dreams to wake, and you want to see the castle we'd make. goodnight, my someone.
--------------------------------
THE END
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on March 07, 2008, 01:43:53 PM
Here, once, in public favor,
she had sat at the Other's feet,
and had walked hand in hand
at her side.

Would She now take Ting's heart
through invisible channels,
using smells and ghosts?
Would it keep this Otherless shell
from collapsing in on itself?

In bare feet, gliding through
the halls, a steady figure -
Ting - moving with purpose,
it seemed, to take the breaths
and restless dreams from
their hosts sleeping behind
locked doors, with jurisdiction
to turn the grass and ivy
green, to scrape the dust
like old paint, to open curtains
on a new century.

Ting scattered her gatherings,
tumbling like amateur acrobats
down the open stairway
as she entered the Great Hall,
basking in wonderment
and silence.

She placed the Other's robe
and other queenly things
over her slender shoulders,
while underneath arranging
her nightclothes.
Ting felt a slight protection
as she sat on the Musing Chair
and settled back...

When she was a
young girl she
feared the brown
water spots on
the ceiling of
her bedroom.
They spoke to
her like the
large, evil
demon that sat
motionless in
the basement,
that waited
for her to approach
in her dreams.
Always mindful
of her sins,
she could feel
the cold and
hear the awful
sounds and smell
the smoke as from
the altar of an
otherworldly church.

Ting opened the door
and saw the edge of
a stage bathed in
faint light.
She walked
into the room.
The stage turned
slowly as she
approached the center.
A low clanging was
fused with smoke,
she was face to face
with the huge figure,
disinterested
in her and the ritual
or performance
that frighened her.

She didn't look into
his eyes but ran
out the door
at the other end
into the basement
bedroom and up the
stairs into the
safe, warm den
where she lay on
the couch, sleeping.....


Ting shifted in
the Musing Chair -
it was time.
She took off the
clothes and hung
the robe carefully
where the Other
could find it.
She dressed herself
now in stylish
fatigues and on
her feet she wore the
golden boots.

She traveled deep
into the Inner Land,
just as she had seen
in the dream,
dust quiet in the heat,
hardpacked road,
the village laid out
like a castle.
Ting walked atop the
outer wall and down the
inner bailey.
She saw the people
all living outside
under canopies or in
the open without
walls or privacy.
A shirtless man lay
on a mat near a cauldron
of water, too weak to sit up.
She asked what was wrong.
Another man told her that
he had to place the stump
of his handless arm into the
boiling water for an hour
every day - it was the
pain that made him weak
and it was this very infirmity
that had dictated this treatment
from an unseen ruler.

Ting saw a handsome woman
in expensive clothes
walking without purpose;
they didn't speak.
She wondered if the woman
had an infirmity, too,
that would keep her there
in punishment, and she
 wanted to warn her,
to tell her to leave,
but Ting just let her pass,
wordlessly.

Everywhere there were
suffering people with
missing arms and legs, or
who were blind or feeble.
From the far mountains
she heard a roar and saw a
huge wall of water smash
into a row of brightly
colored townhouses.
Before she could move
the water covered
everything.
She lost consciousness
and awoke after the
water had receded and
lowered, now lying in
puddles and feeling
the cold, quiet air.
She opened her eyes and
saw thousands of large
white rats coming towards
her over the sand and
water, they came and
covered her head and
began to bite through
her hand and into the
exposed flesh of her
face and ears - she
lost her breath
and could not scream
as she covered her
eyes and neck and
pushed them away
and still they sank
their sharp little
teeth deep into
her neck and then
they stopped.
She heard a gentle
voice so close it
brought the far
mountains into her
ears and when she
moved her arms and
opened her eyes,
the rats were gone.

.....

it was dark.
she stood up.
at the end of the
hall she saw a mirror.
looking at herself
she saw the robe was
gone; she was dressed
for the night in
black and heels.
quickly she wrote
everything down in
the notebook.
she tore out the last
page, folded it neatly
and placed it behind
the mirror.
she felt a faint glow
from the glass and
dared not look.
she walked down the
familiar hall into
the front room
and out into
the street and there
waiting
was a long, black car.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on March 09, 2008, 10:19:35 AM
OH OH OH OH OH OH OH



OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH






(this is my best poem ever!)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on March 10, 2008, 11:57:14 AM
There once was a cat named Tabitha. One day Tabitha destroyed the universe. Tabitha lived on the moon...


That is the name of one of my cats, and the whole thing was really fitting for her.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Goodbye-Umbrella on March 11, 2008, 06:08:31 AM
There once was a cat named Tabitha. One day Tabitha destroyed the universe. Tabitha lived on the moon...


That is the name of one of my cats, and the whole thing was really fitting for her.



cats are cool  :love5:  :D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on March 11, 2008, 09:32:23 AM
blink twice if you feel anything
cry if you are numb

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on March 16, 2008, 01:10:52 AM
The Accident

on the bank
she took the
wine glass
sitting straight
a white summer dress
indented where
her ankles cross
above the stream

another time in
someone's room
she heard her voice
with a certain
slant the
overhead light
caught the wine
and rimmed the
solid glass
breaking at the
highest point
like an aura

but beneath this sun
she remembered -
the water at her feet
she lay back
silently and
let the wine spill
down her deadened legs
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on March 17, 2008, 12:17:11 AM
The Promise


These hands
yours
bring no
transaction
and
promises
 so small

I barely
notice
them inside
my chest
cracking
back
my ribs
to take
my heart

Your
own out
of reach
mine
pumping
in the
slippage
on the
floor
where
you
left
it
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on March 18, 2008, 09:59:14 AM
I am
splayed all over
a new season,
and the fresh breeze
Always flips my
bodily compass--
you're thinking i
turn from you,
or you're thinking i
turn from you...

and perhaps we should
all look through a shoe
box for salvation,
opening arms as if they
are easily replaced,
but opening the arms without
the shoe box outline would be
more prudent...waiting for a blowhole
is worth the blow.

the numbers
dwindle like awkward
leaves, having coughed
their way through the winter,
this Spring will make it all the more
Bitter.

this is a rare confection
not tangible, not smoke,
and utterly unable
to bring in the morning
paper,
saying:
here lies the lie
and these are the folded clothes,
waiting for a passport
or a couple weeks
picking off my strings...

e/a/d/g/b/e..eadgbe
the fingers are crazy
with wild resources,
densely sponged;
the mouth appears locked
in the Stunned breath
and closed alphabet tap...
the wrench had decided
to hide.

the image of a fairy tale
inside the house of a crack
addict,
a folk tale with no
referral to the yeast--
and not one of them,
in the sly trio of foxes
can swap what they
don't want and do want
and wished they'd
never
done.
wanted.

we can't hold at the joints
when one is stuck racing
around the number 8.
as fatigue assumes its
position in bed,
panting and stopping on
the offbeat Heart rhythm...


one more grin.

look here.
 our water greets
cards on the shore--
skinning elbows and
shins in equal parts
butter and cream,
the annoying hail a
guide spells out
too slowly,
help me make out
These:

where the ancient
cathedral or obelisk or stones
Are, so we can go through with it.
become backwards in progressive
thoughts,


and the appetite in my fingers,
having choked off my lips,
will put the car into reverse
and drive, yield, Go.
now find me in paper clips.
find me in the yellow corner
of the picture,
and stop worrying
sly foxes...
when the leaf flips
i'll resume as needful
chairman,
but for now
my hands are full of
rainy leaves

and the urge to burn them.













----------------------------------------------------------------------soon, k? :love5: :love5: :love5:

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on March 19, 2008, 09:44:56 PM
Yes!  ^   




Intersection

the long and short
of it will be -
what?
me in the intersection
wearing headphones
you stepping down
from the bus
and down the block
for a coffee
and later i'll
be tramping the
tall fuscue
in the cool season
sporting a new
tweed jacket
dried flowers stuffed
in the pockets for
someone or me
or i'll find a
photograph of you
and see you on
the curb
stepping down
turning
walking to me
only me
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Marldance on March 21, 2008, 07:13:50 PM
so i've been posting alot of my poetry on facebook but i think my friend are getting sick of me but I really like feedback. Much of my work is untitled but i'll put a date down for kicks.
9/26/07

Flies
On a wall
In a jar
Devouring my soul
I may be the sole survivor of this
But it sure as fuck doesn't feel like it
I'm sorry that your life is so shitty and deranged
That's still no excuse for what you've done
This irrational, semi- incestual thing
The Thing
How can five letters destroy?
It's not so bad to be relatively exclusive
Or pretty serious
Or even sorta together
But to have a Thing
So general that it's more hurtful than a specific
So hurtful that it's more upsetting
Than what brought us here in the first place
But most upsetting, most hurtful
Is the probable
The probability that you will never know this
And that knowing would change everything
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: shoeless on March 22, 2008, 11:01:27 PM
In that letter to yourself
(and to her, of course)
you admitted to a fear of closeness
and a fear of drifting
at the same time.
I just wish I could have been the liar
who tore herself from you
but left you hoping,
instead of the poor, clumsy burglar
who gave up when the front door was locked.

I could only read it once,
but that was enough
to send a poison through my bloodstream
capable of killing a horse.
But I’ll fake wellness
until you pull the trigger yourself,
so you can have the satisfaction.

No, I know it isn’t like that.
You have your own poisons to deal with.
I just wish I knew
how potent my injection was.
Which of ours was lethal?
I’m a little jealous of the strength
that her brew of cyanide contains,
but I’m sure mine did its job.

She wounded you more than I ever could
but I know that the salt
I made you cry into that wound
is certainly not helping anyone heal.
Not even me.

I thought I was your Bonnie;
I still consider you my Clyde.
But one of us has fallen
in a hail of gunfire --
I just can’t tell who.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on April 10, 2008, 12:19:18 AM


"How many days do we have left?",
I said.  "Not many" she answered
with a laugh, meaning that soon
I would be sitting here doing
the crossword puzzle alone.

She tapped me on the shoulder
and put her cold beer
against my neck. 
"Dammit, who's that South
American poet that wrote
about death?"
"And taxes?" she chirped
and wrapped her legs around me
and squeezed tight.  We ended
up on the floor where we
tried out various wrestling
moves on each other.

We built up a good sweat
before finding our mouths
amid our flailing arms and legs. 
The salty spit on her lips
was slimy and dirty I told
her so I made up a story about
a bad girl who came looking
for redemption and found me
instead and all the while I felt
her wetness until she pressed
against me and shuddered
"like a good girl would,
if you were one" I
said. 

I left her sleeping
on the couch and went back
to the table to finish the
crossword.  Just for the
practice, I said, as I lifted
her beer bottle from the paper
and wrote in a word over
the smeared ink.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: dangerpants on April 10, 2008, 12:34:15 AM
Plastic potted plants
fell from it's mouth
"I love you."
"I need you."
"I do."

A neverending
mind-bending
polyethylene waterfall.
"I love you."
Where are you?
How could you?

It wasn't living
breathing
beating words-
"I love you."
Who are you?

It was full of
plasticpottedplants
fallingfromit'smouth
drippinggushingplasticlies
fromit'spseudomouth
onit'spseudoface
bloodykissesofrealsyntheticblood
andit'sjusttoomuchformeto

"I love you."
Please... stop, it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Golly Mina! on April 10, 2008, 04:00:52 PM
i write most of my stuff in Romanian, so this is the best piece I could find in English. although it isn't that good.ah well...

truth hides deep within your words
as you fill them out with wisdom
reason lies behind the curse
called life, we all bare
painful threat is what God may call
doomsday awaits, oh joyful death
everything is nothing, nihil et Deo
reason is life,reason is death
so yes,i do, i always will
days go by and nights they kill
childhood past awakes the present
yet future is yet to be predicted
imagine what you will, your choice
design your own universe
create gods
yet no greater meaning holds life
that not knowing what tomorrow brings
breaking the past is breaking yourself
your inner-self and alter-ego
everything you represent
don't leave the past, just cling
future cant be seen with human eyes
it is measured in light years
so at a less shallow reading
we must find illumination, if future is what we want to learn
escape from past and face your death
no adventure
suicide
reason lies in death,in love
future holds unknown......mistakes!
regrets we faced, past times, the pain
remember, life is not adventure,nor game
giving reply to what you asked
i should say i can't respond
as it is impossible to verify
future holds not right,nor wrong
future lies within a song
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on April 10, 2008, 04:10:31 PM
OMG Devery!  To quote Paris Hilton...I better not.

Good job Captain.

I better get to sharpening my pencil.  It's been pretty dry out here.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Marldance on April 10, 2008, 04:56:18 PM
i write most of my stuff in Romanian, so this is the best piece I could find in English. although it isn't that good.ah well...

truth hides deep within your words
as you fill them out with wisdom
reason lies behind the curse
called life, we all bare
painful threat is what God may call
doomsday awaits, oh joyful death
everything is nothing, nihil et Deo
reason is life,reason is death
so yes,i do, i always will
days go by and nights they kill
childhood past awakes the present
yet future is yet to be predicted
imagine what you will, your choice
design your own universe
create gods
yet no greater meaning holds life
that not knowing what tomorrow brings
breaking the past is breaking yourself
your inner-self and alter-ego
everything you represent
don't leave the past, just cling
future cant be seen with human eyes
it is measured in light years
so at a less shallow reading
we must find illumination, if future is what we want to learn
escape from past and face your death
no adventure
suicide
reason lies in death,in love
future holds unknown......mistakes!
regrets we faced, past times, the pain
remember, life is not adventure,nor game
giving reply to what you asked
i should say i can't respond
as it is impossible to verify
future holds not right,nor wrong
future lies within a song


this is excellent. alot of themes remind me of my psych class (granted i just had a huge psych test so everything does)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on April 10, 2008, 05:04:20 PM
smells like teen spirit...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on April 11, 2008, 04:12:24 AM
dear jennifer,
i fucking miss you.
please show up again soon.
love
amanda
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on April 11, 2008, 09:34:43 AM
dear jennifer,
i fucking miss you.
please show up again soon.
love
amanda

Word. I worry. I miss. I sad.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on April 11, 2008, 10:22:47 PM
Curdled Milk is for Agents of the Nines

Breathtaking, isn't it?

The way we beseeth ourselves with propaganda of the Notorious Quimlees?

The way we touch hands with even the most alien of children.


WELL FRET NO MORE!

Because....

Ancient Chinese secrets have been revealed to me by plugging my
Worzen into a Glurzen.



But you don't really want to know about that.




SHE DID IT FOR THE HOSTAGES!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on April 12, 2008, 12:04:39 AM
Om


Nomnomnomnomnomnomnom.

fapfapfapfapfapfapfapfapfap.

nomnomfapfapnomnomfapfapnomfapnomfap.

NOMNOMNOM.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: gargantuan on April 12, 2008, 12:18:34 AM
Om


Nomnomnomnomnomnomnom.

fapfapfapfapfapfapfapfapfap.

nomnomfapfapnomnomfapfapnomfapnomfap.

NOMNOMNOM.


I like it. I always say "NOM NOM NOM" to my boyfriend when I'm being annoyingly cutesy.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on April 12, 2008, 12:24:42 AM
Chris approved, so it can't be bad.

I'RE AH POEMER NAO!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on April 22, 2008, 05:44:07 PM
Dear Mandolin, Larry, and All who...mmm...twiddle around my straw stick with ready arms. Yes. I fucking miss you too. I really do. And I am sorry I haven't been 'Round Here. How doth the mutant explain the mutation? Probably in a pm. I will get to you. I will come to you at the oddest times with my tail tucked...but once again ready. I love you too.


-----------------
she went carving.
tickling the toddler
under her bra loose and
away from its fellow
skeletal grubs.

the slope between
the quenched cloy of
hazy fingers gasped
in a distant
carom of grapes
and jam.

still sculpting,
a bit of gas rummaging
inside pudgy cheeks,
she struts out the number
five. ten. twenty lint balls
freeze on the tips
in an alarming

dismaying beam of feathers.
it's a woeful prodigy
gone screwed.
it's a taciturn genius
with one thumb severed
by dust balls.

a seeming recoil-of-a-bird,
a quacking format
without the spring yellows
wincing during yoga.

-----------------------

what she is
what she is
what she is.

the buffet is free.
the breasts are lopsided.
the pharmacy is closed.
the mall opens for napkin-
skinned seniors.


-----------------------
not a thought
while donning a white cape.
devil horns from halloween
shedding the pose in
nuclear legs,
she smokes more than a
half-life of cereal
boxes from underneath
the lazy chins of
More worms.

there are dormant bulbs
to light
and freaks over the exit
signs to release.

why the mall stands proud
over the sterile pharmacy,
holding its breasts out for
supper
and playing rummy
when there is so much dust
gathering the bugs
in candy dishes.
--------------------------

she picks at an infected
sore on her knee,
scolding the sway of
liquor
and the barbecue tossed
from those full lips into
the sink.

she ducks away from

webbed toes.

what she is.

"no birds here"

more like.

number 5.
----------------------




----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------pffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffffft. :violent1:









 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on April 23, 2008, 09:32:20 AM

skeletal grubs.

I love those two words together. And also "hello!!!!!".
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on April 23, 2008, 01:02:08 PM
i've stomped out the
soda pop buzzards that are
blue,
to take back the sky and spill
its scuffling thumbs under your
twin shins.

swaying in the hip lilt
of jerked salt,
she exclaimed as if it were
Hel, the god of guidance
counseling for the abused and
neon ghosts...
she yelled as if her nose had
a swollen bastard tic flowing its
blood blubber
past its baldness.
she shouted when the t.v. was
beeping out radar tunnels
from the inside of my cadaver
Onions.

------------

I didn't let the comment pass
because I was swaying in the beer.
next to the 8 tracks
standing in a fungal newspaper riddle,
I said clearly with full intent.
I told her as brutally as an ox cart
full of pinched oranges and steel
pears can shred off jugular veins.

I will have none of this.
--------------------------

with long exasperated index fingers,
i've jogged over to the club
to bake rice into your. this. your.
best pair of knickers.
if you put dice below the guards'
blow horns and centrifuges,
i shall find those very same
tiny white pieces of infirm
edibles.

i will not return to the sanctuary
with stamps wanting to tease me
for a cable bill.
but the virgin bushes will line up
for the raping to twist reaping,
cutting the shelved pool waters
into geometry suckers.
belly flops for the trickle of
diving,

belly flops for the drunk.
belly flops for the bottles.

the backstroke is
wanted.

and missing.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on April 23, 2008, 01:31:45 PM
Again

you come around
following an abscence
far too long
to find
profound

If there was
a meaning
a purpose
rest assured
it is lost
on me

standing
in the room
as if
you never left

a heart bereft
of the fondness
abscence bears

who do you think you are
when I am gone
where do you think you go
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Edric. on April 23, 2008, 03:21:50 PM
Nocturne

quick thrill,
cheap skill.
inhale,
exhale.
in and out.
ruin ruin
ash ash.
throwing your life away.

i'm sorry to contribute
to a downfall so blind.
but in this moonlight,
nothing matters.
suddenly i'm free.

no troubles.
no hurt.
no fight.
i am peace.
but that which has come
by a tragedy so faint.

the ice wind blows,
the piano notes flow effervescently.
for this taste of something classical,
i turn back to this longing poison.

you hide it well,
will they know?
not at all.
for when this music fades,
all exists again
and a new tune is created.


Indigo Eyes

Indigo Eyes
Glowing
and
Glistening
before me.

Where tears have flowed
I find myself staring
and you do the same
back to me.

What is it you want?
What is it you need?
I stare in hope of
finding those answers.

Do thoughts include me?
You and I
climbing vesuvius.
Staring into the fare distance
of blue and violet.

Response formulates
and I perceive.


The Kiss

<3 you.
<3 me.
we kiss the night away
as we lock our lips
and express true feelings
in the heart of the moment.
what's to come of tomorrow
is unknown as of now
but hope is strong
and we will be one


absent muse

she was inspiration
and i loved every minute of it
but she didn't trust
although i clearly showed that
i was one to trust.
"we would like it if our names
were never said from your mouth,
nor talk about us to anyone,
and we will do the same,"
and with that
she was gone.
silent tears streamed.
what did i do?
she certainly was inspiration.
a muse.
pushing me to grow.
sadly, i keep looking back.


It Doesn't Feel Like Thanksgiving

Why can't I help but feel as all of these night fights are all of my fault?
I feel as though I was put here to serve no purpose.
To be in everyone's way.
I'm alone and abandoned.
My friends disappear in the dead of night.
All but one, whom I long to see again.
So much storming in my head.

A maelstrom of distraught.
It's consistent.
He shouts, I shout.
Fists fly, screaming out.
Why? Oh, Why?

What's the point of this?
Where did everything turn so wrong?
What happened to the peace I was so accustomed to?
I wish that this stress would just melt away.

A maelstrom of distraught.
Never Changing
She shouts, I shout.
Words fly, screaming out.
My, oh My.

I walk a path, not set in stone.
My future is the fog, and I'm afraid to step into it.
But i yearn to.
To get away from this.
To not need permission all the time.
Soon I won't be locked out all of the time.

no more horrible whirlpool of my disappointment.


Nocturne & It Doesn't Feel Like Thanksgiving were both turned into songs which you can hear on my myspace (http://www.myspace.com/egomania). IDFLT was changed to "Oh, Virginia!"
=]

Indigo Eyes is soon to come, and Absent Muse has just been retitled "The Muse" and is going to be recorded too :)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on April 23, 2008, 04:17:36 PM
Wow, the last two posts a whirlpool of poetic bad-assery.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: colordeaf on April 23, 2008, 05:18:53 PM
The Sky Over the Planet of Hats (I should make a recording of this...)

If you wish and if indeed I am an inhabitant
on a Planet of Hats
What for?
For you see, for every hat there is a purpose
such a singular purpose
that any sensible creator would leave to his (or her)
creations on the possible advent of spiritual confusion.
The presence of a hat
is meant to serve a moral lesson
to captivated audiences
However ambiguous
Or superficial.
And what of this indigo hue?
What sky is this that I cannot live within it
without fear of sunburn
or some other vice
Without my flimsy sun awning
that you so lovingly bestowed
in your initial concept sketches.
(your anatomy needs work, I say)
It was some age ago
Perhaps last week
That I chanced upon your office
And became your faithful intern,
basking in the glory of your past creations.
It's not now, I suppose, that I am in awe
Bathing in such glorious an imagination as yours
For I have surpassed you in talent
And your fertile fields lie barren
And yet you chain me to the coral desk
Where I shall feed upon the scraps of your table
Drawing blueprints of nameless inhabitants
Who will take to the sky
on the Planet of Hats.
Working second-class as your assistant
While you take all the credit
Due to my plentiful skullcap
I dream of the day when I shall sail free
On a solar barge of my own
With palm fronds and arugula
(for unlike yours, mine is a planet
of every terrain)
And fluid, silken, strong bodies
With no uneccesary fat deposits
For sentients conscious of their need
Lighten their females
of a crushing load
And bestow happiness upon themselves
Or dearest dread
For finding their flimsy hats
Proud symbols for some two-hack's principles
Utterly useless against the bearing rain.
For it is now twilight on the Planet of Hats
And not an eternal sunbeam winks in disdain.
If this is fiction, therefore we live
And the planet of hats has everything (and nothing) to give.

To the genre amen.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on April 24, 2008, 12:59:39 AM
Wonderment

there is
or was an
empty pillow
where now
your head
is
facing mine

lips open
with stories
i might have
heard but
not the way you
tell it

an arm draped
on my hip
touching
with whispers
of tomorrow
wrapped up
in just this
moment

without a
promise
without a
scent of
ending
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on April 24, 2008, 02:36:48 PM
Blues/Poem

Ride With Me

Call from the desert, dry bones crack and bleed.
You got everything you want, but I got what you need.
Won’t you holla back baby, don’t you wanna ride with me?

Big hog burning, stinking up the air we breathe.
Smog so thick, you can’t see it for the trees.
Cmon hollaback baby, don’t you wanna ride with me?

Slipped on a fossil, broken back economy.
Ass, grass or gas nobody rides for free.
Cmon hollaback baby, don’t you wanna ride with me?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on April 24, 2008, 09:06:15 PM
I'll post this awfully sappy love poem to celebrate preferpencil's return:

---

Look up, my dear:
The trees are outlined in the sky
Clouds floating in the atmosphere
You rest your head atop my belly
And I can feel your laughter
rumble through.

We, two lovers, distant stars
found each other in the light of the moon
And now we leap from night to day
To watch the sky from Earth's venue.

They say we have given up immortality
We, fallen stars, who burn less bright
But only mortals can die for love like this
Bodies grounded, but hearts set free.

------
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on April 24, 2008, 09:26:40 PM
awfully sappy love poem
------

true.     ;D

but every new Musings poem is cause for celebration!   :happy11:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on April 24, 2008, 09:32:57 PM
Don't worry, I'll return to my raging & angsty roots soon enough.

*grin*
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on April 25, 2008, 01:11:12 AM
forgiveness is necessary.
-
[ [ LaMotte ] ]

one in the morning
waiting for a cab or train to take you
at the circle
on the cold cement
talking smoking laughing
(slight intoxication calls for good conversation)
recognizing the elephants and explaining the skeletons
we prayed for something mutual -
a connection (those unsaid words)
a feeling (silenced and understood)
- we found trust (in trysts).
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on April 25, 2008, 09:31:23 AM
Musings...that was sweet. I could tell you how long the car ride was and occasionally is, but we all have our little trials. Devery. You have a huge trial called -- how can you put desire and somber in so few words? Larry. Wtf? You go, you badass mother. Rob. I am always late. Or THEY are always going absent on you, and it's not a circumstance they are proud of...this much I am sure.


they brought a
dart gun to the gurney,
and pleaded with its
cylinder to work.
lying there, the drip
from the saline bag
held the side of
my head
until the bed pan
succumbed
to the guts i once
adored.

i come back with
folded arms.
with an entomologists'
glamour for pinned moths.
reaching my tortoise
brains into long division
has been a breeze
under what Celsius
can comprehend.

so i implore, beg,
retreat, beg.
throw me a treat
better than the sex
i remember was once
of mythological
destruction and
ammunition microscopes.

you were always
the first love
and though we are
crossed off in the
maze
leaking out those
hushed hugs from
the circumference
of nannies...

i turn my body in
every direction not
recognized by rockets.
you turn your face to
me and ask how i feel
when it is clearly time
for the spiders to
come inside.

fall and spring shook
hands on it,
and between those days
i found god in a syrup
bottle,
and also a tantalizing
number of trained
boxers.

let's break down into
finite particles of sudafed's
attempt to shut tylenol
into the bathroom.
i am in here still
my first love.
waiting by the porcelain
deposits
plus all the cooled rags
to run down the
newspaper trucks.

i just heard the
origami swans waiting
for you to roll over and
kindly
speak seven different
languages
for seven different
spotlight moons.

my pride for you is
such
that it is stipulated
in the living-death-Will:
the phones will not
operate
when the emergency
assault teams
grumble
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on April 25, 2008, 10:31:43 AM
it is a come-on
a whispered secret
no one hears you
a bleeding ulcer
silent and wicked
slowly draining
you have forgotten
until it stabs you
with guilty weapons
sheltered demons
play hide and seek
inside your soul
making demands
until you break down


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: spazgirl1981 on April 25, 2008, 10:47:14 AM
I lick my wounds
never visible
and walk away again
so sick of feeling
abandoned
evey time is the first
taking it on the chin
metaphysically
wearing my scars
just for you
and a little for me
hoping next time
you feel it too.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on April 25, 2008, 12:15:31 PM
Nice.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on April 25, 2008, 01:41:07 PM
I am glad to see that this thread is very alive and well, thriving I think it's called, and for all the new life in it, most recently and in particular colordeaf and spazgirl1981 - both brilliant - and new ones from Musings and Rob for which I can only say:  more, please?  And Larry, can I get on the "Army of Larry thanks" list on your next CD, even if I don't deserve it?

Jennifer:  You ain't lost nothin', sister.  I really "got" this one.  For one with so much prolificnessness, it's one of your best!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on April 25, 2008, 09:50:14 PM
I am glad to see that this thread is very alive and well, thriving I think it's called, and for all the new life in it, most recently and in particular colordeaf and spazgirl1981 - both brilliant - and new ones from Musings and Rob for which I can only say:  more, please?  And Larry, can I get on the "Army of Larry thanks" list on your next CD, even if I don't deserve it?

Jennifer:  You ain't lost nothin', sister.  I really "got" this one.  For one with so much prolificnessness, it's one of your best!

You shall be listed, you deserve it for sure.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on April 28, 2008, 07:11:55 AM
and you, kindest of hippie, shall be reported to the poetry and music industry with a ginormous amount of affection and gratitude for your offerings. y'all make me smile in the most private of sentiments.



this is the common theme
of every poet writing about poetry,
and as my vanity and theirs run
through the ports of weather
indications,
go under the edged cracks in
doors where the handle sighs,
picks up the phone book for
signs of the apocalypse baggies,
and treads over false testimony
suckers,

the colloquial fights for my local
regressions, bouncing in the Commons,
trying on the shapely ghosts,
the fresh radish musicals,
the dribble gathering its postcards,
and that pernicious rag which haughtily
eludes destination.

even more bakers can't find the recipe
for the childlike sourdough
and the executive's squeezed ballpoint scalp
won't mix batter in the copying machine.
all of the children which are slinky
playful lap dances... there isn't enough room
in the gas station for their filthy hands.

take away the miserable misanthrope
stowing away soaps in its bra,
and what's left is the absence of
the right words.
the correct simile.
that bastard of a metaphor that
dies alongside the snowy and ashen
Politik.

i wake to find that it's superlative.
the inconsequential idioms are trumped,
growing small hairs under my chin.
the loss of every mother can only
drop milk in my polar friends' parlors.

the shades are perpetually
taking their hands into the organic
or plastic nightshade,
pushing, pinching, and pitching
out the beginning lessons.

the light bulb scalds,
and the mediocre poet holds it
until.
until.
until...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on April 28, 2008, 07:32:38 AM
The Introduction of Lists
____________________


right here is the apologetic
collector's basket.
over there is the sagging
dining room table.
under the magazine is the
grimmacing toaster,
and locked on the open
surround-sound-envelopes,
you'll find a class ring.

the single stream bathroom
waits for a vanilla spray,
the cd's are stacked sideways
against the tendency of aging
muzak,
the books are flowing on the
windows where your elbows
should dig in.

in the valley lies the monkey
bars and merry-go-stop rounds.
on that hill is where an owl
breaks its neck in constant
mice dreams,
and the gathered white noise
of each rooms' clock progression
should remind
that you are the welcome
antithesis
coincidence
Contact List.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on April 28, 2008, 08:42:09 AM
the "falling rocks" sign
dabbles in calligraphy oxymorons,
but be aware this is your grass
roots melancholy--
as gleeful as frontal lobes for 
breakfast Could Be
that every gulping, sip of soda,
lies about the stingy nature
of your yodeling
in an outdated garage band.

here is your old bitch as well.
flying her nest twigs
into lards's soaked palms...
as if capturing bacon in a net
was like slitting a worm's throat.
as if watching for the draw bridge
Could Be as sultry as swimming
across the moat in an iris.

here are the figs you left wrapped
for a relative's party--
as if holidays would set down their
charming and delusional in-laws,
as if it were easy to ride behind
or before an atlas Could Speak.




--------------------------------------------------------i'll come back to this maaaaayB. dammit. dammit. pee.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: BATTEREDxBRIDExLUVR! on April 28, 2008, 09:19:43 PM
a cigarette & a set of eyes
+++
oh, a cigarette
and i am outside, secure in the blanket of insecurity i am feeling in the company of strangers
but your eyes are large and blue and i am transfixed, and the scent of the eden you are burning
has fevered me
and i am following you
and you are circumnavigating the building we surrounded, but you are aimless
while maintaining an air of destination
where my arms are falling
is just blank existence of molecules
i could care less.
+++
i am paranoid
they are talking about me,
you know
but your eyes are earnest, and they could not speak falsifications
my hand is on cold mortar
my other hand is on the back of your shoulder
my other hand is on the back of your arm
my other hand is laced with your hand
and my hand is laced with your other hand.
+++
i am suddenly sucking down sidestream love
and i am pressed to you
with eyes wide, blue, earnest
my tongue is burning
i swallow my pain and speak into you
softly, slowly
so that you do not forget
ah...
your hair is short
i like the way it feels when i run my fingers through it,
it tickles
your face is a little rough
i like it;
and your eyes are foggy, i can tell that the life has taken its toll on you
+++
i think we should trade chemicals
with your broken heart
and your broken head
your broken eyes,
i want to be as unfucked up as you
with you
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on April 29, 2008, 11:38:32 AM
Cream Dream

I have a dream-
A dream of a day
When Curds and Whey
Live side by side
In the Deli Case.

Rise!

Rise!

Rise!

Rise to the top.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on April 29, 2008, 01:50:39 PM


this is the common theme
of every poet writing about poetry,
and as my vanity and theirs run
through the ports of weather
indications,
go under the edged cracks in
doors where the handle sighs,
picks up the phone book for
signs of the apocalypse baggies,
and treads over false testimony
suckers,........


The Introduction of Lists
____________________


right here is the apologetic
collector's basket.
over there is the sagging
dining room table.
under the magazine is the
grimmacing toaster,
and locked on the open
surround-sound-envelopes,
you'll find a class ring....


dabbles in calligraphy oxymorons,
but be aware this is your grass
roots melancholy--
as gleeful as frontal lobes for 
breakfast Could Be
that every gulping, sip of soda,
lies about the stingy nature
of your yodeling
in an outdated garage band....


I am so happy (and honored - sorry for the sappiness, j.) that my first teacher, and muse, wrote these three brilliant poems at my house and on my computer, and when I read them after she had gone into her bedroom to sleep because of the effort, I was amazed, just like it was the very first time I read Jennifer's poetry.  And to find a part of our discussions placed here and there in these poems, yet, of course, changed....    :love5:     And now I am sad because she is gone and back to her life, after only a few wonderful days, yet still I can touch the same keyboard and hope that just a small smidgen might rub off into my own fingers when I sit down and type out my next offering.  Ah, yes, dearest, I yanked the chain and here you were, but it was you who placed it there in the first place.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on April 29, 2008, 11:59:16 PM
tossing endearments
like darts
in the side room

missing wide
or sideways
with a
clangy thud
and sparks

at the main they
talk with backs
and elbows
stale beer and
smoke ride
the air
conditioning

an odd din
singular and
persistent
rouse to panic
and shudders
like a third guest
in an underwater
chair with no sound
or surface ripples

then to take
distortions
natural
outside and
alone
a call from slender
visage
where it all
began
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on April 30, 2008, 01:00:02 AM
THAT was NOT a small smidgen.

You can't get away with poetry like that. I have not gone back to my life either. (that was a tearful car ride)

And for the final damn time, I am telling you what you already feel. Perhaps a children's book title: "Who's Whose Muse?"
I am dumbfounded and smitten. :love5:

I will address you properly. With 400 more long poems. Make that 1.

"and who says i don't like sappy?" Because I do, darling.
I would run around in circles right now, but I can feel something pulling very hard around my neck...
I will deal with you in the morning, and I am honored to be your doggie. Devery is generous with treats, and despite seeming to lack character, has a propensity for making baskets with trash items. What dog could resist that?
Plus.
Let's face it.
I can't write unless I am at your house. ;)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: benmoody0220 on April 30, 2008, 10:47:03 PM
"Luna"

Hello, my name is Luna,
I live three floors above you.
And you live one above Bree.
Yes, he and I were the grandest of pals.

Every night he cried himself to sleep,
Over every little injury he ever suffered.
He got smacked upside the head,
Laid bloody in his bed.

And when they asked him what had happened,
He replied with a lie.
Like, I fell down the stairs,
Or I walked into the door.
Never I was raped on my bedroom floor.

I know you heard it,
Still did nothing.
I did too,
But, hey, I'm only tweleve-years-old...

Hello, my name is Luna,
I live three floors above you.
And you live one above Bree.

***

"Bad Habit"

You've become an addiction,
That I can't face.
You've become a bad habit.
Let's see how fast I can break you.

I can feel your eyes burning into me.
Scarring me all the time.
Help me to breathe.
Help me to leave.

You've become a shadow,
one I try to chase.
You've become old history,
one I can't erase.

I can feel your eyes burning into me.
Scarring me all the time.
Help me to breathe.
Help me to leave.

I'm needing some hope,
to get me out of this place.
So watch me go.
I'll say it right to your face.

I can feel your eyes burning into me.
Scarring me all the time.
Help me to breathe.
Help me to leave.

***

"Helpless"

I live my life in sin,
That's what you said to me.
I should know better,
Than to be this way.

But I can't help it,
Can you help me,
Christ?

I live my life alone,
Always drinking coffee.
I'd show you my world,
But I know better.

But I can't help it,
Can you help me,
Christ?
But I can't help it,
Can you help me,
Christ?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 01, 2008, 09:33:31 PM
Less sappiness this time around.  *grin*


You
are an amateur.
Reaching for the basket
of fresh made promises,
you found the spittoon instead.
Hands dirtied,
you touched my face,
and waited
for the responding flinch.

Oh, how silly it is,
that you think
I was unmarked
to begin with,
that these eyes of mine
hadn't already seen
the filth that
you try to hide.

Next time,
surprise me,
and take the care
to cover your lies
with something more
than shit and flowers.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 01, 2008, 10:11:41 PM



It's 'bout time someone got this thread on track.
And so it's Musings who's got our back.
She gives us more from all the less.
Surprising the Amateurs of Sappiness.     
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 01, 2008, 10:18:23 PM
It is I who am the biggest amateur in this thread.

I can't compete with the beauty in your and preferpencil's exchange, and so I blew the wind in a different direction, distracted you with a new mood, covered my lies in shit and flowers...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 01, 2008, 11:16:27 PM

and I was just going to write a poem entitled "Toothpicks and Spittoons" (or was that "Jackrabbit in a Spittoon"?) in honor of preferpencil, but I guess now I'll have to find a different wind...

but thank you, Musings, for your kind praise, although as I was just rumaging around in lies and the flowers that love them, I spotted your place on the top shelf of the beauty section. 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on May 02, 2008, 11:34:30 AM
I cannot wait
I must expectorate
the syllables and sounds
that in my brain
and upon my tongue abound.

Sitting stale and old
and moldy
these thoughts grow cold
and quite distasteful
I must purge this rancid verse
or be forever wasteful.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 03, 2008, 12:31:31 AM
Elegy (for the Other)



Perhaps it happened
during a conversation
or overheard in
hallway whispers,
rats gnawing
in dark corners
where the Other took
her breath and
then her eyes.

Tossed to trash and
winds the jagged lines
of life and death,
intoxicating arms
severed, and
burned in metal
vapors of cruelty.

Was it just a switch -
first on, then off?
Did the seven moons
draw her in,
erasing remnants
with lens ground fine
as longing?

Now there is a new
picture - of Ting
and her notebook,
one hand on the
black-car girl,
lightly,
in the garden above
the sea.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on May 05, 2008, 06:09:31 AM
it is basically 15 Steps
from the laptop to the sliding
glass door,
where uPon its gathering of
a sigh. a lighter. a recording
devIce,
the porch will sIt itself down
and try to remember the
rank of letters.

from the chair to the kitchen,
there are probably Nine steps.
whenever a body finds itself
loitering in that adminiStrative
avenue,
a couple of cats will ask
to be loaded up on the lifT
so that they may have the
same food thEy have had
at the same times for
longer than the pResent
domicile existed.

about ten feet away,
rounding the Wayward trash bin
which stubs the toe into
an electric-socket-hoedown,
a person can assemble their
slumping spine. one can pat
and soar, or pick At the visage
where progress paints and
plucks downwards.
the odd Trees collected over
shirts, scalps, and toneless skIns
are gripped, thanked,
and reSented.

this is not the mansion's
smallest location.
five or so
feet away
the cHair takes the body,
boasting noteworthy
precedence and detecting
the pleonastic drink,
hEadphones,
and three inches of
constant favoRites.

forlorn and noir-mottled
poEtry books.   





Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 05, 2008, 10:36:13 AM
When I think of taking a gun
and splattering my brains
all over the bed, the chair,
my computer, I don't think
about who will walk in on
my own private Grand Guignol.

Let them stagger and slip
in blood and brain matter
and splintered bone.

Better, let no one come.
Eventually, I'll be found
in some desolate place, or
lake or out-of-the-way bin,
my bones picked clean,
rearranged and readied
for eternity.

I think of the release,
only the release, and
wonder - is that enough?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 05, 2008, 10:40:24 AM
Written in the past ten minutes


We are born babbling idiots,
scientists playing,
every possibility conceived,
deranged, rearranged,
incomprehensible.

My parents stood side by side,
spoke different worlds:
Thathi said “No, don’t.”
Ammi said “Na, eppa.”

For five years
I dreamt of gothamba
and hamburgers,
had nightmares of
ghosts and yakun,

Then:
The boy rode a bicycle.
The cat was pretty.
Mary had a lamb.

You stuck your head
into mine,
reached, pulled levers:
larynx, diaphram, teeth, lips,
tongue…
baby, you said,
you’ve never had it this good,
as you placed your lips over mine,
breathed the words
apple pie.

When I signed
Nangi,
you smiled, and
I felt the edges of your teeth
scrape the back of my throat:
Baby, that’s so cute,
but that ain’t your name.
Don’t make things complicated.

Only snakes have forked tongues,
and those are poisoned.
Sometimes they’ll bite their own tails
and kill themselves.

They say, before you die,
you reach for the language
of your birth,
forget the others
that have inhabited you.

We are born babbling,
incomprehensible,
every possibility concieved.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 05, 2008, 11:33:37 AM
One more, a bit of fun (I'm coming undone)...

Mmhmm, magic man:
Show me the magicland.
Fireworks, otherworldliness
raining to create utter bliss.

Listen, magic man,
while you’re here,
why do you wear
plugs in your ears?

Sounds of explosives
can be too loud,
deafening you to
the earthly crowd.

See me, magic man,
walk away from your trick:
the magic I have
doesn't need your shtick.

Come outside to my tent,
and see
the AMAZING! WONDERFUL! STUPENDOUS!
sights and sounds
when you just be.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on May 06, 2008, 12:44:56 PM
For many seeing horseless carts
Beliefs set in so tragic
Must be powered by the devil's heart
Cast ye down o evil magic

The tranquil joy of horses grazed
Seemed to be insulted
This rich grass beauty will still amazed
The people still exulted

Now new magic seems to loom
The implications threaten
But with it no prospect of doom
Like lonesome robed Tibetans

This world you have and need no more
Does nothing to lessen
The reality of what's in store
For those who take the blessin'

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Marldance on May 06, 2008, 02:20:20 PM
Poetry woo!! I just did my first "official" spoken word showcase in PA this weekend. Went well, needs work.
I'd be interested to know if there are any other spoken word artists on the box, or anyone that performs their work in general. If so, hit me up. If not, hit me up anyway.


Legs
I confess
I never learned to close my legs.
I never could get comfortable
Sitting with my knees overlapping
My calves just dangling
My circulation strangling
Until my feet are tingling.
So as soon as I begin to stand
I’m falling on my face.
I never was able to contort my body
To sit like a proper lady
My thighs were always too wide
To be anything but spread apart
Making me think
That pulsing in between my legs
Was really the beating of my heart.
I never find my balance
When my feet stand stiff together.
They each need their own land
To conquer.
I need to stabilize myself
Straddling benches
Backs of chairs
And… boys.
I Need to throw my hips out
Need to let comfort overtake decency.
But my mother keeps telling me
To keep that nickel between my knees
Shut them up tight
With no room to breathe
Cause a good girl keeps
Her legs closed
And her mind open.
But I never learned just how
To keep an open mind while
Closing myself off.
And just maybe I got the message
Mixed up and backwards.
Contorted and cramped up
While I was trying to fold myself
Into pretzel like positions
To preserve some propriety.
But Jesus Christ it feels good to
Stand strong
Cause you can’t wield a battle ax
With you’re ankles locked.
And it’s hard to roll with
The punches if you don’t
Throw your weight around.
And I don’t care if you stare up my skirt.
I never wear one anyway.
I’m not sacrificing my comfort
For yours any day.
Because I confess
I don’t need to learn to close my legs
When I learned how to raise my standards instead.
And I don’t want to sit like a lady
Cause being a lady hurts like hell
So I’ll sit spread open and comfortable.
And stand like I’m proud to be standing at all.

You can find my recordings and shit at the myspace: http://www.myspace.com/tashapratt

i love this poem. my guy friends all make fun of me cuz i sit like a "man"
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 06, 2008, 09:24:51 PM
Give me your blessing, O Father.
I wait for that which you have in store
My mouth open, supine, you hand me a wafer
but that is not what what I am looking for.

The new magic is still old,
the men spoke of it in hushed tones
The alchemist spins his gold,
but in the end the scientist sees stones.

The lonesome monk? I look to him too:
The pebbles smooth across his worn soles,
The puzzle of the world everyday made anew
Ah yes, the perfect tale has already been told.
 
But my stones are your gold,
Your tales need more elaborate ends,
For that I will not scold,
To each man, my hand still extends.

Look, friend, from this window
How different things are seen
And to the center, here I go
To ask how your little room’s been

Ay, we can find the living room
Amongst this mess of hallways
Have a coffee and listen to a tune
Walk the bridges from our faraways.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 06, 2008, 10:11:20 PM
"Allow me to retort", says Musings.  Nicely done. 




And with this, Devery becomes a Sr. Member.  Shall I expect additional benefits, now?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on May 06, 2008, 10:31:13 PM
It is not a center room
In there I do not hide
Go back to your window
You'll see me outside

The reflection in the mirror
You think's another cat
Focus a little clearer
You'll see it isn't that

The light of mind you're seeing
It's not a mirror or a cat
It's your own internal being
And all will lead to that

The room there in the center
If you'll step in for a minute
The moment that you enter
You'll see that I'm not in it

It seems that your acquainted
You feel that you might steer her
That window there is painted
And you're looking in that mirror

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 06, 2008, 10:58:18 PM
I’m sorry, sir, your words your words your words
They seem to be all the same
Of course, once you’ve hit a wall
You’re not the one to blame.

My dear Icarus, how brightly the sun shines
I offer the softened Earth to land you safely down
But of course, to that you are too blind,
As you reach for jewels to put in your mighty crown.

Interesting, isn’t it, that the very mirror
In which you say I see myself
Is the window to where outside you shiver,
While I rearrange beautiful minds on a shelf.

A mirror is it?  Or is it a window?
Ah, you don’t see that it can be both?
Look inside to discover where the colors glow
Outside, together with us normal folk.

So busy looking for the sunny sky
You lose yourself to the heat of fire
I won’t hold my breath for the dive
But your wish is not my desire.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on May 07, 2008, 08:55:52 PM
I see ti can be both
I know it to be true
Shivering not and I would know
If my toes were turning blue

The is no room in your fine halls
That I'm afraid to roam
But there are meadows, woods and falls
Outside that little home

The only walls that my words find
Through which they've never fought
Are the ones that house your mind
But that dissuades me not

I'm not outside shivering
I'm not inside to hide
My expansion isn't withering
I live on both sides
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 08, 2008, 02:22:17 AM
You see me as an agoraphobic
But I
Ask you to step down from your leaden pulpit
And try to read carefully and not misquote it
Your stubborn ways are making you sophomoric.

This house of mine
This house of mind
Is open to all kind
And all we can find.

My house need no walls
To divide the human sprawl
I search for both one and all
answers in my life’s main call.

In this search, there are many ways
That I could try to spend my days
Out of that, I don’t choose yours for the backing
Because, for me, your preferred path is lacking

That is not to say you may not be found to be right
Unlike you, I don’t claim to have that type of sight
But my mind drifts from here like flying kite
The world to play with, and all I feel is delight.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 09, 2008, 12:55:56 AM
I say things that make no sense.
Today, I called the empty kitchen
a sonorous ballast.  I said
it quietly, in my best voice
to pat and smooth its collar
and send it off into the world -
yet it remained unmoved.

So I walked into the next room
and straightened the newspapers,
propped the stuffed toys on
the futon among the pillows,
and read a poem, something
about love and yesterday
and the weights and measures
of loneliness.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 09, 2008, 09:57:17 PM
Each day she said to me:
I love you.
Sometimes I didn't say
it back, not even a ditto.
And then she'd give her
lecture with scrapbooks
filled with tears.
I said, hey, I'm not a cards
and flowers kind of girl.


That didn't work.

So I'd tell her that I am all
for rituals, the kind before
language messed things up.

That didn't work, either.

And then I kissed her and
rose petals fell softly
about the room.
Special delivery.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on May 10, 2008, 06:25:16 AM
This page should be stamped on my forehead, so that I can point in reference and homage.



earthquakes forget to close doors,
and this is how a new mother's scream
can be seen shivering into the
heartbeat of a blue cough,
the immature gaze of seeing
haze from a room of halogen
sunshine.

long after the sac has burst its
eloquent sexual colors,
every single person puts a smile
through the vision of rockers
greeting the helpless
sucking head.

And when there is no crying,
and all the hoses in the world
can't clear lungs out
that aren't lungs to begin with,
And when the seventh or so
shot has been given,
and the doctor suspects a
tragic dimple has been lost
for the length of

labor's breathing.
Smiles are left to their grim
and pursed Coffee breaks.
how soon someone chooses to
tell
a ripped basket,
labia as swollen as a marching
band,

if the crib and stuffed animals
are to be left for another attempt,
it is simply best to send
the Mother into sleep's
black weight machines
while they stop
every futile encouragement.

when the baby becomes alien,
its global head
as close to elephantitis
or the fever of meningitis
or the main coordinating signal
ceasing heartbeats.

no blood flow and no normal brain.
and why put the woman through
seeing what has gone wrong--
the scripts for grief have been
signed ahead of time,
just as the rattle from the baby
shower

quickly tosses itself into the
garbage sack,
one sac having failed 
one sack easily hoisted
into a dumpster.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on May 10, 2008, 12:25:26 PM
DAYAMN!

Damn you of the pencil preferation.

How do you know such things.

...and I almost stopped reading...almost.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 10, 2008, 03:12:40 PM

You know, Rob, I asked that same question way back when.  Since then, I have often had tea with her in the parlor where she would most generously share her insights into poetry in general and, specifically, her poetry.  Still, I find myself asking the same question.  When I read something like this, like you, I can only say DAYAMN!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 11, 2008, 07:04:31 AM
I third the DAYUM DIGGITY DOG, preferpencil.

These were written in my head on the plane.  I had a better ending on the second one, but promptly forgot.  Suggestions are appreciated.

Poems Written on an Airplane

This High

When my great great great great grandchildren
ask me about airplanes,
I will tell them about metal birds
that glided in midair,
buses that did the impossible
and lifted to above where clouds met blue
floated beneath us like magic carpets,
disappearing, reappearing.

I will tell them about the gaps
between clouds, like windows,
where beneath, the world beckoned,
the earth was only water, land, river, mountain—
human existence reduced
to a few specks.

“I was this high off the Earth,”
I will tell them, lifting my wrinkled, spotted arms
as far as they could go,
trying to measure the distance
between sky and earth
with arthritic bones.

“This high,” they will murmur,
reaching with tiny hands to match my own,
then pressing their noses to windows
that open into craters,
looking out upon the closeby stars,
imagining the worlds never seen.


The Descent
-   based on heard  landing conversation

As we descend,
butter smooth,
the two people
behind me begin talking.

The older woman’s first son is a newscaster,
has he heard of him?
Yes.  His daughter is in 7th grade,
sitting in the next row, honors.
They are proud of their children,
they finish, exchanging stories of success
middle school to middle age,
as Florida comes into focus.

We hit the pavement, and the earth
beneath us doesn’t give,
our bodies jolting in seats.
Where did you come from, she asks.
A funeral, he replies, of a friend.  Where
are you going? he asks.
Back home to my husband,
she replies, he only remembers
me these days.
When I’m not there,
he searches the hallways,
calling out for his sweetheart.

As the plane brakes,
the world outside moves fast,
reduced to a flash of light,
then slows until everything is clear,
the descent bringing us here
to this stilled moment.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on May 11, 2008, 07:18:01 AM
poemy poemy foamy poemy fart,
click clack type type - so smart.
i'm so with it, sweetie.
you get my simile?

Ginsberg stole it from me,
these rhymes so perfect in my head,
until i read them,
and need validation.

true poemers don't rhyme,
we double time.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 11, 2008, 08:59:11 AM
Nice.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on May 11, 2008, 07:55:30 PM
d00d, t0ta1y.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on May 12, 2008, 08:20:38 AM
ehhh. this will suck. when i receive such praise i get embarrassed and then immediately know the next one will just suck. so there! haha. I assure you, the next one will be love angst-ish and more .mmm. whatever.



Banal & Awkward Formalities
__________________________

I took notes when my father
started pulling at his hair
while the sounds of crashing
Tupperware on top of the
Three keys:
spoon, fork, and dinner knife
were as dulled or mitigating
or crusty over the mistaken
foul ball hitting chalk dust,
or as frightening as revealing
burps and slobbery saxophones.
the oblivious young man was
 high on skipping classes about
 getting
High
and this son who didn’t take his hat
off at the dinner table,
he’d been told more than once
and more than once was more
than one too many by then.

In reproach to the request:
Why is there such a rule, even, man?

Chastisement  begins with
hearing loss by the attendants,
so all of us waited for percussion.

Instead:

“pass the fucking sugar, man, if
 you‘d rather we discuss  lack of
 manners some other time.”

Dad’s tone barreled down the kitchen
corners and even  made the dog
freeze and shut its drooling lips--
like a freezer pop promptly
leaving purple for noodle soup.

After gawking and desiring a little
dose of seemliness myself,
not to mention the way the youngest
mouth can turn equal parts
Mercury or ether…and

after a pause that left my stoned
brother exiting the scenery,
I quietly said over the beginning
of smiles on the sides of my sister’s
Eyes…

“can someone please pass the iced tea,
 dude, and after that, can I get some
 gravy, man.”

I had hit the lucky length of timing,
And one giggle turned into bellows
down the table
 into laughter’s nest,
As I hid my face just in case…
Just in case I had bombed.

-------------------------------------------                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       
Linguists are not immune to this.
it’s just their job to
wander the paths of speech
and note which words will bloom,
like lady bugs taking over
Garden parties,  or samples stolen
as “hearty” meals from microwaves,
the maids will eat these at home
but shine the forgotten appliance.

but the best to speculate about
are
Which can be put on the time scales.
and which ones
will last it out, man.
see things through, chief.
or give it one last go, chap

Now “journalists” stop finding news
or burning their calluses without
opinions from any type of accuracy
sought in check-book-balances,

It is getting late to kid ourselves
about the meaning of liberty.
manners, traditions and language
raise their butts up for the sprints,
fully aware that this means more
to the common man
than the equation for the speed
of light.

But knowledge has its own sneaks.
The words sound for juiced air,
And the manners ask to work on the farms,
And traditions ask for the world in customs.
These three runners have everything to lose,
And in increments they Do.

yesterday I saw a calligraphy set,
overpriced and bowing at the bottom
of the kits presented  in every bookstore.
there’s little doubt that if purchased
on a whim, and made into the art
it says it Is…
there won’t be enough ink to keep

the apprentice rolling backwards into
the lap of antiquity,
pretty as it should be and as worthless
as the coned lighthouses dotting maps.

Two teens cut in line before me
pretending fake giggling about
some other endearing topic,
perhaps involving the lack of manners
it takes to cover up 3 hickies,

or maybe they were entirely too excited
about the necessity of lavishing
Baby’s first books along with some sort
of report
saying Mozart can make your infant
more intelligent.

cutting in line, the loss of tradition,
and the gain of one rude hat on the table.
Wanting to write with the loops of ink,
The dropped custom-- a momentary reflex
Against the habits of  writing Here.
The sound that didn’t come out of the
Mouth to make mention of the trespass

What ugly new lessons I am dropping--
And seeing dropped, absurdly, in front
of me.

------------------------------------------------
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 12, 2008, 10:50:57 AM
ehhh. this will suck. when i receive such praise i get embarrassed and then immediately know the next one will just suck. so there! haha. I assure you, the next one will be love angst-ish and more .mmm. whatever.



Damnit, you goofnut!  You promised us some love angst-ish poetry and all you give us is some stuff about a family eating dinner, hats and bad manners, and just when you started to finally get somewhere with the teenagers and the hickies, you have to bring in Mozart to break the mood.  Oh, you meant the next next one.  Never mind.   :buck2:

But, leaving your broken promise aside, I'll grade this on its own merits (A+ - see me after class) and say that I am really enjoying the new style, with more narrative and cohesiveness, and much better attention to the endings.  Tighter might be a word I would use.  And, if I get my way (which would not be a good thing), I'll soon have you throwing out 95% of the words, like I do.   ;)   :violent1:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 14, 2008, 10:44:49 PM
The World Was Spread Before Me


The world was spread
before me
in sunlight, lakes
and sand.
I saw these things
with child's eyes -
dark things shooed
by mother's hand.

At night I screamed
from fishes' bites
then ran 'cross
bat-winged floors.
I lay down next
to mother in small
and quiet breaths
lest father wake
and force her hand
to comfort me in
blackest night
beyond the closing
door.

The attic where the
devil lived, its
door next to my bed
I fought the fear
with beating heart
and gently rocked
my head.

In lighted dreams
I climbed the stairs
his face he never showed
workers toiled at
desks and stacks where
lights of evil glowed.

But now I sleep on
surgeon's slabs with
saws and drills to
blind me
snipers wait in
occipital rooms where
even dreams can't
find me.



edit:  it escaped my notice last night - - No. 500!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 15, 2008, 10:38:16 PM
Someone New Hits Town

oh - 
to see her
is to take
a fall
her words
too soft
to make them
all

(no i didn't
hear them all)

pulled her
close and
touched her
breast
i want, i
said - i need
the rest

she's caught
between a
come and
go
her need
is taut
she wants it
slow

i'll be on
top
she'll stay
below
(i'm blind
and closed
and cannot
know)

her words -
again -
i thought
for show...

"don't press
me i'll
undress me -
yes, darling
soon i vow"
but now it's
no, not
ready now.

tomorrow?
well, you
never know -
and, dear,
believe
i'm not
that coy.

i left
the bed
to try
again
yet did my
ears deceive?
for then
she said

"oh baby, oh,
but you're naive
you sweetest
thing - so
wanting in
my girly spring -

dear, i
can no longer
toy - i wish
your wish
but i'm
a boy".
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on May 16, 2008, 09:54:03 AM
We can not fuck
You boy in drag
we can not fuck
I'm no fag hag

I will not fuck you
in the bed
I will not even
give you head

I will not fuck you
here or there
I will not fuck you
anywhere.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on May 16, 2008, 06:12:22 PM
Banal & Awkward Formalities
__________________________

I took notes when my father
started pulling at his hair
while the sounds of crashing
Tupperware on top of the
Three keys:
spoon, fork, and dinner knife
were as dulled or mitigating
or crusty over the mistaken
foul ball hitting chalk dust,
or as frightening as revealing
burps and slobbery saxophones.
the oblivious young man was
 high on skipping classes about
 getting
High
and this son who didn’t take his hat
off at the dinner table,
he’d been told more than once
and more than once was more
than one too many by then.

In reproach to the request:
Why is there such a rule, even, man?

Chastisement  begins with
hearing loss by the attendants,
so all of us waited for percussion.

Instead:

“pass the fucking sugar, man, if
 you‘d rather we discuss  lack of
 manners some other time.”

Dad’s tone barreled down the kitchen
corners and even  made the dog
freeze and shut its drooling lips--
like a freezer pop promptly
leaving purple for noodle soup.

After gawking and desiring a little
dose of seemliness myself,
not to mention the way the youngest
mouth can turn equal parts
Mercury or ether…and

after a pause that left my stoned
brother exiting the scenery,
I quietly said over the beginning
of smiles on the sides of my sister’s
Eyes…

“can someone please pass the iced tea,
 dude, and after that, can I get some
 gravy, man.”

I had hit the lucky length of timing,
And one giggle turned into bellows
down the table
 into laughter’s nest,
As I hid my face just in case…
Just in case I had bombed.


This is awesome. This is the sort of structure that I can really feel in poetry. i owe Musings a reading of one of her poems. I think I might read this one, too, when I break out the camera.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on May 17, 2008, 04:12:06 AM
Do you want
To suck
My penis
With a German accent
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on May 17, 2008, 06:47:20 AM
I would be honored, Wyatt. And thank you strange blonde. And cheddars, you sounded like a filthy Silverstein kiddie book. :icon_queen: :icon_king:

And Ma Chao. If you're on your way back, SALUTE!

i don't give it in german. (unless they pay...a lot, dude)

what do they speak in Uganda?

ps. Strange Blonde. I refuse to address your real name. I have a strange belief that you are Devery in disguise. Call me crazy, but the poetry is similar. Keep the name if you'd like, but you'll still be addressed as the strange blonde. (i swear i'll be in contact soon, they are working on the coma-kinks
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on May 17, 2008, 07:04:49 AM
I throw bones!

Even the sky has a ceiling, ask me tomorrow if today's how I'm feeling, wrapped up inside with a communist pride, while free-trade is wheelin' and dealin'. Punk like a prostitute, the pendelum's swingin', killin' a bird with every shot at the ceilin', horizons as wide as lines of heroes and villians, smokin' in a mirror from a spark of the friction. Blow me apart in roughly ten second's time, like a bomb whistlin' Dixie while it blots out the sky, capture the essence of death cuttin' in line, and mail it to the pussies who choose death in their prime. Searchin' through a catalogue, the past and the present, it's hard to blame the future for bein' so hesitant, hard to say goodbye to mistakes that we bet against, hard to find forgiveness when this life is the evidence.

But if I ever get the chance to give relief I'll relive, tell myself not to let me go to my head, tell you all, my lovers, that our love isn't dead, it just slipped into a coma in the back my head.

p.s. I totally agree with Wyatt.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 17, 2008, 04:25:03 PM
The Last One


the last one
is easiest -
a few cliches
gathered and
hung like
spoiled meat -
a few hackneyed
metaphors that
fall like anvils

like playing the
piano with fists
and knuckles

or tossing
carp from
the skillet
to starving
cats -

like a strange
blonde killed
in a car accident
at the age
of 25.

all those words
wasted like
lost years

let us, then,
put them back
in labeled
drawers and find
an end to
mediocrity.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 18, 2008, 02:35:35 PM
thank you strange blonde.

ps. Strange Blonde. I refuse to address your real name. I have a strange belief that you are Devery in disguise. Call me crazy, but the poetry is similar. Keep the name if you'd like, but you'll still be addressed as the strange blonde. (i swear i'll be in contact soon, they are working on the coma-kinks

I was forced to say something good-ish at gunpoint.  Devery?  I'm sorry, but I was almost/kind of famous when I died in a car crash at age 25 in 1967.  My sister is still famous and might still miss me.  And, really, I'm not so strange.  Just dead.......ish.  Please enlist a spiritualist to contact me.  I would recommend Salina, of the late 19th-century London gaol for women.  She reportedly has fantastic powers.  There was an excellent written account of her seances, and then her cruel imprisonment and escape.  It is reported that she could send a flower from her freezing cell to her lover as she slept fitfully in her warm bed in a well-apointed part of London, merely by the force of her mind and will and, I expect, her love.  Just don't - don't - read the last 30 pages.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 24, 2008, 12:21:26 AM
The Resection Incident


I prepared myself for death
and marked it on my calendar. 
I tidied the rooms. Put my
things in boxes. Daily walks
to clear the lungs, to make
them strong for ether and
the knife.  A last pass.
Striding to my waterloo,
this final spring.

Let them hear me cough and
spit. A final spin where
days are cold and life
is fixed.  And let me
watch the woman in her
red shorts amble through
my private walk, her sweat
in beauty tides glisten
on her legs - and at
the bank the laughing
girl, with hands on hips,
leather straps criss-
crossed up her calves,
like a painting or the
light inside the paint.
A cruel stab to stir my
heart just when I
reached for death.


The imperfections of my
birth -  such treachery! -
an ambush inside my head
like ice cream wrapped
in clots and tangled vessels,
slowing melt to smaller
drips and stains. When
they snap and burst there
won't be time to cross
in leisure - then I'll
be bound in stillness,
without death or
memories of death.

I dreamed my head was in
a vice and clamped, my face
in sideways clasp, saws
slicing through skull,
flaps of bone and flesh
ripped and held aside - a
service to the art of
small-space tinkering.

The careless Surgeon takes
a break and Nurse tends
to her instruments, the
needles and the sweet
narcotics.  I feel quite
in fashion now - but mind
the unkempt head, the
drainage tubes, the
bloody sponges on the
floor.

And ere I slept for real,
into my room a voice -
"when you awake with
different eyes.." -
my vigil turned to
readiness, eager
for the storm.

.............................

I wake among the living
yet death is all I want,
perhaps a new salvation
from the Angel in
my room

Satan speaks from
pastor's mouth
my blindness
prophesied
as too the doors
of plastic gold
and when they
close to fleshy
sun
at least I took my
soul.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on May 25, 2008, 10:06:31 PM
I
Won't
Cry

I won't cry, 'cause when I feel
I feel I don't mind

I know

I
Don't
Mind

I don't mind 'cause pain is rhyme
And the only time I take
Is when I leave in kind

I said

I
Don't
Mind

I will fall, or I will fly
But no matter what I do
I'll rip my mind in time

And I

Know
My
Pride

It's a claim and a curse
But I love it for the fact
That it's what comes to me first

And I

Think
It's
Time

To stop fighting and believe in what works
To identify what changes
And lay to rest what'll hurt

And I

Beg
You
Please

To receive
What's bellowed from the knees
To swipe the card and cash out
And to relish the squeeze
Please believe
That this life is editorialized
And changed on the scene
That no matter what we do
What's done is never perceived
Only felt on a level we refuse to believe
Only knowing what you see is what will beckon disease
Mental respirators for the lungs on the sleeves
And the hearts on the knees
Let us dance on the breeze and breathe the life that we freeze
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on May 25, 2008, 10:40:14 PM
first, i drooled. no lie. and it could have been Pastor Bob, but there could be something floating around this room also.

if you dance around the fire with serpents and aren't bitten, then you are most certainly saved from Hell.


I DID get bitten by a random grass snake. Odd, because they aren't supposed to hurt people but this one swallowed me whole. Thank Goodness you saw me a the bottom of your hill with just one toe sticking out. Damn if those girl scouts didn't teach you some survival skills.

Thank Golly. Thank Golly. Pastor Bob --no bulldonkey. A priest from some local commune was just arrested for endangering the lives of infants by having them sleep next to snakes the night before their baptism.

Unbelievable, I know...but Pastor Bob comes from somewhere unbelievable as well. Not me. I just come from the most ignorant state in middle America...something to be proud of! Go Idiotic Hoosiers and Boilers! The very names imply their stupidity.
sO SO SO SO.


Thrr pdr, iyrt


































Pastor Bob's "Whack a Mole/Pastor" games are more popular than the rigged basketball nets I hear...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 26, 2008, 04:21:10 PM


Well, as for that thing floating around your room, it is either the metaphorical Angel or assorted snake minions.  I choose to ignore those things and liken your supernatural experience to the simple sensitivity and discrimination of The Poet.  Of course, a certain knowledge beyond a mere "wtf" never hurts, now does it?  And Pastor Bob has been relegated to one nameless line in a poem, which is, at the very least, poetic justice.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Schplynthia on May 26, 2008, 04:39:47 PM
The Vagabonds (about a Dolls show)

Strange
Circus folk painted silver spin like change
Not spent on smiley brand-name dessert
Food Product spins on elementary school lunch tables
Until stomped by a flat palm.
They conjure and manipulate electric rainbows while the Red Angel
And her trusty consort (servants after all)
Scatter joy
And the occasional ruined drink
Over a crowd of well-groomed sex addicts

The fiddlers strike a luminescent chord
And the waltz begins
Shrieking, howling like a dog
With that fool
Gathering roses and our Red Angel
While he may, never letting go.
Meanwhile, that orchestra of
Eerie Roma campfirefly glow
Coaxes eternal resplendent transformation shining
Down
On the Red Angel,
Now twirling alone.

Until,
Of course,
The lovers take the stage.
A voice and a soldier,
Grimacing joyfully, making
The room vibrate with their shouting
Rhythms while Lolitas and Humberts emblazon
Their initials across the floor.
Arms and hands and lips
Fingers navels shoulder blades toes
Painted truth with antique cobweb eyebrows
Whose sweet dreams dissolve into light and
Evaporate,
Leaving nothing behind but echoes
Bouncing off the wall,
And on the floor,
Those scars of passion hidden
Under a blanket of confetti.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on May 26, 2008, 09:04:38 PM
Eh: the idea was good, the execution was faulty.

Inspirations:  George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words (http://www.erenkrantz.com/Humor/SevenDirtyWords.shtml)

Quote from: Wikipedia entry for Schindler
When Stern and Schindler were first introduced to each other, Schindler held out his hand. Stern declined to take it. When Schindler asked why, he explained that he was a Jew and it was forbidden for a Jew to shake a German's hand. Schindler replied with a German scatological term, Scheiße.


If only we stopped
censoring ourselves.

Shit: The Jews
and Nazis shake hands,
the world has risen,
ashes swept,
teeth back in rows.

Cunt: She whispered,
petals thrown in air,
women holding each other
up -- the men taking notes,
watching laughter.

Cocksucker: The Pope
walks out of his Saran wrap
home, offers his hand
in marriage to
the wisened old man next door.

Motherfucker: Children, love
your mother.  Mothers, you are
golden like the goddesses you
first came into the world as,
and at the altar, they
sing your praises.

Piss: The old men
don't dribble any more,
and the Nile finds itself
overflowing --
Africa returned
the janjaweed lighting
candles, mowing grass.

Tits: Oh, breasts:
sculpted out of stone,
our eyes follow the curves,
we save plastics for
recycling bins, and flesh
for the human form.

Fuck: The world
really is all in love.
Disease eliminated,
wars quelled,
we lie together,
discover that there is nothing
dirty, nothing but words
that we send each other
when our tongues meet across
soft lips.

But now, only silence, shame:
we have forgotten the humanity
in frustration, the beauty
of our common tongues,
that words are only that,
but also so much more.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 29, 2008, 11:49:49 PM
Ting's note
placed behind
the mirror:



When you
were You
you held me
made me safe
and so I
told you
everything.

And when You
wrapped me
in your legs
and kisses
what need
had I for
dreams?

You ran my bath
and dressed me
up - stroked my
hair and then
my heart -
You put your
fingers to my
stuttering
lips when I
was bad
and caught
in fear of
speaking.

Sssh - you
said -your
silence is
my heaven
and you
so lost
my Angel
falling just
for me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on May 31, 2008, 01:13:03 AM
Filling in the Chart:




"Why am I here?"
Ting said it softly
in obedience of whatever
could be worth the restraints
and a catheter.

the nurse or doctor
didn't answer her question
but resumed in this puddle:

your height and weight,
your living relatives
your profession
how long have you been
an addict?

Ting swung the only thing
she could,
her head pushed away
from the ridiculous
notes of query,
and she waited for reasons
that could hold sway,

and then she felt a hand.
small and sandy like hers,
they had shared cotton candy
and Ting had bought her a
hot dog, knowing this was all
her black-haired friend would
receive that day.

skipping down to the end,
they tipped up a little
on the edge of the pier
and watched the water break
over the poles,
the poles themselves green
underneath and gross,
filled with fauna
they frowned about when
turning to face the other.

but they were holding hands.
the simplest gesture of
affection,
and now Ting strapped into
a bed where each limb
was locked,

she started to cry
remembering how they had
dressed up as flappers although
they were nothing but country
girls on the loose for a day.

"Look at my dress shimmy!"
her black-haired partner had
squawked, amazed at how
plastic beads could make that
crinkling sound of change
just by moving shoulders
or hips.
"I Know!"
Ting had said back.
and then her face began to flush,
because noticing her friend's hips
was a little like knowing her
nakedness. fierce fire
had run up her chest to display
its new knowledge.

that whole day seemed
spent holding hands,
and every time the other let go
for a little,
Ting begged to have it back
and emptied out her money
to everything of fancy
the young woman desired,

just as she desired the sweat
and the smell of taffy,
confusion crept and
there was no way to tell
an idiotic doctor that as
he was checking her
reflexes,

all she had ever wanted
was
at that moment on the pier,
hands melted and faces in
full agreement.

that her face had turned
and told Stella
with her lips
the only thing her lips
did now without feeling
but for a profitable price.

but back then
then
and then again.

just a bit more than a kiss
and she would have
thrown away the whole
notebook full of longings
and mealtime references.

the medical crew had decided
that when a bed opened at the
state facility,
it would open for Ting,
and hearing this much

for some reason
she was not surprised to
look out the plastic window
and see her Owl.
Her Owl.

it was supernatural
and unbelievable
but within the space
of one bed check,
Ting had been set
free
to fly.





----------------------------------i think this is shit, but i am trying, Dev.
 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on May 31, 2008, 02:34:17 AM
nights like this
i wonder if i shouldn't
have put more than five
trash bags out for the move,

and times like this
when the metaphor misses
its lumpy hair
and personification becomes
personal,
making my foot scream at
the corner of the table.

moments like now
when there is no place
to put the butted head of
my constant broken baby of
a heart,
wanting to save you all...

and times like this
when i'd rather the whole lot
go down in one giant rocket,
sparkling like a giant gear
caught jammed,

and especially nights like this
when you've sent me
a note to tell me you're
miserable and i am missed.

particularly at spots
where you've shot blood
directly out of my ears,
i want to take the bridge out
over the ocean

where the impact
will hardly be heard.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on May 31, 2008, 08:20:47 PM
On mornings like this
when basements open
their cold arms to
hold me and I am lost
in a thousand houses
with nooks where
enchanted foxes come
to entice their prey
through need and
charms - while I'm
intoxicated with meals
of dust and darkness -
will you look for me?

I'll go north to
the strange city
in lunar eclipse -
close my eyes
against the sun
for shapes in
black and white -
first stones then
rusted gears turn
outside to inside
eyes to visions
splintering into
every future
desperate act.

After millions of
bodies and heads
you stop to get
your bearings and
then there I am
in the park,
walking toward
you, barefoot and in
white, floating in
waves of midday
heat.

You see my blood in
different form,
my eyes beyond the
thousand houses -
a last glance to watch
you, anxious, expectant,
and I wonder if I'll feel
your touch when I'm laid
out and made beautiful,
for you, at the final
ceremony.






Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lanskyy on May 31, 2008, 11:22:05 PM
I envision a room with cream-colored walls,
a maroon
undertone and a couch
where i can sit and
strum until 4 in the morning
after a few
self-portraits
alone
embraced in the solitude
of self
realization.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on June 01, 2008, 12:36:24 AM
This day
I find myself
folding and refolding
chairs figuring
which edge
to sit on.
The curtains open
but dawn or dusk
it is hard
to say, what light
this is.
We huddle close,
lick our lips
in anticipation
for the feasts
we may never see,
but this warmth
together, that will hold
us at least until
lunch.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 01, 2008, 04:03:58 AM
the mating game started
after the deluge today,
thousands of frogs going
for it,
talking about it over donuts,
spreading their throats
out for new necklaces,
and twisting their hair
unconsciously over shoulders,
while the males
crossed legs to hide erections,
unable to focus on anything
but those darling lips,
while the catty young women
checked their purses to see
if they'd be going Dutch...
or perhaps it's just a ploy
a play
a way
out of the messy pit,
why not turn to the rear and
let what's happening
happen, because this smell--
this odor is new
and sliding into the air
while both sexes gather tea,
and behave as beasts
behave
behind dumpsters.
after all the phone calls
some child is bound
to pick up the receiver.

-----------

miles and miles away i
become red and cheeky,
washing those parts in the
new shower where a nozzle
has never seen my tattoo
until now,
never looked at my fat thighs
until now,
never noticed the stray hairs
until now.

------------

after...
i take 3 steps out onto
the porch and shut eyes against
the visions of orgies running the
sewer control towers.
i refuse to think of you,
my friend,
in the mating position i know
we haven't mulled over
while dining
on red velvet cakes,
me running an old toothpick
through the middle
of icing

just to test the word
"collapse"
while you charge forward
and say "union"

we must now consume the
diaspora of suburban sprawl
and sandy grasses.
i am forcing you down from
an attic with only darkness
as its fear,
while you throw me over
in the carnival tent
and remind me that clowns
are Only
Clowns.


we'll have to sort out
which part of the poem is
about frogs,
which is about discovery,
and which is about us

somewhere in a rented
hotel room where the air
stamps out my new lighters
and sets the pupil
to the task
of burying.

i think
fried long enough,
i must resemble the taste,
the obnoxious assembly
called "Chicken".
choose the leg or the
breast,
leg or breast.

whenever you arrive
here in your sleep,
i'll still have half of
me spinning on the
rotisserie...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 02, 2008, 09:08:29 PM
A Combination of Words

In this time when
phones are dead
and letters are
tossed in
unmarked boxes

this time
when we are
separated
I'll follow stars
by clock and
fist
I'll listen for
the early
sound of white
static

precious -
are you in an
alley with the
rats
a house that
rids itself
of children
restrained in
cloth and
wire by Drs.
keen to find
THE answer -

are you still
among those who
are not you?


there is a change
the moon splits
oceans wash
the world clean

a window frames
your head
ghosts shimmy down
the ledge
throwing pebbles
against
the glass

we talk of the
unspeakables
and lost
paradigms
you say you think
you might be dead

the window disappears
I can hear you
singing
a song you wouldn't
sing
casually asplendor
in a boat on the
river of moving souls

a collar around your
neck, studded and
rough, choking at
the pull - in my
hands I see a leash

and jump into the water
to loosen the clasp
the boat disappears
as well the simple man
at the oars

as well the history
of one-way transport
shaded on the far bank

we are drenched and
quietly satisfied
on a grassy hill
in the park
we talk again and share
an ice cream

the leash (again) appears
in afternoon air
now a necklace
made for me of finest
thin braid with a
garnet resting

and yours - three bands
of beautiful silver
around your neck

we sit side by side at
a desk in the middle
of the park
you scribble out one
single line
and I follow with
another.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 02, 2008, 09:37:55 PM
STUPENDOUS


(a paradigm has appeared)





Can I share the desk with you? AND THE ICE CREAM? :glasses9:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 02, 2008, 09:54:26 PM

Since I combined your ideas with mine in the above poem, and "borrowed" a few words from you, it appears that we are already sharing the desk. 

What flavor do you like? 

 :love5:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 04, 2008, 07:28:29 AM
we had lost sight
of the shredder next
to the fax machine when
our tickets were passed to us
near an iron gate
by a man with a
buffalo-head.

we both wished we had been
drawn to the left, where
cupcakes were falling off the
backs of horses,
and mermaids were joking,
wrapping their hands around
their throats, waving them into
the air, mimicking drowning--
on that side of us,
the clients wore heels
and their faces held the tint
of blue against foggy
curtains.

but in front of them was a
man with a buffalo's body
and he hummed idly by
a stake crying in anguished
flames,
or rather,
the skeletal gristle of
a single cloud wrapping its
way up into blue vapors.

i felt the sting of a drop
and we started to dash in fright,
but the result was walking
backwards of course,
and the dog with
fingers in front of us
told us to piss off, or at least
quiet down...
the journey Outside had no
bearing on your place in the Animalia
Index.

------------
our identities were in the
shredder.
our identities were fused
at the iron gate.
our identities had lost all
their blood.
--------------

a crowd walked onto a stage
where stakes waited for their
shapes, and I reared back
with my mouth open
while you clenched down hard
with yours.
it happened quickly and dust
splattered our hair with pockets
of grey...

behind us
a man with a boisterous
baker's hat informed us that unless
we started to eat the rotting fishes
pinned against the shoreline,
we would lose our privilege of
Becoming
and continue to venture downhill
with a soup kitchen just out
of reach.

i looked up for guidance and was
handed the smaller salmon
which only started to flail
upon reaching my hand.
my mouth did the rest as
fast as it could, feeling pasty.

perhaps three more feet
and floating began
as a breeze,
it was then
we both realized we were
standing without gravity.

---------------------
our identities were in the
shredder.
our identities were fused
at the iron gate.
our identities has lost all
their blood.
-----------------------

i broke off one rib
to show you my secret.
you showed me an
hourglass
where the sand resisted
movement.
Something Sighed before
saying "yes"
and spinning a film reel...

this part is where
i apologized,
crying out the explanation of
our deaths.

here is where
you danced without a
partner
to show me how we had
lived...


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 04, 2008, 07:52:21 PM
The Vagabonds (about a Dolls show)

Strange
Circus folk painted silver spin like change
Not spent on smiley brand-name dessert
Food Product spins on elementary school lunch tables
Until stomped by a flat palm.
They conjure and manipulate electric rainbows while the Red Angel
And her trusty consort (servants after all)
Scatter joy
And the occasional ruined drink
Over a crowd of well-groomed sex addicts

The fiddlers strike a luminescent chord
And the waltz begins
Shrieking, howling like a dog
With that fool
Gathering roses and our Red Angel
While he may, never letting go.
Meanwhile, that orchestra of
Eerie Roma campfirefly glow
Coaxes eternal resplendent transformation shining
Down
On the Red Angel,
Now twirling alone.

Until,
Of course,
The lovers take the stage.
A voice and a soldier,
Grimacing joyfully, making
The room vibrate with their shouting
Rhythms while Lolitas and Humberts emblazon
Their initials across the floor.
Arms and hands and lips
Fingers navels shoulder blades toes
Painted truth with antique cobweb eyebrows
Whose sweet dreams dissolve into light and
Evaporate,
Leaving nothing behind but echoes
Bouncing off the wall,
And on the floor,
Those scars of passion hidden
Under a blanket of confetti.


This is an amazing poem.  If you have more, I hope you post them.  Or else write some more. 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 05, 2008, 09:54:45 PM
how fragile it all is:

butterfly against
mountain

pale blue eggshells

our hearts

the memories
that bring us here

in cool evening
treading air

embracing the blood trail

the crunch of rib in
our mouths

dolls cascading upon you
like snakes

the smell of tragedy foretold
in the walls

basements made of chalk
and dreams

the shade on the river
witness our twin dives

and our ascension

to the other dance
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on June 06, 2008, 06:57:01 PM
I'll Be Back

Some day
I'll come around again
We'll walk and Talk
The way we did
When we were young
Hand in hand

Some day
I'll look you in the eyes
the way that you deserve
I'll say all the right things

Not because I should

Because I want to.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 10, 2008, 12:21:00 PM
I see the light
has come to you.

It fills your eyes.

The girl you were
I never knew.

Fettered by your mother's
lessons, the ones you
try to dream away.

You unlock the box that
turns night to morning.
Because the light has come.


You're in the garden, in
soft grass, putting flowers
in your heart.

I put my arms around
your vision.

And let you go.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 10, 2008, 01:19:00 PM
For Prefer:

Blast from the scene of the crime, dot the line, between the words and the rhyme I find a beauty sublime, like a brook running strong with the heat of a Nine, in a forest burnt down to make way for a lot, to fuel a shitty donut shop that feeds shitty cops.

This beauty is the essence of the world on a tilt, spinning through space despite the waste that we've built, disconnected to connection, not a blade for a hilt, just the knowledge that these people have to live on in guilt.

There's no need to pull the trigger if you're already dead, livin' ain't synapses snappin' to the tune of your head, it's breathing minus burden while your chest is compressed, and letting go of everything you've used to impress.

So keep on keepin' on in the hole that you've dug, we're only so below you 'cause your mirror's your rug, the fact is I don't care whether your better or not; here, have a cannon; it's a hell of a shot.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 10, 2008, 06:54:24 PM

For you
I came above-ground
in air and light

like it was the
easiest thing in
the world to be
a regular person

talking of books
and weather

leaving cinder and
concrete and the
cool dark swells
of time.

But I am a basement
child, I will rot
in the sun.

I shield my eyes
from snakes and tales
of heroic sinners

this garden
in perfect balance

and other useless things.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on June 11, 2008, 04:00:40 AM
I'm calling this poem:

Whatever Happened to Jack's Broken Heart?

Whatever happened
to
Jack's Broken Heart?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 12, 2008, 05:35:20 AM
Jack's Broken Heart --he simply liked the old Box better. Of course, you can pm him to let him know errrr. Suede --i hope-- remains ok.



you flowed up into the
bottom of my sock like a
cat's claw,
sharp and obtrusive
with a soft, bulbous belly

and we smoked
and you cut my hair
and we made agreements
and promises every lover fiddles.

i lost you in the parking lot,
a complete reversal
of kissing you with my fingers
in the right place
late at night

and you asked for it
over and over again you needed
tonic just to stand by my side,
and in this you didn't waver,
your loyalty stretched

like gauze
that catches birds.
like the edifice called a mall
where you worked and I know

you had sex with her also,
because no one puts another's
picture in on display unless
it means cheating.

i played the fool and let you
laugh when you knocked me
to the floor.
and i played mother to your
crying.

but all you ever wanted my
dearest junkie
was some medicine,
and now and look what you
have done...

your dolly has run out of
smell
except maybe must.
dust from something sticky.

we are gone from the
space from nose to nose,
from hand to hand,
from pelvis to pelvis.

and it's your turn to bawl.
you said "i'll handle this"

and the frost sliding down
should have told me as much,
the ending
and the start.

one kiss for the love
one kiss for the loss
one for the digging
and one for the climbing...

i'll handle this.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 12, 2008, 06:11:20 AM
i found you in a pocket made
for microwaves,
and confessed every lie, every
fortuitous finding,
every baked confection
and all those pretty angels

Gone.

once you give a confidante
the bones of your pocket change,
they will either find misery and
edge away from you as slowly
as a wolf smelling metal,
or clasp on to you through
the waves like the sandy floor,
pointing out where not
to slip or sink.

Gone.

taking the sum of accomplishment
and throwing it up to the phantasm,
my god (assumption)
my god (perhaps not)
my god (no way)
there are colors i can't name,
like your blackened fingernails--
be my mechanic please.

Gone.

i've thrown the relatives outside
of the caged Thought,
and brought you here so that you
may see the splendor
or how a body swells
and retreats,
going grey without aging
is quite the carnival trick,
isn't it?

Gone.

it takes very little for a
complete stranger to fall dead
and you will walk over it like a
construction zone.
you must go on inside the tears
and outside the smiles
unless, of course, you ain't that
Kind.

Gone.

we are on the roller coaster
so put your arms out and feel the
breath. when you are pretty,
it's so close to petty. let's make it
graceful instead. let's make it handsome
once again. there is only so much time
to name the worthy.
so

i'm telling you that the
jackhammer doesn't stop for
anyone or anything...
except when work is done.
and then we're all good and

gone.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 12, 2008, 06:46:29 AM
the sky lies about the
thick nature of ink, water, skin.
and we notice that this
red wine is ready to stretch.

one smack across the nose
becomes a running horse,
and whatever captures the Fall
is penniless.

i want to believe the pink sun
but the poisoning has me sunk
and clinging to the side rails
like a jack rabbit caught in a
spittoon.

i bring you anger with a bow
on top, a swirl of chocolate and
vanilla soft-serve Ice.
i dream of something vanilla,
not caring how muddy we get.

throw the rope over king's hill
and drag me over dirt's gravel.
bring me spinning on a rooftop
and i will slip in slow and grinning,
my last bed --
yours.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lanskyy on June 12, 2008, 02:24:54 PM
the mouse.

the dust flies at the sound
of the resistance
of the persistance
of the ever-lasting notice
i know, i know
now let it be
the wounds shape scars
fueled by the unwanted
and the thoughts of the taunted
and the,
the lonesome, the youth
who want nothing but to leave
they say i am a mouse
a mouse with no intentions
yet i have no prevention
yet these ideas you implant in me
swallow my meaning, my thoughts
and cause my fall
i feel the days unraveling
my speech is dry and blank
shove me until i'm off the plank
shove me and scar me
i'm nineteen, i'm twenty-three,
no darling, you're only five.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 13, 2008, 02:25:21 AM
the steel tells the soup to drop
but it rises before it meets wood,
and the barriers of that floor hold
cracks which hold cracks holding
gravel.

it will go further, spreading mold
which is the Maker of Babylon
and the reason our knees never
look past childhood. Here. Here.
find out what crawls out of your
mouth and shivers.

write it down and wrap the rubber
bands all the way 'round,
now toss everything you've ever
heard in a restroom into the
pit where your body finally
catches cholera...

tell them that you Loved Once.
(doesn't matter the number)
tell them that you Loved Once.
and that first love was a nipple
(real or bottle doesn't matter)
but have some grace while losing
your fluids.

this is your own personal
hollow-cost.
it doesn't cost a penny to
lose your teeth,
but if you'd help us out
Soldier.

just a simple pull
and the poem dies

it already did
after the first line

let us get to 
business.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 13, 2008, 03:39:45 AM
without the street lights
were there be headlights
and if they realized their
distance,
would they reach and fold
for each other as lovers.

without napkins would there
be folding and crumpling and
the quirky movements to swipe
away dribble.
perhaps the Vikings, as we were
taught smacked their heads down
into the food,
but the horns would fall off,
and that would mean some sort
of cleansing...

maybe the third time Pops makes
a move to stick something in
is the last time a person realizes
childhood has flown with the moths,
and hiding in the closet isn't a path,
nor ducking your head from the arrow,
nor hiding in the tent when the horns
Sound.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on June 13, 2008, 09:54:34 PM
this is one that i started today....


alcoholism, masochism, terrorism
politics, finger-pricks, idiots
misogynist, feminist, pessimist
 
whatever you have to say
it doesn't matter anyway
just make your way
i'm a walking cliche

underground, upside down
backwards, forwards, it's all the same
indefinitely, unconditionally, but only temporarily
wonderland, wasteland
teenage, stoneage




that's all i have right now
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 14, 2008, 07:22:45 PM
well, it's a damn fine start --unless it's finished, in which case it's a nice fine' --as well as what everyone else laid out on the previous page. yes. i toot the "good fucking job!" horn frequently. there's no harm in that, is there?




the shy insects are knocking
on the cement doors,
waiting for a crack
to sell some frosty gimmick.
and i am just the kind of
Sucker to buy into it,
looking at their black dot eyes
and knowing their emotions
run over cackling skins.

if i told you i was lonely
there'd be little surprise in
something so flamboyantly
ordinary,
so i'll tell you i'd eat your
body first if we were lost
in the cooking jungle,
and there would be plenty of
peppers to boot on top

i propose your thigh goes
first in case of embarrassment
but for all i know your flesh is
better served in a sushi roll.
and i'd rather leave the worms
talking to themselves around
the edges of the party,
swaying lightly with martini
olives drizzling on sticks.

i have told you a million times
to shut the door when you come
in from selling your toilet faucets,
but you scold me with your wagging
fingers,
saying hey you cannibal-loving
Freak.

let's go out tonight.

OK, i think.

I will.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on June 14, 2008, 10:26:42 PM
thanks you!

i really really love yours!!!  ;D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on June 14, 2008, 10:27:27 PM
oops. i meant to say "thank you".....no s
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 15, 2008, 02:23:43 PM
well thanks you and no need to apologize for a typo like that. plus the cool thing about the poetry thread is that you can fuck up language as much as you want and call it artistic license. i doe. or diid. or something like that. but seriously, you have a gift. Use it as much as possible. There are days it's my only escape from the fleas and other trivial matters. Like bills, a job, a lover. Things like that aren 't nearly as important as poetry. I am joking a little, and I mean a LITTLE.

the more you write, you may discover that some don't feel finished and may never be -- but there are other people in here who put in "finished" products far better than I do. I just have more time than they do, so I annoy.

check out Rob, Innocence, Devery, Ma Chao, Larry, Musings, and Please. If you haven't gone through all the pages, throw in a random number. (if i missed everyone else, excuse as it wasn't intentional) I have already stated that I wished there was a way to publish all of these. Maybe someday, eh? And I'd even let my weak ego go and take myself out of it if I knew the rest of it Would get Published one day...
Who knows. The forum can use as much life as it can use, and this thread remains constantly growing...nice, I think.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on June 15, 2008, 05:45:26 PM
well thanks you and no need to apologize for a typo like that. plus the cool thing about the poetry thread is that you can fuck up language as much as you want and call it artistic license. i doe. or diid. or something like that. but seriously, you have a gift. Use it as much as possible. There are days it's my only escape from the fleas and other trivial matters. Like bills, a job, a lover. Things like that aren 't nearly as important as poetry. I am joking a little, and I mean a LITTLE.

the more you write, you may discover that some don't feel finished and may never be -- but there are other people in here who put in "finished" products far better than I do. I just have more time than they do, so I annoy.

check out Rob, Innocence, Devery, Ma Chao, Larry, Musings, and Please. If you haven't gone through all the pages, throw in a random number. (if i missed everyone else, excuse as it wasn't intentional) I have already stated that I wished there was a way to publish all of these. Maybe someday, eh? And I'd even let my weak ego go and take myself out of it if I knew the rest of it Would get Published one day...
Who knows. The forum can use as much life as it can use, and this thread remains constantly growing...nice, I think.


you're amazing.
:D :D :D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 16, 2008, 03:08:10 PM
Pieca.

So you wanna stand up on a mountain
Not knowin' how to jump
Just wonderin' where the clouds went
Wonderin' how to pay the loud rent
The showl's spent
Every dollar that you had
Went to coverin' a cloud quick
Now I'm spent
Can you focus on a clock tick
The cocked tip
Of a million unarmed
Askin' who what and how, when
So why them
Why then does the world spin
Head cocked, land locked
I prefer pen
Prefer tin, to aluminum sin
A gypsy called me cocky
It's the cystal and ball kin
It's all mean, it's all meant
To be oft spent
The average power of a tower
Is war bent
The right fell
The left leaner can augment
From off-cent'
Common since is just two-pence
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lanskyy on June 16, 2008, 09:29:08 PM
*cough* Ahem!

My last poem got no love, hate or nothing.

*stomps foot and runs away  :'(

Same. *runs away too*
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 17, 2008, 12:56:31 AM
i haveTHAT infernalNewDisc playing in my BURNING EARS LIKE a ripple of cream off the topOF aSTORMcloud. YOUAREstrutting onstage somewhere hidden and SAW-SEEN. PackageMeUp baby I want to HOLDyour handWhen frightened But YOUHAVE a TONof those kinds. So, Rather I take mY STAKES out of STEAK AND place itSimply at your feet.LIKE a FoUnd ChickEn, I Spreadmy talons down for "TheKill" and wait for IT 2pound the GARDENER into my palm WhereI SHALL Kissher and tell her it's YOURdream, and rightFULLy so. GIVE MEyour SoloBUSINESS AND ICeCream, my favorite Flavor, SWEET. MY LUNGSsliding like turtles in a fog, MyLEGS working the GuitarSTRINGS into POPPING. All I ever SAY2U, US, that is...IS Love is gliding past your ear, and THAT wasME. The itch YOUjust noticed. I canBcoy and also LoveYOUUTTERLY. AS A FAN of yourkarmicEFFORT 2 seduce the BOMBSinto bays where they CANLIESTILL, and enjoyRETIRING, while WE RAISE A toastJam and say, "hey, That woman is devastating.
" --love, j


i posted this poemical at MEEEspace on Amanda's spot, and i always tend to do this. it isn't a poem and it isn't anything but an arrow of admiration sent because someone gave me chops that I hadn't done it in a while --so now you see this bizarre thing before you.

Larry and lannsky -- I said EVERYONE ON THE PREVIOUS PAGE EARLIER AND THAT RUNS INTO THIS PAGE SO DO NOT STOMP YOUR FOOT> I LOVE YOU TOO MUCH AND THEY WERE SUPREME OFFERINGS.

god damn Ma Chao. and Innocence. I wept, so I hope you hear that somewhere off into your looming-large life.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 17, 2008, 01:36:54 AM
we settled on a place
where waiters serve
us with red and pink
hands

outside snowflakes
are as large
as babies eyes

I will take snippets
from others and
put them together
like this
because words carve
letters into sex
like delicate
flowers

you touch her hand
with an offer but
she says "back to
the gutter, sweetie!"
and so you think of
Bridgette above you
in her black leather
jacket and cap and
cig.

and next to her
the one you want
to sweat all over
you

so, arrange the
rendezvous and quiet
your shaking legs

just don't think that
they are just words
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 17, 2008, 02:02:38 AM
Piedad


I gave my uterus to the Salvation Army,
my white dangling ovaries to the oyster-
swallow,
ran down the hall without any clothes
screaming "communist"!
and taped my shedded hair to my sweaty
hand balls.
I let them patch the hernia three times
more than my bank account could risk,
and brought them flowers when they
couldn't give a shit.

I spoke in tongues when I misunderstood,
and watched eastern europe where they still
tear the skin off my ancestors
That particular insecticide continues timeless
and supine,
but in the middle of the rubble a toad CAME
on my hands just yesterday
and i forgave its burp
like a Mother in a maid's tent.

When all the quaking and quacking assembled
in a line to march forward and fire,
i came running in by the side and grabbed
Custer by the throat and throttled my
legs into your personal rolodex.
i wanted to tell you about Red Emma
but her free love and anarchist views will
be tossed as ancient rubbish,

when nothing further from the ancient
is the precarious tender hand that placed
itself between my thighs and caught malaria.
i soothed its fever and told it "shoo"
and it went like a feather folding as a
switchblade off to hunt for research grants.
but i have done my schooling under the
tempest of drink and hovering like a gnat...

a bird severed my pencil in two and
carried my severed head to the wonder
of a carnal tower where we let the blizzard
in and ran thermometers over blackened feet.
i gave them that much. i did. i said i did.

but now as the night turns its ear to listen
to my hushed phone message declaring war
against the computer and the drip of writing
in my swaggering cowboy boots,
I slowly walk out into the garage

raise a cigarette to my lips
and cough out the general's plans
for lasers, cutlery, and the Iron Age.
we share the secret of making sense
only to ourselves,

and post poems.

some as poorly as this.

the smoke is spanking an
infant into the word
piedad,
but this isn't Spain,
and all we are left with when
the shuttle drops you in rural
France

are the cutting of tongues.
i'll go first
and you will see the dust
from Babylon
squeeze off my clipped nails
and Swear,
begging for bread again.

pass the bread.








---------------------------------------------------pfft.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 17, 2008, 02:16:39 AM
let's confirm
the pillow fight scheduled
like fleas to drop to our
mutual carpet
and continue to tug
fat eggs out.

let's turn the clock
to the ceiling's sky
where you dance to
the Kills
and practice releasing
The Bomb.

let's play rummy
without the cards but
the sex of grand-slammed-
doors
--such as this you have
been pining for
--such as this you have
lost her hands

but let's ignore the
clatter of an illness
spreading over your iris
and blocking your feet
from letting her rocket
fly to the mosques.

you'll let go when the
chill sets in south,
and the plunger is
placed back into its
position behind the
toilet of my longing,

and the charm of saying
fuck
we wish we had a fuck
we could have had a fuck
there has to be a fuck
somewhere out there.

my compass needles your
thigh now,
and the smirk is set in
motion like a seesaw,
and whether it's this
state or another

whether the Valium runs
out and makes you
have a heart attack,
and whether my pain patch
flies off to the meadows,
and whether the storm
windows fail and curl
themselves into the
fetal position.

we are bound.
tied by the length
of roots prickling the
upper echelon of soil.
we are bound.
gripped by the swollen
feet i keep hidden and
the past you can not
tuck under a blanket.

we are the twins
with opaque skins falling
as surely as the asteroid
will come and wipe the
forest clean from our
plates.

this is The Bomb.
and we are ready
Now.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 17, 2008, 10:25:55 PM
In fact, I think people who say they have no regrets are lying through their god-damned teeth. Either that, or they have had an easy life where hard choices between buying food or going to the doctor to get a long-lingering problem checked out never crossed their pure little minds.

Wrong!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 17, 2008, 11:23:04 PM
I think there is such a thing as an "easy" life -- but it's for the people born without much worries about making fools of themselves or being what's called a worry wart. Some people worry more than others, and I believe this aspect is fundamentally programmed into your personality from the start. I have had people in my life that when something bad happens, and I mean REALLY bad, they cry and then appear to just be carefree. I have also had people who can't stop worrying around me. I am the kind that worries also, Larry. But there is a little confusion about saying you have no regrets.

It has become a cultural axiom to appear tough and say, "I have had no regrets!!" while dying from cancer or some such shit. I have regrets about things I have said to people when I felt I should have been more caring or attentive, but that is just me...and I am sure when the lights are about to go out I will feel like I didn't love my cat up enough of something of that nature.

Getting back to saying "no regrets" -- there is the rather Zen feeling also that everything you have done in your life has happened for its own reasons, and therefore you shouldn't beat yourself up about any wrongs you have done another. It happened and is over and so --"I have no regrets!" And Like I said, the cavalier attitude is welcome as a sign of toughness. I will tell you this much about that --it's shit. It is a really shitty thing to judge someone whether they have regrets or Not. It is not anyone's place to do that sort of judging when death finally comes...or when they have truly not endured poverty like you said, etc. People try to be open minded, but it is literally impossible not to be tied into your own time, place, and education. compassion is a whole other topic...

Ok. My point. I don't mind if people say that they have no regrets. Maybe they don't. But I have seen many people die by now, and almost always, there is this much: tears or a wish to talk to a chaplain or a wish to tell their loved ones that they have loved...and I think it's a very, very awful place to be. From that movie, "we all die alone" Yup. Even at the end of the show, you carry whatever your opinion of yourself is to the grave, and it matters very little if someone says, "oH HOW BRAVE!" or worse...there is no one there at all to say anything about you...

God I can be a morbid fuck...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 17, 2008, 11:45:13 PM
we
are

all
   listening tothe music
and picking    fights at Easter

or preparing ashes

for that Wednesday. like a Mother m
ary, which you aren't.

saying I did it Better
than               You and AM better
than    Soup during wars
or fingers
during               Sex.

you aint nothing until you

are knee deep                  in your best
friend's intestines

and watching                Death pick at its
fingers   as it  suavely walks

up to your nose

and hits              out the Season.



FINE.

ignore the reaper and what will


humiliate you                  like a bruise on
the tip of                   those tiny nerve endings
inthe privates.


with or without fear


oh, no buddy.             even the most stoic
RUN when their heart beats             in two beats per
Measure.

even the soldier feels nothing

but shock                       when half a shoulder places itself
in sandy cups.
Meat for dinner.          Meat for lunch and meat for breakfast.


You arenot gettingout           ALIVE,
so you better live hard

like a cockroach.                     SCURRY.

I don't have veins
except in my feet.


THEY AREWAITING            in the kiosk.
no tunnel and no Angel,

but all the ghosts going backwards

TO BEGIN                 again.


I have no more options.
No one is missed here when they



LEAVE.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: dangerpants on June 18, 2008, 01:49:05 PM
I regret nothing that I have ever done. Everything that was my own choice, everything within my hands. I regret, however, the actions of others and their consequences on me and my life. Every choice that I have ever made, regardless of whether or not it was the "right choice," has not seriously impacted my life to a point where I might regret. I am twenty, I live as though I were twenty, and my outlook on life is that of a twenty year-old. This is where I agree with Ma Chao.
However, armyoflarry has a point. Well, two points. Most people that say they have no regrets are, in my opinions, liars. Not because they want to appear strong, but because this makes their life easier. While just thinking something does not change the world, it certainly changes your brain and thinking patterns. And expressing yourself (in 99% of cases, and 100% of this thread) is never wrong. Armyoflarry, please don't be hypocritical. If you're allowed to say what you want, Ma Chao is also allowed to, even if this means he must contradict you. I wish he'd expand upon his point, but that's got nothing to do with anything. Don't tell him to eat shit and die, that's pretty childish and your retort was most certainly overreacting.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 18, 2008, 01:54:00 PM
In fact, I think people who say they have no regrets are lying through their god-damned teeth. Either that, or they have had an easy life where hard choices between buying food or going to the doctor to get a long-lingering problem checked out never crossed their pure little minds.

Wrong!

My expressing myself is never wrong, and fuck off please.

You may wonder why I am telling you to fuck off, so let me explain. I wrote a poem, and put some "inside my head and soul" thing into it. If you think the poem sucks, I have no problem with that. To say it is wrong, you are a fucking dickhead and should eat shit and die you scum-fuck.

Issues much?

I said that one message-within-a-message was wrong because you so generally swept people under a rug and insulted not just a statement, but a state of mind.

Normally I just kind've scoff at that sort of thing, but I figured, hey, I don't have regrets, I'm poor, I've had a really hard life, and I fuck up all the time--and never go to the doctor or the dentist because I have no moniez or insurance lulz. And missed 4 days of work in a row earlier this year because I was horrendously, deathly fucking ill, and couldn't even go to a shithole clinic because I had 5 dollars to buy food while I had absolutely none to be had for myself at my home, mostly due to my pride not allowing me to ask Katherine for anything or let her know my situation. You can ask her all about how bad it was.

I asked myself, why shouldn't I respond? So I did. Because what you said is wrong, and I'm living proof of that fact.

But I'll get right on eating some shit and then dying for being a terrible person.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 18, 2008, 02:05:05 PM
However, armyoflarry has a point. Well, two points. Most people that say they have no regrets are, in my opinions, liars. Not because they want to appear strong, but because this makes their life easier. While just thinking something does not change the world, it certainly changes your brain and thinking patterns. And expressing yourself (in 99% of cases, and 100% of this thread) is never wrong. Armyoflarry, please don't be hypocritical. If you're allowed to say what you want, Ma Chao is also allowed to, even if this means he must contradict you. I wish he'd expand upon his point, but that's got nothing to do with anything. Don't tell him to eat shit and die, that's pretty childish and your retort was most certainly overreacting.

Yay voice of reason.

Prefer touched on it. It's a zen thing. I know I could've made better decisions in the past. I am fully aware that there are things I have done which have negatively impacted my life. I know that, as short a time ago as last week, and even in this very moment, that tomorrow and the next day and a month from now I will be actively engaging in things that are harmful to myself. Not in the sense that I'm smoking a cigarette that worsens my health, but in everyday decisions and a lack thereof that hault my progress in life.

But I don't regret it; I learn from it, and I adapt as I go on. I've attained an inner-harmony with every action I take in life, be it worthless or enormous, and in that found the foundation for which I build everything else. My life, my thoughts, my feelings, my actions, my reactions, my steps; they all flow forward, and it's not so that I can avoid the past and what I've done wrong. I am not in denial of anything. I meticulously pore over a plethora of instances in my life, regardless of their import, because that's the way that I am. I scrutinize every detail, I find meaning and reason in the most inane bullshit. I just don't regret it. I don't have it in me. I've never had the slightest thought to do so, because every fiber of my being is concentrated on the betterment of my mind, my morality, and my piety and regret will impede that process.

I can't even regret the actions of others. It's such a foreign concept to me. I just see things as they are and take what I deem to be appropriate actions.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: dangerpants on June 18, 2008, 02:08:42 PM
Ma Chao be leik water LOL.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 18, 2008, 02:11:16 PM
wehn i get hot im steamy lol

but i get gassy too :(
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on June 18, 2008, 02:18:18 PM
I really do have this feeling of regret that pops up for a moment over things I have done, but I banish it pretty easily. The feeling is a lie to me. Now, as far as regrets over things i have not done... those are not so easily expelled. All my real regrets are due to inaction.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 18, 2008, 02:32:42 PM
Way to write off a thought-out response and lay claim to a justification of a child's temper-tantrum.

You're pathetic.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 18, 2008, 02:34:53 PM
I really shouldn't be responding by now, but I'll just say one last little thing.

Children do that same exact thing when they get into arguments.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on June 18, 2008, 03:19:08 PM
It seems Larry has pulled a Caddy...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kovacs on June 18, 2008, 04:02:49 PM
It seems Larry has pulled a Caddy...

Juevos mas grandes, amigo.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on June 18, 2008, 04:41:01 PM
It seems Larry has pulled a Caddy...

Juevos mas grandes, amigo.

larbot says oh fuck, I did it again.

Ignore me, you are better off.

Sorry everyone.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 18, 2008, 10:59:06 PM
Very lovely, Innocence, as usual.  Your last one, too.  You're my favorite poet, next to, of course, Jennifer.  And Musings fits right in here as well. 


.............
.............


we are the twins
with opaque skins falling
as surely as the asteroid
will come and wipe the
forest clean from our
plates.

this is The Bomb.
and we are ready
Now.





on this final day it's
you that i remember
sated and drowsy
from the night
your breath
behind my knee
whispering
like creamy thunder

i pretend you're
here beside me as
the shore birds
lift into thermals
and disappear -
alchemists fidget
in lawn chairs
along the sea with
tubes and powders
laid out on gibberish
and parchment
to transform the
apocalypse

we had dreamed of this
that night we were
conjoined -
these hills and curving
road with trilliums
holding bloom
straggler hawks hovering
dangling snakes limp
against the wind

and so the changing begins
with astonishing stillness
a flicker of a memory and
all is erased

from the ash a single
small sound

and nothing with a
backbone
to hear it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: caddy on June 19, 2008, 01:27:47 AM
It seems Larry has pulled a Caddy...

nobody pulls a Caddy like Caddy. accept no imitations.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 20, 2008, 01:48:44 AM
there are enough times
through the thread of light
and the tally of darkness,
that i have sought to feed an
admirable confidante with
pickles in chocolate or sugar
launched into a pizza--

getting the ingredients from
an assortment of Depression Era
letters, I have threaded needles
without moving a spool,
and done other magical incantations
with bloody onions crying their
arms Out.

i am the imperfection of a fiend,
a friend, and a host,
though my doors remain open,
as i hope the spiders will retreat
to their own holes
and ignore the fax information
flowing through my sock drawer.

i take you upon my back
where the strength of parasites
haven't found me yet,
and neatly fold you under my arm
where i can keep you warm--
most of all I risk the verbal onslaught
of greenery and stick my finger in
sockets,

hoping the water will carry the
current news to your bay
without me having to tell you
This or That stuffed animal has
Died and next comes me.
it was fungal and creative the
way I couldn't hide the worst of
it from you,

and you sit dreaming of museums
and hollywood where I know
you can play the piano for me,
risk deportation with a shrug,
and make me laugh in the middle
of soupy cries about being a
pimp,

you
my younger sister
could never be whore or criminal
enough for the register of complaints,
because let's face it...
at half my age you already know when
the storm is running towards your friendly
windows.

and i hope you use my body
to shut the worst of them
and open the best in a repertoire
birthday present that will talk
over that gem of e minor.
my heart's employee of the month
has just given notice of leave,
and my aim is to shine your

brass coins so that you may
Live simply gleefully bliss,
as the corner approaches
the road
and hits.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on June 20, 2008, 02:23:14 AM
Second Wind
______________



earlier i drooled on this
puter without notice of a
nudge, sigh, or shout for our
queer and isolated assembly lines.
i drop Bridgette, and you counter
a red head. i form wax bubbles, and
you clean with ammonia.
i broke down an office door at the head
of a retail institution, and you, my dear,
have snapped on your high heels and
walked straight through that ugly swamp.

nearly every night there is the
static bombs that alert the birds to duck
and cover. the skunks to evacuate, and the
country called Haiti to flee as fast as possible.
we enter through a trap door and slide down the
laundry chute like two drunkards having the last party
before detox. we scramble our eggs into egg sandwiches
and wait for the long pause only an Earl would donate.

several miles away there is a shanty town
where religion is held in the sway of a rolled up dollar
and snorted like vaseline over the various impervious collar
bone ruptures. I look at you and you look away and you finally
say you have had enough. The labor pains are cruel and tedious
and not to be set about like lining up the book case with titles in
alphabetical admonishments.

we could buy guns but choose the pops
from cans of Vernor's as I ready the local mart,
tell you this state has only one area code and you may start
flying the distance Now if you wish--the only blockade being the
guilty sleeves of blue velvet you refuse to get cleaned or even take
down. the axis tilted when our first soul was born, or some such voodoo
i know exists in the smaller forts where we lie to ourselves.

we are playing the most intriguing and
volatile game known to man. it is the game of Hearts, and we both
happen to have none of them when the lines go down. when the skunks
leave their grass lining, and the wild dogs start praying, and the birds start
defecting to Europe, and the meerkat protects its children from the menace of
cobras without taking in food or magazines. without so much as a skinny worm
to digest, and without the face that stares back

at our backs.

we wouldn't be having
nearly this much fun.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 21, 2008, 03:27:29 AM
tell me, dearest
what is true
when you wrap me in
your cold arms and
brush my hair back
so tenderly with
your orphan hand

and you smear the
separation line
in blood red
magic marker
so the knife will
be deep and
perfect for
the culling

tell me that I
came to you in
heels and mystery
flirting shyly
with my tentative
pen

I'll tell you
that those shoes
lie in the closet
crushed by reams
of pretense that
i could sing for
you that song
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: dangerpants on June 21, 2008, 12:29:27 PM
Every day of my life, love, you surprise me. Every time we speak.see.touch, I learn... how simple it is to want.yearn.crave. The curve of your lips on the arch of my back, the warmth of my legs around your hips; carry us both to land or let us drown in this sea, either option is fine with me.
Exploring the forests, my compass and me, alone, in a prison of oak. With or without green, surely, slowly, we'll choke. The walls aren't too high to climb, but I'd be happy on this bed of thyme leaves, so long as you don't (leave). With the snap of branches underfoot and the sigh of your spine underfinger; build a home of oak or tear down the trees, either option is fine with me.
Weightless in flight, seperated only by space, harder to ignore than the look on your face. Millions of flashlights burn out below, but we stopped seeing them three years ago. I'll risk imploding in the silence for a kiss this intense, I'll risk the freezing sky for your burning body. Remain forever in nothing or plummet until we can't see, either option is everything to me.
Every night of my life, love, you surprise me. I've learned how complex it is to need... and how easy it is to love.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 22, 2008, 09:09:03 AM
the day sky blew in
like creamy linen paper
watermarking hearts

oh, to choose just one
among all the golden rings
unmoored beyond stars
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on June 22, 2008, 09:24:34 PM
here's one that i just found that i wrote in january


ready to grow up and get the fuck out of here
cut off your limbs and swim in the sea
see a jumbled mix of memories
memories that stand for the good 'ol days
trying to forget the past
but it keeps staring you in the face

now there's just a haze
you're slipping away now
fading away now
but now it doesn't matter

can't we just let it be?
can't we forget the past and just be?

no no no

we just keep repeating the same mistakes
we try to erase
but we can't replace
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 22, 2008, 09:39:32 PM
The Big, Shiny Thing the Gods Left in the Forest



Which way is it?
And how far?
I have to conserve my energy
you know.
Another dead end and
I'll lose my mind.
But nevermind that.

I'll just send my team out
to find it for me.
Or you.  You could volunteer.
With all your experience
it should be a snap.

Listen.  Just draw me a map.
I'll use it next time.
And, hey, on your way back could
you stop and pick up the manual?
When all else fails....
okay - - yes, I'm joking.
This is serious business.
I know.

Which way is it again?
And how far?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on June 23, 2008, 08:46:44 PM
The Big, Shiny Thing the Gods Left in the Forest



Which way is it?
And how far?
I have to conserve my energy
you know.
Another dead end and
I'll lose my mind.
But nevermind that.

I'll just send my team out
to find it for me.
Or you.  You could volunteer.
With all your experience
it should be a snap.

Listen.  Just draw me a map.
I'll use it next time.
And, hey, on your way back could
you stop and pick up the manual?
When all else fails....
okay - - yes, I'm joking.
This is serious business.
I know.

Which way is it again?
And how far?



i absolutely loooove this!!!!  :D :D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 23, 2008, 09:36:19 PM

i absolutely loooove this!!!!  :D :D

You know, i tried something totally different and, unlike most of my poems where I struggle through 9 or 10 rewrites until it begins to sound like I just tossed it off, this one was kind of just "there" and all i did was change a few things around for about 10 minutes.  It appears that it was more success than failure, then.  Thank you very much!   :)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on June 26, 2008, 08:40:54 AM
he left me for a snaggletoothed
girl
with a big long curl
in the middle of her forehead.

the sun's rays burned
my skin to a crisp
after explaining my saga
to the people who turned

their backs on me
years ago.

the water was frigid
and dad sat by the shore
as i watched my brother
fly up in the air

mindless tasks fuck my brain
up
my emotions are spent.
no longer do i know what love is.

no longer do i know what hate is.
i wish this had never happened.

i'd rather feel pain than nothing at all.

they tell me to drop by
when i do, i'm weightless.

when will this enigma i call a life
hit me in the face and let me
be me again?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on June 26, 2008, 11:45:33 AM
Snaggle teeth are very unsettling for me.

These lines are very nice.

i'd rather feel pain than nothing at all.

they tell me to drop by
when i do, i'm weightless.

You should work them into something else.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 27, 2008, 05:19:17 AM
UGHH!  But - whatever.


I'm a good poker player.
I play it close to the vest.
My tell is hard to spot
even by the best.


I'm getting ahead of myself.
let's start with my cousin, Susie.
She was so lovely and innocent
waking in the morning, singing
"I love the whole world,
and the whole world loves me!"
I knew then she was headed for trouble
and that she would one day
be broken by drugs and violent men.


But I was different and saw the folly
of the open heart.
It needed to be protected and so
I built a beautifully intricate cabinet
with  compartments and in
each one I would put a piece of myself,
day after day, year after year.
My record keeping wasn't the best.  I
grew lazy and stopped putting labels
on the drawers and the odd storage bins.

I put it all in a larger place, a building.
Nondescript, without sign or address,
doors double bolted, windows boarded.
But I was pressured to explain myself.
"Do it.  Stand up for yourself.  Tell
your side of it.  It will all be better,
you'll see." 

So I put up a freshly-painted sign -
"Open for business!" and let them
all come in.  I took everything out
of the drawers and bins and put them
on display.  At first, they were
well-behaved and respecful.  Each piece
was handled gingerly, like precious glass.
And when a piece was chosen, carefully
wrapped, and taken for display in someone
else's home, I felt a certain satisfaction.
And something close to happiness.

And then it changed.  Like a sudden storm
blowing through my open world.  Things
were rumaged through, torn and trampled on. 
I tried to put things back, to recompartmentalize. 
With all the traffic, it could not be done. 
Labels were meaningless now, anyway,
my construction could no longer protect me.

So time went back from stop to start.
To clean the spillage with sponge and mop
like Susie, I did not have the heart
and so I. Simply. Closed. Up. Shop.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on June 28, 2008, 05:05:26 PM
A heartbeat quick
Set the mind to flight
Belief in disbelief
Connect to stitched reflection
Hope for new collections
Read of nerves and sessions
Blink and miss the seconds
If you leave I will not curse you
But if you stay I'll sing our name

I can not blame a wounded heart
Can not fight a fear so stark
Will not hurt what gave a start
I only wish you'd play your part
Let be the words
Lay still the beats
Freeze the setting
Let time flow
And one day open
To possibilities unfleeting
Hold the hand of patience
Relative to my part
The part of strangers
Played and spun like webs
Intricate designation
Flocks of life's elations
Cascade temporal abrasion
Head like switching stations
Heart like rift sensation
Ripped up from foundation
Supports tear through my chest
And stop before yours
Orbs flitter from one to another
Lips spread wet
Meet what left
What's left what could've been
What's gone on hold within
Pain is acceptance
Virtue's bleeding
Dangling desire
Self-induced
Right on cue
Cut the coup
Hope lives for tomorrow.

Virtue
Virgin tissue
Pop that cherry
God, I'll miss you
Hope for someday's intro
Till then
I'll write my missives
Set sail my paper boats
Float on to gutters
Skip rocks on street puddles
Drink rain from golden goblets
In smoke like fog
And paper stained by ink
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 29, 2008, 11:40:55 AM
The Day The Whole Town Went Ice Skating


one winter
the only winter
where the north shore
curves into
the west ribbon

set aside by mystics
or fate this perfect
alignment of temperature
and wind frozen to
a clear glass above waves
of white sand
pebbles and
giant sleeping logs

the deep edge turns clear
to black like a mirror
fish with terrible teeth
are silent and
invisible
even as the old winds return
and take it away

did you take a look?
did you see?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 29, 2008, 12:07:12 PM
That was so pretty Devery. I like your ava too, s'awesome.

Thank you so much, Innocence. 

My new ava is a photo I took of my very own "Lara Croft in Motorcycle Gear" action figure prominently displayed in my corner cabinet.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on June 29, 2008, 12:09:08 PM
I see that the poetry is still alive and beautiful in this thread.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on June 29, 2008, 07:22:01 PM
First Day

We are teething
through this earth. Breaking
out, sprouting up with soiled
fingers, we find the sun
waiting.

Our limbs overlapping,
arm over arm,
our torsos still sucked in,
we thirst for more. 

It is not the sun,
but the rain that quiets
our hot bodies, slips
underneath legs, eases us
from the cradling mud.

We take first steps
that bring us closer to
from where we came. Finally
fully free from the womb,
we are uncertain, wary.

We reach again, find not
ground but each other. A single
mass, we make our way
through this first day.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on June 29, 2008, 07:56:53 PM

I see that the poetry is still alive and beautiful in this thread.  ^^
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on July 01, 2008, 07:18:01 AM
I read this poem and thought it to be incredibly moving, so here it is for you. I've just finished reading the biography of Harry Patch, "The Last Fighting Tommy".

Here is some background to how the poem came to be commisioned: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/03/08/bomotion108.xml (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/arts/main.jhtml?xml=/arts/2008/03/08/bomotion108.xml)


The Five Acts of Harry Patch
'The Last Fighting Tommy'
by Andrew Motion

I.

A curve is a straight line caught bending
and this one runs under the kitchen window
where the bright eyes of your mum and dad
might flash any minute and find you down
on all fours, stomach hard to the ground,
slinking along a furrow between the potatoes
and dead set on a prospect of rich pickings,
the good apple trees and plum trees and pears,
anything sweet and juicy you might now be
able to nibble around the back and leave
hanging as though nothing were amiss,
if only it were possible to stand upright
in so much clear light and with those eyes
beady in the window and not catch a packet.

II.

Patch, Harry Patch, that's a good name,
Shakespearean, it might be one of Hal's men
at Agincourt or not far off, although in fact
it starts life and belongs in Combe Down
with your dad's trade in the canary limestone
which turns to grey and hardens when it meets
the light, perfect for Regency Bath and you too
since no one these days thinks about the danger
of playing in quarries when the workmen go,
not even of prodding and pelting with stones
the wasps' nests perched on rough ledges
or dropped from the ceiling on curious stalks
although god knows it means having to shift
tout suite and still get stung on arms and faces.

III.

First the hard facts of not wanting to fight,
and the kindness of deciding to shoot men
in the legs but no higher unless needs must,
and the liking among comrades which is truly
deep and wide as love without that particular name,
then Pilckem Ridge and Langemarck and across
the Steenbeek since none of the above can change
what comes next, which is a lad from A Company
shrapnel has ripped open from shoulder to waist
who tells you "Shoot me", but is good as dead
already, and whose final word is "Mother",
which you hear because you kneel to hold
one finger of his hand, and then remember orders
to keep pressing on, support the infantry ahead.

IV.

After the big crowd to unveil the memorial
and no puff left in the lungs to sing O valiant hearts
or say aloud the names of friends and one cousin,
the butcher and chimney sweep, a farmer, a carpenter,
work comes up the Wills Tower in Bristol and there
thunderstorms are a danger, so bad that lightning
one day hammers Great George and knocks down
the foreman who can't use his hand three weeks
later as you recall, along with the way that strike
burned all trace of oxygen from the air, it must have,
given the definite stink of sulphur and a second
or two later the gusty flap of a breeze returning
along with rooftops below, and moss, and rain
fading over the green Mendip Hills and blue Severn.

V.

You grow a moustache, check the mirror, notice
you're forty years old, then next day shave it off,
check the mirror again - and see you're seventy,
but life is like that now, suddenly and gradually
everyone you know dies and still comes to visit
or you head back to them, it's not clear which
only where it happens: a safe bedroom upstairs
by the look of things, although when you sit late
whispering with the other boys in the Lewis team,
smoking your pipe upside-down to hide the fire,
and the nurses on night duty bring folded sheets
to store in the linen cupboard opposite, all it takes
is someone switching on the light - there is that flash,
or was until you said, and the staff blacked the window.
 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on July 01, 2008, 01:01:36 PM
Part V is fucking fantastic. The entire thing is obviously good, but holy fuck. Part V is just, fantastic.

Thanks, Harper.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on July 01, 2008, 03:19:35 PM
this isn't that good, but i've had major writer's block lately, so i'm just thankful it's mediocre.

...

can i be your ink?
glide across your hand
to a fingertip and fall
can i stain you forever?
make you wince as i crawl
can you feel my breath
upon the back of your neck?
i am midnight
i am twilight
i am the devil in disguise

they breathe fire, i breath scotch
and watch you hyperventilating
your minds moving in circles
and you can't wait to grab
use your hands
use your teeth
anything

they're watching us carefully
taking note, wondering
why is she so attainable?
why is she so clean?
does she bite?
does she leave a lasting mark?

then everything goes dark
except her face

can i light you on fire?
can i fight?
can i inspire?
let me mark you forever
or you'll never grow
you will stay
in this hole
forever more

i am a lady
soft as satin
everything you dream of

i am midnight
i am twilight
i am the devil in disguise
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 01, 2008, 04:59:22 PM
For Ma Chao

You may live without regrets.

I suffer in envy, because I know I have many.

One regret of mine is lashing out.

But regret IS bullshit. Sorry doesn't cover it.

Learn, and shut the fuck up Larry.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on July 01, 2008, 05:43:21 PM
It's okay.

--

This pendelum's pulling plugs
And each sway cascades abrasion
With diminishing returns
An indian given gateway
So shooting fish in barrels
Was harder than it seemed
Seems I only gave the bullets back
But I was doing what was asked of me
And now the clash beckons
Hither, frail delight
Lay your skeletal hand upon my bosom
Tethered, veiled in ice
Cryogenic
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on July 01, 2008, 06:09:07 PM
I do love the poem, Kenny, thanks for sharing.

Between that and the new Astronaut video, I just might be inspired to write a longer poem today.  We shall see.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Kenny Wisdom on July 02, 2008, 04:28:24 AM
To Ma Chao and Musings - some background information - firstly, I didn't rate Andrew Motion that highly until I read this and now I've reformed that opinion.

Harry Patch, as you may have gathered, was born in 1898, and is still alive today! Yep, that wasn't a misprint! He fought in the trenches during World War I. As Motion said in the article, although he has tried to avoid just pigeonholing him into those few months before he was injured during the war (probably saving his life), it has overshadowed his life, something which Motion captures quite brilliantly.

From part 1, what really stood out for me was a couple of lines:

"A curve is a straight line caught bending" - in the book Patch talks of his early education, during a geometry class when his Geometry Master (old fashioned name for teacher) wrote on the blackboard the letters A & B and asked what the shortest distance was between them. "A straight line, of course", was the reply. He then drew a curve on the board and asked Patch what the definition of a curve was. Patch couldn't remember, so he replied, "A straight line, caught bending, Sir". He got a strap across his knuckles for his trouble. Pure brilliance and a great metaphor for his life. It would have been straight and linear, had the war not come along and fucked it up.

His father was a keen gardener - and they had quite a number of fruit trees in the garden. It was interesting to read how socially it was deemed unacceptable to snack between meals - and naturally they didn't have the wide choice of fast convenience food that we have today, but kids eating in the street and snacking between meals would be seen as a real slur against the family, and their ability to provide food, if the kids had to supplement their diet between meals - how very different than today! But nevertheless, kids being kids couldn't resist the temptation of the forbidden fruit and Harry liked nothing better than to crawl past the kitchen window, right under his mothers nose, to get to the fruit trees where he could "scrump" an apple or two. How Motion captures that as an allusion to what will follow in the trenches, in just a few short years, made me stop in my tracks and my blood run cold:

...might flash any minute and find you down
on all fours, stomach hard to the ground,
slinking along a furrow between the potatoes
and dead...


I won't bore you with much more, just to say something about Part V.

In latter years, Patch has been living in a residential nursing home. He didn't talk about the war until he was 100, and as he did, the memories crept back into his dreams again - if they ever went away. There was a linen cupboard opposite his room, and his door had a window above it. He said that when he lay there, half asleep and half awake -  (although when you sit late, whispering with the other boys in the Lewis team) - the nurses would sometimes put linen away, at night, turning on the corridor light.

there is that flash,

Which took him back to the nightmare of the trenches...


or was until you said, and the staff blacked the window.

***

A remarkable man and life. I for one do not know I'm born.

I shall complain less, for sure.



http://www.telegraph.co.uk/portal/main.jhtml?xml=/portal/2007/07/12/nosplit/ftharry112.xml (http://www.telegraph.co.uk/portal/main.jhtml?xml=/portal/2007/07/12/nosplit/ftharry112.xml)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on July 02, 2008, 02:01:43 PM
Thank you, very much, Harper.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 03, 2008, 02:41:21 PM
hanging at the primordial
street corner
lighting cigarettes in
the night
with cosmic fire

barrels of stars toss sparks
and brush the skirts of
office girls in full
bloom saunter
moisture pools on humid lips
parting
with fear and thick desire

igniting lamps to shine upon
the girl, poised and cool,
dressed smartly in a pinstripe suit
short, tousled hair
tucked beneath a cap

waiting for her mistress -
she comes now with circling
footsteps and anxious looks -
dressed to the nines, her
hair falling like afternoon trysts,
arms bare and pale against
the moon

and from the farthest darkness
a breath upon the glass and
ears pressed in vain to hear their
joining
always one step away from the
crescendo
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 11, 2008, 05:24:20 PM
at night she walks a fast
pounding while tripping over the
infestation of mutilated frog bodies
covering the stinking dusky
streets.

later she pours loads of sugar
on cereal, hiding the teaspoons
from her caretakers
by stuffing them in her bra,
her shoes,
her underwear.
anywhere.

the morphine finally tilts
her head to the side,
gently gliding her down
from the lost year memories
and the vindication

of living at home,
alone as ever
except for maybe.
possibly.
the curls and lines
that make up her
alphabet.

when asked,
she doesn't feel like
going into the crowds,
embarassed by the dead
frog-smell, and the way
the body is caught by a hanger.

stiff and swollen,
water is pure danger.
she looks out at the bird bath
and knows why no bird in its
right mind
takes a dip.

it's sugar, nicotine, and morphine.
addicted frogs and birds
fly up from around her face
as she simply sits and cries
without her face twitching...

her face turning into a cloud
bubble and passing the thickened
dread of the coward's
broken heels and shotgun.
she is lost in myopia
and queerly her fingers

have stopped driving the car.
hands off!
look at me Ma.
no hands.
no hands.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 12, 2008, 04:17:28 PM
he stretches the meadow
back with the flips of his hair,
and kicks off his shoes
waiting.
a talon is stuck in the tree,
but the bird bones gasp
lonely under the swaying grasses.

i shoot the arrow.

she nods off under wine-
monsters and a heavy dose of
trauma lifts the fog from foot to
chest.
a dagger is open on her floor
and she steps on it to mimic
pain.

bloody hell enough of pain.

i shoot the arrow.

he dips down and starts to snooze
in a honey jar with a few dead
bee particles gripping fast.
he can't wait for the tux from
the cleaners.
but the size could be devastatingly
wrong.

bloody hell enough to wait.

i shoot the arrow.

she has left the arena to take a
break from the hectic atmosphere,
but nothing sounds sweeter to her
than "sweetie" and it all comes
down to one ocean's visit.
one whale will see the plane and sigh,
and should she see the bubbles
there will be an emergency
landing.

i shoot the arrow.


they come to me
and i to them and it
never stops and yet there is all of this
                all of this
                             all of this
time                and distance.
and i don't know how long i can
hold him in the meadow
without my drowning in his lake,
nor do I know how long I can hug her
     without her flinching and her nails
digging into broken ice scraps.

someone's scalp.

someone's going to be scalped
on the revolution clock.
someone's going to fall through my
middle finger,
and when i go to shoot the arrow,
the bow will snap
and kill.

straight out
dead on
supernova
blast.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on July 12, 2008, 04:25:26 PM
Dear goodness, those are awesome.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 12, 2008, 07:36:46 PM


Me too three! says that thing fluttering inside of me.

and I'm laying odds that the tux will fit

perfectly.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 13, 2008, 12:58:03 AM
completely flattered. truly. thank you.

now. as usual. i request you write something. This is both because the three of you are Supreme Poets, and I admit, it is partially selfish. What you do inspires ME.

run into the alphabet.
write it down on your forehead.
post it here.

again. a needed pat on the back, and I don't forget such flattery or kindness. Thank you Thank you Thank you.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 13, 2008, 11:49:26 AM
I'll begin this scene
with a toy spinet,
a one-note exercise:

plink!  plink!        plunk

it is, in its way,
masterful
when you consider
the spacing
and the missing
resonance

how it changes with
the room, the window,
the dark blue sky
in the garden
where the
sun hides behind a
branch

into a fountain that
watches you come
with a meadow bird
to lilt and coo in the
pouring water
splashing like a kitten
in the bathtub
balanced on the bare
belly of his mistress
quickly dipping and
shaking its paw

and then you leave
to find a deeper tune
one that flutters
inside a cage
for you to rescue

your bird flies off
behind you
you don't see it
release the fountain
drops onto the
grass like strange
afternoon dew

its tiny roots splash
and branch out
beneath your footsteps
and somehow
this holds everything
together
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 13, 2008, 10:10:30 PM
A fucking smash is what these are.


A god damn tilt-a-needle of poems that need absolutely no fixing.


Amazing.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 14, 2008, 10:21:47 AM
Oooh I love this bit:
.....
splashing like a kitten
in the bathtub
balanced on the bare
belly of his mistress
quickly dipping and
shaking its paw
....
It's lovely!


I'm glad you liked it!   :happy11:  I had a little tabby kitty that did just what I described in the poem.  He loved playing in the water.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 15, 2008, 02:31:39 AM
the earth's tilting lisp is
making verbs absurd,
so i sneak down to one knee and
wag my finger into speeches,
start ripping them from the
pages
and scoffing at the mildly
bemused moon.
This is What I Hear...

-------------------------
get off my back
because the bones are wrinkling,
bulging out of your purse
like so many credit cards
dancing on a dessert.
get off my belly
because the guts are shrinking,
dialing up strangers
to pay a bashful mortgage
for beach-front properties.
---------------------------------

i've grown aching
plastic diapers
just to catch the last
drops of used grey water,
and i want you to stop
laughing at my
missing eyeball.
no matter how pleased
to have two.

it's not fucking funny
to be covered
in a house's icing.
nor would you think
much of your outfits if
none of them
rounded out your hips

and assume they
were
dead baby seals,
throttled like a rattle,
bouncing their chins off
the ice, spreading that red
paint all over your lips.
and the mothers.
all moms.
stranded and
defiantly crying.
----------------------------------

every time i inhale,
some flakes of dirty debris
grab their choice of coffin
and sneak into
the chambers...
there are styles for death
and we pay top prices
for the eventual implosion
of balsa wood.

please write on my back,
as it needs lotion and care.
please rub my belly
as it needs food and silence.
please come home to me
my three queens of Love.

please come home
one last time.
before the candles
start assuming the position.
before I have to
take a nursery rhyme
with me.
before the violence
is assimilated and trusted.

please come home
my three darling
baby seals.
get under my wing
so that i might
just





live
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 15, 2008, 03:36:01 AM
she let the genie
shuffle out the window
and delicately started
the metronome
clapping

but someone
came crawling
up her long and
wayward pillows,
and shut off the
music,
closed the closet,
and pressed her
old prom dress

between her armpits.

waking in the solitary
darkness of a lamp's
shining humming,
she chuckles before
feeling the hand.
it is not in the right
place.
it is in the only place
left to consider.

the genie knocks
five hard times at her
door
but if she moves
the hand becomes fist.
the fist becomes
vaginal,
and the vagina closes
its sloppy sides

to shriek.

some gas squirts under
the window and curls the
metronome's hair,
opens the closet to
show her the ghost
and tells her to start
the ballet.

she grabs the fist
and licks her
elbow grease,
parts her thighs
and knows how to
finish.

there is cake
downstairs.
there is a mandolin
playing bluegrass.
there is a party
under her chastised
lips.

she takes the prom
dress and carves
it into a rope.
shatters the window
with a match,
and jumps.

the house of cards
behind her back
mumbles a reproach
she ignores
as her hand
carries the
disfigured metronome

forward.





Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 15, 2008, 01:42:53 PM
I spit out the pits
from the watermelon
that was stolen from
a panhandler's shoulders.
I take out the bags of
licorice and gumdrops and
think it too awful to choose

the right color.

a pigeon walks straight
ahead of me,
waiting for me to shoot
the gun or throw some
boiled chamomile tea.
it is sneaking up on the
thermometer,

and my fever is hairy
and difficult to trap.
I choose the red licorice
stick and fling it at the
river bed running along
with its spinning nickels
as if money were a slut,
or witty tease.

take notice my dearest
sparrow! You-- now deceased
but tucked in my pillow
to keep the rain from
hacking
the last of its feathers.

we have to falter around the
valley before the mountain's
hinged swing steps can open
the doors away from falling
rocks.

I put on the nightdress at noon
and tuck it into the boots
that grow up thigh high.
there is a puppy teething itself
just a foot or two behind me,

grabbing at dead worms and
the insects that hold its camera
still.

The beggar is lying down but
has the shakes,
and so I shove a green mint leaf
in his mouth,
show him a breast for the toll
money,

and tell him it will be fine.

but the brook that leads to
fire roots is babbling too far
behind him,
and without crutches
he will become a mark for my
map.

I lie and tell him
I am staying the night.
when he falls into the shadow of
a pocket watch,
I pull out the dead sparrow
and clasp it to his wrist.

reaching the bottom of the
ice cream mountain's glow,
i reach in for the last of the
jerky,
take a bite
without a tooth in my mouth

and begin to choke...

so this is how it ends...

about a minute of panic
before the spots light up
the chewed gravel.

one can't eat flesh
without becoming it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 15, 2008, 07:01:15 PM
Darling Innocence-- I am writing completely without any thought in my brain whatsoever. What I mean to say is that I simply Felt that part should be separate, as it didn't Feel like it fit with the rest. But I really am writing crap right now-- trying to get out of it and back to something better than what you are seeing. Thank you, though, for the mad props once again.

It is almost inevitable that I don't usually know where a lot of my writing comes from. I simply look at the vacant spot and wait for the trickle to begin. But I definitely think these last few show some erratic behavior on my part. I should have put together the whole thing in some way -- but the images came in when they did.

(i have no control over what comes out of my fingers...)

Finally. Your last poems have me --once again-- too amazed to convey it correctly. YOU should not be allowed to write this well, my sweetie!!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 15, 2008, 07:44:23 PM
"close the electric, or the cold will get out" --spoken about the fridge by Grandpa, the Hungarian violinist.


He was worried that if I played sports,
my hands would break and no more music
would flow out of the family's chest.
She was worried about my constant pouting
when the grinning comb ran through the gowns
I stared at in malice.

But you see.
I chose the opium den while the soldiers had
their slaughter fiesta,
and read my own history books wishing I was
Mayan and could have forwarned them.
The harbinger of my decadence lies in letters
sealed in a tin where at age 13,
I cried on my teacher's shoulder.
And she said, "it's not all that bad, is it?"

But it was.
I wanted to name my imaginary child Lily,
so all of you have become my safety pads
in the swiveled pond.
I wanted to be just as good as the boys,
so they ganged up and came in mass,
kicking at my shins as hard as a pickle
gets when dropped on a worm.
I didn't cry to show them I could take it.

So I started drinking the holidays down,
counting on my 40 digits the number of times
someone pointed out I was a psycho.
What they saw were the scratches and nicks
from a stranger that came when Love crawled
into my stereo and spun static out with just
one hit.

When the pain came, I sucked it in and bashed
my head in front of a confused practitioner.
Drugs were ordered and they were nearly the
best thing my posters had seen.
White and brown and yellow and green.
This one for the belly and that one for the head
and this one for the anxiety and this one for the
insomnia.
All of this was like watching a cracked vase lie
happily without the right glue. I stood in the kitchen
watching them slice peppers and thinking of my
pocket knife.

Right here is the entrance to God in my stash
of horror movies.
Right here is the exit I will take to the patio
where forbidden dugouts are tackled with shock.
Right under the bed are the crickets I am letting
take over, and you are allowed to slip in with a
satin gown showing your cleavage.

I have taken the DNA of several people with me.
So many that I no longer have fingerprints.
So much toil that I have to add the serial numbers
without assistance.
So much lost hair that a bird laughs at me every
time I switch on the lights.

I am growing antennae.
As well as a beak.
Bring me to the Hummus Tent.
Take my clothes off and send them
to the asylum.
Wash my hair thoroughly and try
not to wince when the lice
pop off the top like firecrackers.
The truth is...

I am terribly happy like a swan
couple petting in a theater.

Me mine.
Part animal.
Part human.
All their worry
for what?
It's not so bad
Is it?

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 15, 2008, 07:52:55 PM
Innocence--- it takes whatever time it takes -- and 99% of the time, I fail. I get just as frustrated. I just choose to keep writing because I don't have anywhere else to go with it. (the brain?) On the other hand, You have several ways to approach what you write and When. I am not kissing your arse. Your poetry moves me and other people in here.


I have begged you not to stop. And it is a gift to me that you haven't.


Devery? Hey bitty. Get your ass in here and tell her what I am saying is true. Plus. You are overdue now as well. I will wait for Musings patiently because she has many tasks she's doing...well...

I'll wait for all of you as long as I can -- and then I will hunt you down!! Rip off your shoes and find out what the hell is going on around here...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 16, 2008, 02:23:17 AM
Innocence.  Believe it, for it's true.  Your gift is astounding.  I always look forward to another new poem from you.  I would still write poems as I am now hooked and I have to, yet it does help to have someone to draw inspiration from. 

Jennifer.  You are a completely wanton and cruel mistress.  How in the hell do you expect me to write anything after your mastershow of today?  But, I am resiliant and not above stealing from you.  You did say it was okay?  Good.  I'll mix things up real good so you'll have to dig really deep into your magic bag of metaphors (the leather one with all the zippers and hidden pockets).  Sorry it has to be this way, and I am totally prepared for this duel.  You see, I have armed myself with a pink, plastic water pistol.  What chance does your broken-down metronome have against that kind of artillary? 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on July 16, 2008, 05:05:49 AM
she discovered him again,
this time weeping in a corner
with a half-empty bottle of jack
in his clutches

the monsterous amount of control
with which he used to exploit her
as his puppet lost it's grip
for only a brief moment in time

and she had the
upper hand

physical anguish still
torments her,
writhing and piercing itself
into her flesh
from the night before

kneeling at the porcelian god
watching her hopes
and dreams
swirl down with the
perpetual vomit

holding her head
she prays for a release
her body succumbs to the vertigo
and the lights remain low

how could she dote herslef
on him after all that he had done?
she should be the one
locked in fetal position, wailing.

he didn't call back
he won't call, until next time

drop by for a visit,  darling
they won't be home
you know i couldn't have you here
if awesome were around

he allowed her to fabricate
an abyssmal cleft
into the void
and she falls futher into
the devoid mix of
leftover emotions
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 16, 2008, 07:40:02 PM
I am speechless.



And armed.




 ^-^ O0
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 16, 2008, 09:01:11 PM
I am speechless.

suuuuuuuure you are. 

I'll bring the extra toothpicks and two, perfect Boston coolers, as I tell you about the story I'm going to write about the young girl at the fountain - She has certain qualities that, once I thought about it, are similar to those of Esme' from Salinger's Nine Stories.  This girl in my story has skinned knees that she ignores and, therefore, so do I, and it doesn't take me long to discover that she is a liar with a capital L.  But her story is expertly constructed and, even though I sense she is making it up on the spot, I won't call her on it.  Not yet, anyway.  But as I tell you about the girl at the fountain and her tale, it seems that I have gotten the facts and the lies mixed up until all that's left is the story.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 17, 2008, 11:20:00 PM

Changing Positions



She liked how he smoked.
Very feminine, she said,
the way he held it lightly
at the end, how he tilted
his head and leaned into
the cigarette, lips barely
touching before he turned
his head away and exhaled,
and she saw then his lovely
sad eyes and a heart
with no place to put it.

She knew his one desire
 would never come true
and said "of course, yes,
darling, I will" and rose,
carefully adjusting her
new trousers, so handsome
in her short dark hair
now grown into a mop
of slight curls.

And who am I to argue about
any of this, hiding dresses
under beds and in the attic,
smearing lipstick on the
mirror to avoid my own,
dry lips?

She stepped back to admire
her black wingtips,
solid, practical, manly,
a perfect match for the
tie and jacket resting on
the chair, waiting to
complement her next bold
move.

He saw, in his thoughts,
what she saw when she
looked at him -
a slender woman with poetry
on her lips - blunt, languid
words sliding down her chest,
her belly, to her sex, like
sweat in the summer heat.

They took each other's hand
and walked towards the
sounds of the strange streets.

Are you sure?  Are you my
dear one?


Yes.  Forever.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 21, 2008, 09:34:33 AM
There is a more "sane" version of armyoflarry: The Old Man Muffin Jar. I call him more sane because he acts as weird as his surroundings would dictate. These days things are pretty weird around this world, so acting insane seems only natural and ...umm sane?

Anyway, The Old Man Muffin Jar is the author of this ditty.


Have you seen the ants? They joined the protest!
Do we dare to look outside?
There's a break-in at the Roach Motel.
Near Hollywood and Tile.

Beggars dance outside the doors singing “Now you know our name”.
Whispers tap on windows and crack a beat.

Bassline Judas frames the refrain. A bigger man his ambition small.
Speak up above the din and join me in dancing.

The roaches run outside calling for the police.
The officers are too busy shaking their blues.
There's a break-in at the Roach Motel,
and the roaches don't feel so fine.

Screeching tires and radios blasting robot doomsday pitch.
You want a revolution? Hold on to your coin.

Back in their rooms the raging silence, Computer fan screaming din.
Safe prisons for the castrated mind.

The ants line up to go to war, for even the drones must feed.
The flickerbox  hides their march
There's a break-in at the Roach Motel,
The ants want in to die.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on July 21, 2008, 09:37:24 AM
Your poetry moves me and other people in here.

Yeah, right.

If my opinion matters at all, I will have you know that I think you are fucking amazing. Preferpencil is right.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on July 22, 2008, 10:03:04 AM
I Should

I should write a poem here
but,
I can neither find the time
nor inspiration.

I should write a poem here
but,
it would be trite
and inconsequential.

I should write a poem here
but,
you would wonder why
I even bothered.

I should write a poem here.
Title: ....
Post by: slyvia k on July 24, 2008, 10:12:55 AM


love in the shadows.
it lurks around in the dark alleys.
you try to hide from it.
desperately, pathetically.
you stop breathing.
you start running.
no more tears.
just fears
for you to drown in.
the more you run
the closer you feel.
it's your shadow.
stop.
you look around.
all you see is
lifeless dreams,
hanging bitterly from the old oaks.
they slowly start to
fall down
to the ground.
wet. cold.
covered in frigid snow.
the feeling comes
closer.
it crawls under your skin,
freezing
every
single
ruby
drop
in your body.
your veins implode.
your heart stops.
you collapse to the ground.
your body crumbles
on the white pavement.
unable to speak.
you close your eyes.
and the last thing
you see.
4 white letters
flashing on a black screen.
H O P E .
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 24, 2008, 11:34:01 AM
ALL OF YOU ARE IN TROUBLE! GET UP TO YOUR BEDROOM AND CLEAN UP THAT MESS!



Pompeii
--------------

the dog knew--
stuck on a leash
it had started to dart around
like the ant I watched on a plastic
lid just a few days ago.
it sent out its trooper message:
I think I have found gold;
please do follow me into the garbage
sack.

the dog knew.
it knew the rumbling wasn't from a
goddess, pissed off for the lack of
precious offerings. playing cards on
some mountain top, and stomping away
upon losing to some other lucky city.
the dog is stuck leaping sideways in
midair.

its brains, like most of the humans
caught in the volcano's heated-ash-plume.
its brains
boiled inside its head.
and the excavation looks so different
if pointillism is the depiction.
but if you look at the people
and the way their mouths twist
into the oval-egg shapes,
and the way their arms held their
babies,
and the way they were running
for their children,
and the way they were hiding
in their small houses,
and the way they were crouching
as if it were wind and not
a catastrophic boom of
lava...

the dog knew.
even here on the edge of my
bed, where a cliff of get-well letters
scatters around my room like ants on
plastic cups.
even here where my stomach dives
in and out of books I have read several
times over.
even here where the ordinal numbers are
out of sequence and looking for some Ground.
even here where I guzzle 3 pills and
watch the wall wash itself into eggshell
White.

even here the dog knows.
I ask it to pay my bills.
I ask it to rub my back.
I ask it to call my friends and thank them.
I ask it to tell my family everything is fine.
I ask it to close the door and shut out the
light.

the dog knows better.


and leaves.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on July 24, 2008, 12:18:49 PM
darling
you are not the tease,
and you cross your legs
slowly at the ankles,
stretching out the calves
like every woman does--
when the dinner dishes are
washed.
when the phone calls slow
to a halt.

we play like tickling
ice cubes in a chaser.
we tell secrets the government
is stupid enough to know.
I want you to send
a package and you want
mine. I am slow to respond
as always, and you forgive
my criminal history.

tell me where your parents
were the day you decided
to go golfing?
tell me where your lover was
the day you shoved the box
of letters into the garbage?
tell me where the honey bee
is hiding in all this mess.
tell me you love me so that
we can continue the conquest.

my darling.
I am half wench and half patriarch.
Spinoza flutters down the screen
as a moth, and I touch it as if it were
a tiger. Gentle. Slow. Cautious.
Our dancing is erratic but looks splendid
on an escalator.
I have planted an espalier against your
deck, so that when the smoking starts,
you have a decent shrub to sit upon.
Gentle. Slow. Cautious.

darling.
you are the filament
inside my bulb.
you can enter through
my handcuffs and do the Bomb
or perhaps the pogo.
there is enough time left
for you to estimate the
length of these Lilliputian legs.

Gentle. slow. cautious.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 25, 2008, 11:47:49 AM


I gotta go check out one of them ess-pail-ee-errrs.  But first, I need a smoke.  Whew!    Even thinking about being handcuffed to an escalator is enough to make me weak in the knees, tremble, do the pogo.  Only half a wench?  I wonder if that's really true.

I loved this line:

we play like tickling
ice cubes in a chaser.

As for this one:

we tell secrets the government
is stupid enough to know.

I can only say "Hi CIA!"

Ciao Missy.




Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on July 28, 2008, 10:47:08 PM
I gave my heart at
the fountain to
your meadow bird

my fluttering messenger
soars into the sun,
becomes a tiny speck,
then disappears

i imagine it as it
swoops down through
the clouds
to your waiting hands

and your declaration
that this shall be
sealed with yours -
a core so bright
and complete -
in full measure through
the usual course
of time

but when the clock
chimes its bleak echo
I stop the hands
and hold them tight

they strike me in anger
and in fear and with
a love so fierce the
angels fall into a rare
formation to take notice

the fountain crumbles
and sinks, traceless,
into underground rivers

and the fates that brought
you close hold you back
and stop our conversation
like a yawning grotesque
statue

my chest rumbles with
a desire that will haunt
me and stay frozen

here, where I can see it,
a dream, a regret,
a downfall unselected.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on July 28, 2008, 11:06:58 PM
Ugh, my head has been too full for poetry for way too long.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: snowman on July 30, 2008, 03:20:58 AM
A fallen state.
Everyone come, I think he's dead.
A twitch here and there.
But no sign of life.
Flash flash flash.
Check the heart beat.
Stroll him into the van.
Sirens blare and tear at the silent night sky.
Doctor come quick.
...
We are still shocked.
Such a learned man can pull off such a stunt.
How could he betray us?
The taps are cold and frightening. How could he touch that?
Mouth fills with hatred.
Fists strike with pain.
Just admit it, we never liked you in the first place.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Johnny on July 31, 2008, 05:12:16 PM
Untitled

It consumes like a flame
Burning deep inside
Flaring, whipping, scorching
Because no one knows you lied.

It is sparked by reminders
Of which you lament
Hopefully no one knows
That you thirst to forget

The embers are glowing white
As your false words taste bitter
The truth has been charred
And your heart starts to flitter

Limited time remains until
It brands through to the surface
Soon they will all know
It was an accident, on purpose.

Regret is the catalyst
Of a blaze this fierce
A core of guilt
Only the truth can pierce

Guilt was the cause
Of my suffered years spent
My soul was the tinder
And lies were the flint

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 02, 2008, 11:57:12 PM
Something could have
happened on a day
like yesterday -

from your upstairs window
you would have seen me
pull into your driveway

you'd bound down the stairs
two at a time, wave goodbye
to your old life, jump out
the door and dive in next
to me and off we'd go.

"Where to, darling?" we'd
say together, and laugh,
because it wouldn't matter.

I would put billowy clouds
in the wide-open sky to
protect us from the sun, and
at night we'd dance under
stars painted with as many
brushes, so close we could
reach up and swirl them
around to suit our mood.


We'd sleep on the beach
and listen to the waves
slap against the rocks,
splashing away to glide
on the smooth white sand.

In the morning I would
take you in my arms.
Your legs would quiver
against mine.  You'd say
"let's stay right here,
forever."

Yes, darling, forget the
past, the pain, the
delicate changes that
brought us this dream.

But - today the clouds
are dark and heavy, the
blue means something else,
the alignment is all wrong.

It's too late - sorry 
you took so long.


I'm on a road with no clear
sign or direction,
your house is lost in the
mist of disappeared
possibilities, your
window faces a hesitating
garden, and you -
you are sitting still
waiting for tomorrow,
trembling with visions
of another car
and a different road.





This is my final poem.  I'm not writing any more.  I'm repeating myself and have nothing more to say.  I hope some of you have gotten some enjoyment from the ones I've posted over the last year and a half.

Ciao.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 10, 2008, 12:39:24 AM
It was foolish of me, Sarah, to even try.  How things can change so from one day to the next, or to the next minute.  I hated those feelings behind that last poem and so I wanted it all to disappear.  Guess it doesn't quite work that way.


Throwing off the Suffocating and Mind-Altering Blanket


I wasn't looking for any thing in particular.
Just something to calm me down.
The newly filled bottle of pills on
the table was inviting me, saying
why not? and I was ready.
Almost.
A little too much of a calm, I said.
I want this terrible, maddening ache
 to leave me.  That could certainly
disappear, please - but not me. 

I'll settle for the next room in this
empty house.  In there I find that
someone had put a dull, ratty
blanket on my chair so I sit down
and pull it all around me and with
sweaty hands cover my head.  I close
my eyes and begin to feel comfortable
with the dark.  The silence changes from
something empty to a sound growing
large and sharp, like the warning
blare of a foghorn or a high siren
that rises too high for normal ears.
I look down at a chair and see a
lump covered by a dull, ratty blanket.

Can I make it disappear, I wonder,
and if I can will I hear the voices of
the spirits from my dreams, the ones
that welcome me to the other worlds,
the ones I cannot trust.

A hand pulls back the blanket from
my face and the voice that came with
the hand announces with a cheery cry
 "there you are!" 

"This new outfit doesn't quite suit me,
does it?", I heard myself saying.
My words echo louder than I intended,
but there is no one there for them to bounce
off of, to muffle the stark, pleading tone. 
I was alone.
I shed the blanket.  The house was dark,
except for the faint light shining on
the bottle.  I walked to another table,
turned on an even smaller light, and
made a phone call.  There was no ring.
The same voice answered.  Like an
early morning melody it said yes,
I thought that would be you
.
I snapped the phone shut, put it in
my pocket, and went outside.

It was bright under the moon.  I
couldn't speak.  A slight rustling,
a movement, that wasn't my heart.
I looked at the low, open rise,
framed by the spruce, and at the eyes
looking back at me.  So calm, I thought,
how can that be, with darkness all around?
I felt the ancient nature of the living
thing that formed around the eyes and
that held them there, eyes that looked
into me and through the ache that
made me covet the other side of the
wall as it slowly, elegantly, bounded
away into the same, yet deeper place,
even as I pass through, even as it
seals me in and bolts the doors.

But I think of the blanket and how
easy it was to just toss it off.
I think of the place I was, covered
by my own hand, and where I had been,
once, without the desperation and that
damn light calling me.

Yes, it's time now.  Will I hear
the ring?  Is it real?  My steps
are halting ones,the sky is glittering
and muted, that part like the
sound that was no sound.  My hand reaches
out to touch the wall.  It won't go
through, I know - not now.  I feel its solid,
cold smoothness as it comes inside and
makes itself at home. 

But I won't stay.  I won't get
used to the new decor.  I won't
welcome this uninvited guest.
I won't disappear.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 10, 2008, 10:51:25 PM


I like the strikethrough idea.  And Faith is pretty cool, with or without her chimera - a girl with troubles (of, perhaps, biblical proportions, although that could just be my reading of it) but one who knows what needs to be done and isn't afraid to take it on.

Great poem! 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: ___ampersand on August 11, 2008, 03:21:19 AM
^ that was beautiful.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: ___ampersand on August 11, 2008, 03:49:40 AM
Please be kind--it's been a while.

The Things You Do

Look at me,
Break me,
With your smile.
Tease me,
Hate me,
Just for a while.
Disgust me,
Impale me,
With the truth.
Lose me,
Abuse me,
Let me loose.

Allow me now to introduce myself--
As a sinner,
As a saint,
As the liar you detest,
As the voice inside your head,
As the fighting words you hear,
As the mission that is clear,
As the sacrifice you've killed,
As the thousand tears you've spilled,
Just.. Hold me.

Hurt me,
Hate me,
It's all the same.
Ignore me,
Betray me,
Ignite the flame.
Deny me,
Oblige me,
Cut me free.
Fix me,
Trick me,
Let me be.

Let me just apologize,
As a human.
As a freak.
Forgive me for polluting the beauty that I seek.
Take me to your leader,
Deny me all my rights.
Destroy me,
Deploy me,
And forget me tonight.
----------
I wrote this one in the throes of unrequited love and a long dry spell.
Relative Strangers

Right now, sitting here
Lonely in my double bed,
All that I want to do
Is throw you down beside me,
make use of my lips,
wrestle with your tongue,
mess your hair,
watch a slow smile spread upon your face,
feel the weight of you on my chest,
whisper in your ear (things I would never say aloud),
feel your hear beating.
I want to breathe in sync with you,
I want the chill of you kissing my neck,
I want to melt when you utter my name,
when you gently stroke my face,
and pull me close,
and hold me tight,
and press your lips hard and soft against mine.
I want to lay with you,
and feel two bodies as one,
I want to be the instrument played by your beautiful hands,
I want to be the subject of your love letters,
The reason you breathe,
The moment of solace in your busy day.
Where are you?
Who are you?
And why aren't you here beside me,
In my double bed tonight?
------------
 :-X

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 11, 2008, 11:06:52 AM
My vote is for the first.  The flow was great!

Keep it up.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 12, 2008, 03:38:22 PM

I could quibble over a few of your choices, just as I would do, and always do, with my own.  For example, I think the poem would be stronger without using the words "profound" and "dormant".  But that's just my opinion; you may very well have had excellent reasons for using them.

Nonetheless, there are moments of great beauty here, such as:

one smoke to my lonely lips,
bitten to breed a hot flow of blood.

and, the ending, that begins with a cliche (which can work, if used property, like here):  "the final curtain is closing" -  is as good as you've ever done:

so swing me higher, please.
i want to hold the stars.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 12, 2008, 04:04:05 PM

You're welcome.  I think it's important to give honest opinions about these things.  One time Musings critiqued a poem I had posted and said it was damn near perfect except for this one word I used that was harsh and jarring when it should have been something else.  She was right.  I had known that when I wrote it, but was too lazy to "fix it" and left it is as.  I appreciated her honesty and also that she had taken the time to understand the little things, and choices, that go into writing a poem.

Profound is a cliche, and is one of those words that, for me, should never be in a poem, unless it is used in a way similar to what you did with the ending.  It could be removed without affecting your poem.  Dormant is different.  It's not a cliche, but it seems to detract somewhat - not much, just a little.  I would find another word to replace it.  Again, you can certainly ignore my opinions here.  I've only been writing for a year and a half and seldom read poetry, so please don't just accept my views as being somehow any better than your own.

It is overwhelmingly clear that you made the right decision with the ending.  "Hold the stars" is just about perfect.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 13, 2008, 09:10:42 PM
i wrote these two whilst i was at work, during my very short breaks. they need alot of editing, but i'm too lazy. suggestions welcome.



your playground

i worry
of the work yet to be done.
fences to be replaced, faces to erase.
and yet i am suppressed. by care-free twirlers,
injecting a dead beat through to my bones.
i'm very good now
at imitating those immense smiles you see,
behind bags of cotton candy. as tall as their torsos.
look around! there is so much happiness.
contagious well-being i can't seem to contract.
hisses and laughs, kisses and light.
you avoid me completely now,
since i told you i had not enough love.
don't come near me
lest my bodyguard make you reverse
and tell you to stop acting a cunt to me.
who knew,
as little as a week could grow so much tension?
the skies are becoming cloudy and rain sprinkles my eyelids,
clearing the fairground of people
as i did the floor of wetness, that morning.
please, don't destroy yourself.
i can't see you.
i can't love you. oh god...
someone take my eyes from their sockets,
i can't watch this happen.


my heart

i searched this place for the darkest thing i could find.
she requested something macabre,
playing on my willingness to do anything for her.
combing back her hair,
she saw me enter through the mirror.
i didn't take a bow or call her "my lady"
the way her narcissism would prefer,
but smiled and held up her prize.
returning a smirk, she spun slowly back
to her sharp, flawless reflection,
urging me toward her.
my weakness struggled to take me there,
but with my hand on her shoulder,
i felt a new strength.
as if a richer part of me had connected to my body.
and i was spinning in euphoria.
i wanted out, but i needed in.
shaking, i forced my hand in hers,
between our palms, a heart.
a twitching heart, clammy and blood-soaked.
she placed it in a dusty jar on the nightstand
and watched me slip from under my feet,
a cooling hand pressed to the fresh fingernail wound
on my chest.
i looked into her eyes, one last time
and closed my own
forever.

Well, since you asked, I will put you to the task.  The first one is a good first draft but it is unfinished.  I like the theme, and some of the lines, but I think a few more rewrites would make it shine.  You know that about your writing, anyway.  It's the same for me.  A first writing is rarely sufficent.  I think you complained about that once, but I see it as the nature of the writing process.  Think of Sexton, who re-wrote her poems constantly, as I'm sure most other poets do.  Notice I said "most".  There is one exception around here.

The second one is more polished.  If it were mine, I would go back to it with a little rearranging and tweaking here and there to obtain a better flow, although you almost got it on your first try.  Two things strike me as imcomplete and not adequately explained.  The first is when you wrote:  "i wanted out, but i needed in."  Based on what had transpired thus far, it doesn't seem that you "wanted out".  You were nervous and may have felt like leaving, but I don't think that you really wanted to.  So, in my opinion, the bare declaration of wanting out needs more fleshing out.  Poetically, of course!  The second is the ending.  I'm guilty of doing the same thing.  In trying to finish the damn thing, a little laziness creeps in (as you admit).  There is something quite substantial missing between the rest of the poem and the ending.  My suggestion would be to figure out exactly what that missing part is and put it in.

Both of these have the potential to be really good poems.  They just need a little more work.  Once in a great while, a poem will just come out, fully formed.  For the most part, though, a good poem simply requires a lot of work.  I don't think you're content with a stream of consciousness sort of result.  You want to polish them until they shine.

(I should follow my own advice). 

Okay, then, the final drafts are due no later than...............ah, take your time!   :)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 14, 2008, 02:42:59 PM


just lovely.  everything.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: I wrestle with my brain. on August 14, 2008, 05:41:37 PM
A WIP that stumbled into my brain when I was walking the dog the other day.

There's as much beer cans and glass
As there is flowers and grass
But we look at them anyway
Conspiring that something inspiring
Might float our way
Hopefully before I retire
Or expire for that matter
Not that it matters to you anyway
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Andy Pants on August 15, 2008, 04:49:09 AM
It would be great to get some feedback on these.

An Unusual Place - Andy Pants

I've hit a wall in the road,
Like a crash test dummie with a death-wish;
I was hurtling along at great speed
And then suddenky 'this'.

I've fallen into a crevace,
Like an over enthusiastic mountaineer;
I'm stuck in a pit and staring at the walls.
I've succumbed once again to my fear.

I seemed to have misplaced my voice.
My words just can't get out.
My inspiration has taken a holiday.
I've listened once again to my doubt.

I'm in a strange situation.
I'm starting to feel rather small.
I thought I understood what was going on here.
I didn't understand anything at all.

I thought I was on an adventure.
Turns out I was watching a play.
I had built a dam in my mind
So I threw all my poetry away.

Like a skydiver whose shute doesn't open
I've fallen upon a realisation.
I heard something that shattered me like a mirror
And I put a stop to my course of creation.

Weighed down by drafts of old feelings
I emptied my chest into the trash
Like butterflies they fluttered away
My confidence had turned to ash.

Now I'm in a good place,
I've realised what I should have known all along.
That the strange images I was seeing weren't really happening.
The spectacles I was wearing were just wrong.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 15, 2008, 11:22:26 AM
psst! you people have me stumbling over rocks. the brilliant dance continues and I beg Devery and Innocence to continue, as well as the "new" poets. Keep going. Keep going. Even the wrong way is the right one...


i've been picking at the
straightjacket for hours and perhaps
years, but time is fickle that way--
no calendar means
no amount of days.
Now
I find myself in the lead
blanket and can't lift the heft,
as hard as my legs kick and my spittle
announces and my voice box shatters,
as much as my head hits the wooden
Chair of Judgment, and as far as my
wishes hear the slurp of the ocean,
I need help.
I need it fast like a sucker.
I need it hard like a tango.
I need it before the lights sprinkle
the last of the day
and the depth of all the paint colors
swirl once again into black...

bring down the sack of new clothes
and i promise to wear them as much
as i hate them.
me.
a dress with tulips,
and the red blood my fingernails
spot upon when you tickle my
belly.
friend.
friend you are not far from me,
but can't find your way around the
development, like a fly running
against the summer screens,
or a burst of rays slumbering up
the scaffold at 5 am.

I am waiting for a fix.
the bets have been made.
the criminals have their cellulars
and the cops read them their rights.
but the judge stands before my
steel belt and calls me
Freak.
Freak for the cellar!

God damn,
I need a cubbyhole.

and then

the escape.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 15, 2008, 03:42:37 PM
at first it's a little like
being tickled past your wishes,
how your stomach rolls up into
tissue wads and you spit out through
your clenched teeth, "sSTOP sSTop IT!"
but the supervisor at work won't
stop sending you surveys
you don't have time for--and the
bill collectors are calling and you
could care less,
and the family watches you go down
the side of the stairs and wonders

if you've even showered today.

depression is a the thick black grime
around the top of a jelly bottle.
anger is the seed stack in the corner
of your garage, building up its own host,
and most of all--desperation sits counting
the digits on your hands and toes,
calling you out for a fish fry,

and you don't eat fish.

not a morsel would think of passing
your bulbous lips,
and the shakes come through your
neighbor's annoying old radio...
music won't find you without a
dollar,
but then that is true of Everything.

the time it takes to run to the
bathroom and sing into the toilet,
how many hours of your life
go splashing away from water,
and why the fear of strangers that
keeps the brim of your hat to
the bottom of concrete?
and how do you pay the reaper
when your fists have carved
themselves into permanence...

and all these annoying questions
build up in one bad poem,
where god fuck all,
I look down at my skinned
shins.

and for just this moment
I know what it means to
Scratch.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: guuurrrrrllltakeiteasy on August 15, 2008, 09:37:29 PM
This is pretty old, maybe a year old. It's actually a song but written in a poem form. So when I do perform this there's just this paragraph, there's no bridge or chorus, it's just....this.

Saliva
The floors are sticky and the walls are wet from paint and the corner of your mouth releases saliva.
And that saliva seeps into the matress, spills onto the floors and seeps into the cracks.
The dew is rolling down the window like the beads of water rolling down my face, see I just got out from the shower and steam is crawling up the ceiling.
Kinda just creepin up on you.....
And I'm gettin dryer and dryer from all this wipin and wipin and you're still gettin wetter and wetter from the saliva that keeps on soakin and soakin but you don't notice it cuz you're still sleepin sleepin, soundly soundly and snorin snoring.
And when I zip up my pants and button up my shirt you just wake up and smell the sweet sweet earth from a window that I opened so that the rays of sunshine could warm you up.
Now I'm off to work, you're right behind me all lazy so you drink a cup of coffee.
When I come back home, we'll fall asleep on the couch...and everything will repeat itself
..for no reason at all..
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Andy Pants on August 15, 2008, 10:35:13 PM
This is one of my favourite poems I've ever written.

Meditation - Andy Pants

I have altered my perception.
I am clear enough to see
The true shape of my reflection
Which is staring back through me.

Perception is creation
And we see what we believe.
And in almost every situation
These images deceive.

So how does a sword cut itself?
And how do eyes see
Through the books of riddles on the shelf
To the 'true' reality?

One simple experience
Can be viewed a thousand ways.
And our minds might be truly immense.
But not so are our days.

I am at my heart now,
The center of every thing.
And now I think I can see how
All things are known through feeling.

We only know the world exists
Because we feel it there.
Like some kind of strange baloonists
Our thoughts float through the air.

Everything which has ever been.
Might not be what it seems.
We only know what we've heard or seen
And some of these things are merely dreams.

It is only once we learn to ignore
Our strange fictions and delusions.
That we see our minds are governed by a universal law
And we are free to embrace the real illusions.

The world outside fades into light
And all distracting thoughts desist.
And the bright misty glow of vibrant white
Is the only thing which exists.

There are noises coming from out there still
But it doesn't matter what they mean.
In my forehead I imagine a windowsill
Through which all things are seen.

Then I open my eyes and to my surprise
I begin to grin.
I see the truth through the confused lies
That happiness comes from within.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 16, 2008, 12:29:07 AM
Andy Pants--don't take this harshly as I just put out one of my worst poems EVER. If you are comfortable staying in a scheme and rhyming, then that is what you should do. Look up Ma Chao earlier and around this thread. He can rhyme your eyes bloody. BUT. IF you are looking for a change--fall free form. Forget stanza lines and forget rhyming unless you need it. Forget everything except one huge thing that I forgot earlier today--ADJECTIVES. They are the crust that makes poetry slightly off kilter. And I could be full of shit. I am no professional. But you asked for advice and now I have given you my best.


the creek water
licks the huge roots
sucking up to the tree,
and this little gurgling makes
me wonder about
the past i should have had,
and the future my body waddles
towards.

i am the thorn
inside the sink, swirling
around your disposed fries,
and i've become the
senior citizen far before the
age of 55,
picking at my teeth.
waiting for the scrub.
staring at the books
as though they were Fire.

i love you
even when your fit is
ruined by a commercial,
and i have just the right
amount of pep-to for your
upset belly,
loose as it is.
jiggling like mine.
we look at the same movie
and wish we were lesbians.

i got the lucky shot
as a screaming toddler,
and ran with my pants
falling behind me
straight into the lobby.
every mouth opening
in frigid shock.

just like you.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Andy Pants on August 16, 2008, 03:04:18 AM
I do know what you mean, but I think the whole free-verse thing is a little too trendy. I just usually feel there should be some kind of unifying theme throughout the poem, whether that be a rhyme or a word or whatever. I don't really understand the adjective thing though.

Anyway, here is one I wrote from a little while ago without any real set rhyming structure. Caution: much swearing.

Trapped - Andy Pants

I want an out
I want an escape
Out of this body
Out of this place
Out of this corpse
Where I am not living
Out of this damn course
Where I am not learning a thing
Surrounded by the deaf and the voiceless

This is mind-numbing
This is pedantic
Cynical criticising crap
To my dismay I find I'm growing lethargic
When I should be awake and alive
I really should be creating a life
Instead of just being stuck in this dive
I really should be living
Instead of just waiting to die

Fuck this institution
Fuck this situation
Fuck these people with the minds of children
I am trapped in a prison of my own creation
And this isn't any kind of 'life' I could ever want
One day just blends into another
Everywhere I go there is some fucking cunt
Telling me lies about something or rather
Fucking egotistical assholes

Just go, just leave
Don't be a coward
Be a man and run away
You aren't moving forward
This is rediculous
Get away from these academics preaching conformity
Sucking the fucking life out of you like wraiths
Killing your creativity
Talentless fucking pricks

What did I do to deserve this?
I failed the intelligence test
What now can I do?
This is a fucking mess
I don't need these people
This is a waste of money
This is a fucking joke
Which just isn't funny
Fuck this, fuck them and fuck you.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Golly Mina! on August 16, 2008, 06:08:05 AM
This is the first thing I've written in months so I'm not sure it's that good. You be the judge

My most disgraceful thought
Held me down with claws
So sharp
Punctuating sparkles red
All over the frail
My frail
My knees
Te voice inside
Begged to stop
But furthering the awful urge
The slime of flesh
To protrude
And pervade
No more
The gasping hands of thought
Squeezed the veins
My neck was sore
But the sole thought I would bare
Was Death, it's thee that I adore
Albeit consciousness withstand
Albeit you, my dear
Your fingers
Albeit beauty made by man
Your love never made
Me linger
The semen expelled by my mouth
Became my entity
As it epitomized
My most dearest medicine
I lack coherence
I miss nothing
As nothing became my all
I bare no feelings
No lights, airwaves
No sounds, and spit
No inner impulse to feel joy
Nothing moves
This young mechanism still
Once overflowing with cheer
Now a burden in itself
Only cold
My cold
Clutching cold
Rampaging the soles of
My feet
And sweet
And sweat
Gathering its juices
In the ditches
Of
My hands
Apart from that
Ego sum nihil
Dust and bones
Fat and skin
The weakness is thought
Within
Where devices
Have yet to have intruded
And deromanticize
Everthing pure
And immaculate
Spirit pristine
O what have you done
To me?
Yet I still bare and treasure
The bare sting
And the needle
When I'm bare
And exposed
Wholeheartedly emboldening
This freewill sacrifice
That I chose to bring
To no other Gods
But my own
My nothing
Everyone around me dies
In me
Thousands of times
I kill, I murder
I loathe
Only to discover
That in fact
I'm the cadaver
I'm the corpse
I'm the dead
All inside me
Finds itself rotten
Eaten by years
Of notes, notebooks, textbooks
Pages, scars
And YOU
I lay my eyes on keyboards
As I hear snoring in the
Other room
How peaceful must it be
No self-inflicted damage
M best friend is self-distruction
She drinks of me
She eats of me
She makes of me
She is me
My most disgraceful thought
Is the sole thought
On my tongue
In me
On my pale breasts
It is what gives me strength
To be weak
And to fail
As I know I'll be condemned
If I take one more step
Out of the dogmatic line
A thin white line
A lane of cocaine
To get high with
And to die with
Yet I know
I know nothing
And I know I know nothing
The root of my intestinal
Holocaust
Of sins
Of nail biting
Of sneezing
And of constipation
I am death
Death is within me
Death makes me strong
Enough to avoid death
It's a matter of time
Until my own 9.11th


And this one:
Tick-tock

Tick-tock, tick-tock
I lay my ear
To hear
My life going tick-tock

I shake as I start to panic
Because seconds fly so fast
My life is meaningless
Tick-tock of manic

It is late so I promise
I'll start saving my days
And I'll live in ways
I am proud, miss

As of tomorrow
I'll change myself
My life and health
AND NO MORE SORROW

But now is late
And I must sleep
Time.Promise.I.Keep
It is all up to fate.

Oh,my, look at the clock
Tires,I should rest some more
Because I have time galore
To hear my life going tick-tock
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on August 16, 2008, 06:54:51 AM
Is there a thread for like prose? I prefer prose... But, here's a poem nonetheless:

Am I allowed the blues?
21st Century white girl who hails the Peaks as home,
Am I allowed the blues?
I'm no bright-eyed black boogie wonder Yank
Or beat up Beat boy Jesus-type Ginsburg
Am I allowed the blues?
Those cool mournful blues
All wicked and sorrowful and arty and deep
And soulful and soulfelt and heady and deep
And real and deep
and heavy and deep
And cool and deep
And slow slow heavy heavy slow blue blues
Am I allowed the blues?
Or must I just make do
With the usual usual
Down In The Dumps
Bit Under The Weather
Another stale serving
Of my usual usual
Sat a table built under the weather
I'm sat at my table
For one.


Whoo! I feel so emo! *moshmosh*
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 16, 2008, 09:27:47 AM
I don't usually offer comments, except for Innocence or preferpencil, but gosh, Golly Mina!, that was good!  You got my attention, enough to read through to the end.  Any time it threatened to almost devolve into cliche, you just blasted right through with a "I've got something to say and I'm damn well going to say it!"  I like that in a poem.  I hope you write more of them.



Indie - not bad for a 21st century white girl.  And with the proper use of the word "deep" to boot!  (I almost said "whoa, that was deep, man").  I like how you connected deep South blues, to the Beats, to arty and pretentious blues, to "stiff upper lip" blues and, finally, to just basic Indie_ninja blues.  I dig it!  More please.

.................................

There is a thread for prose, started by Kittkatt way back at the beginning of SSP somewhere.  You have a great flair for writing, so go find it and put some prose in there.  You could "write the phone book", as they say, and make it interesting. 

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on August 16, 2008, 11:13:21 AM
Damn, Dev! You're a real sweetie! ^.^ I will most definitely hunt down that prose thread. And Mina - you know I think you rock like a rock at a rock concert XD

Edit: You're in luck, moose(s) of the Box! Just dug out an old poem from a while back. So, here it be!

My eyes are square
My spine is bent to the shape of a cinema seat
I breathe movies
I need films
I live for moving pictures
I sit for hours as the day drains away
Taking my life with it
Immersed in someone else's life, their hopes & dreams
Their truths and lies, their everything
They're everything
I long for those sweet pure hours of anonymity
Where I am nothing
And nothing is me
and all of my emotions are in someone else's hands
Our Father, the film-maker
Kidnapper
Puppet-master
He is my master
Am I His servant? Or slave?
Or apprentice? Who knows.
I will be whatever He suggests.
When I crash back to earth
From my dreams, my sweet dreams
The pressure makes my eyes explode
In the real world
I can't see who I am
Or who you are
Because my eyes are square
And I can't stand up
Or straight
Or out
Because my spine is twisted and bent.


First thing I wrote in my English class last year, when we were asked to write something about ourselves for the teacher and show her "what we're made of". Teacher seemed pleased enough... XD
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Andy Pants on August 17, 2008, 02:01:47 AM
And now for a angry finger-pointy break-up poem.

Prince Charming - Andy Pants

Make way for your Prince Charming.
He's come to save the day,
To cheer your heart and change your life
In every single way.

It's just like in the movies.
He's an image in 2-D
On a screen which is really blank
From which he can't break free.

He's got chisled features
And a charimatic face
Like a wooden puppet on a string
Burning in a fire-place.

He's wearing all the latest fashions
For a shining knight in arms.
You might as well just give up now,
You can't escape his charms.

He claims to he wears that metal shell
To guard him against sorrow.
But when you secretly peer inside
You'll realise the shell is really hollow.

He'll protect you from living,
He'll make your dark world bright,
He'll march right on into your life
And everything will be alright.

Oh he's a 'real' man it seems,
A genuine provider.
He walked right out of a Jane Austin novel,
He's a real-world outsider.

He's a critically acclaimed actor
I'sn't that your dream come true?
Isn't that what you've always wanted?
A man who can act like he loves you?

You won't ever have to worry about his feelings.
He doesn't feel a thing at all.
Aren't you going to run to his arms?
Can't you hear the Princes call?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: roboticvampire on August 17, 2008, 03:56:39 AM
I do know what you mean, but I think the whole free-verse thing is a little too trendy. I just usually feel there should be some kind of unifying theme throughout the poem, whether that be a rhyme or a word or whatever. I don't really understand the adjective thing though.
Free verse may be trendy, but following a set meter and rhyme scheme (especially full rhymes) sounds both antiquated and cliche, like your only view of poetry comes from bad Wordsworth imitators.  If you want to stick to a more rigid structure, make one up for yourself, and please limit yourself to half rhymes and all the other rhymes that aren't full rhymes.  Full rhymes are obvious, the not so full ones tend to slip past the reader as rhymes, yet give the poem a degree of musicality that makes it read more beautifully.  Sonnets are really good for this.  They can easily fall into a Shakespearean cliche, but they can also be made so they don't automatically jump out as a sonnet.  Avoid using four feet per line (quatrameter) since it's too familiar to a modern, musically versed audience.  You don't want your rhymes and meters to be obvious since they'll steal the focus, but you also want to stick to them once you've decided on what they should be, because otherwise your poetry will come across as sloppy.  Keep in mind, though, that a good poem is a good poem, regardless of what kind of structure it takes.  It will not be a good poem if the structure does not fit the poem.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 17, 2008, 10:03:55 AM
Jennifer - I have re-read and reconsidered.  I still think you could do with a few re-writes, but we'd see the noon sun at midnight before that happens.  A few of what I do like from your recent offerings:

I need help.
I need it fast like a sucker.
I need it hard like a tango.
I need it before the lights sprinkle
the last of the day
and the depth of all the paint colors
swirl once again into black...

bring down the sack of new clothes
and i promise to wear them as much
as i hate them.


and, of course, this:

God damn,
I need a cubbyhole.

and then

the escape.

......................................................

depression is a the thick black grime
around the top of a jelly bottle.
anger is the seed stack in the corner
of your garage, building up its own host,
and most of all--desperation sits counting
the digits on your hands and toes,

.....

not a morsel would think of passing
your bulbous lips,
and the shakes come through your
neighbor's annoying old radio...


...................................................... ....

how many hours of your life
go splashing away from water,
and why the fear of strangers that
keeps the brim of your hat to
the bottom of concrete?
and how do you pay the reaper
when your fists have carved
themselves into permanence...

...................................................... ..

the creek water
licks the huge roots
sucking up to the tree,
and this little gurgling makes
me wonder about
the past i should have had,
and the future my body waddles
towards.

.....

we look at the same movie
and wish we were lesbians.  (movie title please!)


ps:  your old job is still here, waiting for you....


*********************************

Sarah, I found a good example of an overused expression that becomes something new.  This is from a poem by Valzhyna Mort:


the memory of you
is like a needle in hay
that cannot be found
but every time tumbling with another man
in that hayloft
i'm scared that it will sting me

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 17, 2008, 10:11:14 AM
turn away and
don't look down
at this height
a strange vertigo
sucks you in and
takes your air
the world turns
into felt bushes
and enormous
soft wings
the only thing
you can do now
is touch it
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: I wrestle with my brain. on August 17, 2008, 11:40:05 AM
Okay, the WIP I posted earlier is now finished and with a name!  :headbang: ;D

Digression

There's as much beer cans and glass
As there's flowers and grass
But we look at them anyway
Conspiring that something inspiring might float our way
Hopefully before I retire
Or expire for that matter
Not that it matters to you anyway

This shiny new wall reminds me of you
And all of the things that I'd like to do
Whoops! Verbal abuse
Is falling like rainbow clouds
And in our shrouds I'll promise

If we weren't decaying
I know I'd be praying
We weren't wearing anything at all
One last kiss before the fall?
Your coffin or mine?

But the words all just stumble
From my mouth a jumble sale
For all those who stopped in their tracks
To stare at the debris
You and me
Were singing on gurneys

Now reality snaps back
I walked into that trap
Before now and anyway
I'm conspiring that something inspiring is here to stay
Forever
Or has it been severed like we were the same?
Not that you noticed it anyway

And this time my meaning
Is words are deceiving
I thought I was leaving
Apparently not
The music is drifting through
A passage of me and you
Scrawled on my arm
So I wouldn't forget
And I wouldn't regret
All the shit that I put us both through

Dilute your emotions
Put my tears on ice
Burn out your eyes
And I'm hitting the lights

Digression
Is the easiest form of expression
Where was i?

(So I close my eyes and..?)

...You crawl into bed
I thought that you said
That you felt...
Or at least that's my perception
Deception of unfinished words
That you sent
Have been spent

(Now I open my eyes and)

That song that you know so well
Makes my eyes sting like hell
But I covered them well
'Cause you told me the meanings

"In the end will you still love me"

Basically
Cut.Your.Cryptic.Shit.
And tell me
Or come to bed my dear...

LET'S RIP THIS BOTTLE WRAPPER ONCE AND FOR ALL!!!
LAST CALL!!!
I take it back!
Digression
I could say it in three words
I won't take it back
Regression
Tell me where it hurts
Now take it back
Expression on her face
Is more than I can face
I take it back
Won't take it back
We're fading black
Just take me back!




Yeah. It doesn't really have a tidy structure but that fits the whole inspiration for it anyway
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on August 17, 2008, 12:11:42 PM
I really liked them both, Devery and... can I call you Wrestle? XD Anyway, I liked it. The prose thread's up, so have a look: http://www.theshadowbox.net/forum/index.php?topic=4909.0 Fingers crossed this one doesn't fall into disrepair like the old one ^.^
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Golly Mina! on August 17, 2008, 02:54:48 PM
I don't usually offer comments, except for Innocence or preferpencil, but gosh, Golly Mina!, that was good!  You got my attention, enough to read through to the end.  Any time it threatened to almost devolve into cliche, you just blasted right through with a "I've got something to say and I'm damn well going to say it!"  I like that in a poem.  I hope you write more of them.

Thank you, Devery! It feels really nice to get such positive feedback. Usually the only person who reads my poems is my boyfriend, but quite frankly, I don't trust his opinion on this matter,I'm afraid he's a bit subjective, so I appreciate you reading it
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 17, 2008, 10:21:53 PM
Devery does have a good EYE for fine poetry, doesn't she? And her short one above lets in just enough space and out as well.

The Year of Deaths
-----------------------

I've lost two relatives
and two pets
and the only difference
is the slime that will
take their boxes when
more are taken.

You can weep,
as one should
but the truth is
you're going to
eat one hamburger
too many.
and that will be
the End of you.

Or perhaps you
digest pills at a
rocket's rate.
Drink booze as
though it was
water.
Take medicine
which will only
mean more of it.

and with the slithery
hand of a strong man's
grip, slowly you will find
your legs gone wobbly.
the heart racing nowhere.
the brain exploding in
radar.
the cellular phone taking
your last breath,
just as you Pushed all
those words into it.

the dog is now dying.
or something has gone
terribly, terribly, awfully
Wrong. This will be another
tear, and books will go down
for it. I will rip their pages and
eat them one by one, until that
first wave of nausea...

when i'll scream for paramedics.

i owe my grandmother more
divine kisses, and my uncle more
trips to the game table. i owe the
two cats a heart and some lungs.
i owe this dog, my dad's grief from
the year, rolled up like a sausage and
waiting...

toiling

broiling

and having that sideways smile
locked in ashes and bone brittle.

funny. he loves peanut brittle.
and that may be the end of him too.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 17, 2008, 10:37:48 PM
they say i am clear of it,
have made a new person to flirt.
have taken a pecan in caramel and
called it Mine.
am ready to work again.
as soon as the limbs kick in.
and when they do,
perhaps the grit from my
molars

will finally fly free.
if you've smelled something
on the beach that hits your bones,
then my bet is a dead horseshoe crab.
and if your childlike inspection makes you
want to turn it over,
all the same to you.
i am not there.

as a species
we are not much for legs
past 4.
and as a monarch,
i personally can't look at the
middle of it.
the dinosaurs went down for
mysterious reasons,
and within 100-plus years,
we have turned on the heat.

---------------------------

i wake and turn to my friends.
all of them by way of the slick
computer.
all 3 tell me they love me.
1 I have visited and 1 comes soon.
all the same,
the crumble of my chest,
and the feeding of my intestines.
the bark that encases my fingers
writes a tidy bullshit.
and i care.
more than an amoeba.
possibly because of feeble feet.
perhaps due to not paying bills.

but i care.
all of them my microscope.
all of them wishing me well.
all of them worried i'll go nuts.
all of them huddled in their
Secret Society.
--none of them draw
blood.

equal parts sugar
tea and salt.
forcing me to eat
and making the phone
calls.
none of them draw
blood.

The stock will be
replenished,
and then there will
be a party, where i
watch the Secret
Society

play my final rhapsody.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Edric. on August 17, 2008, 11:48:39 PM
this is one i wrote based on what has going on in my life right now. my dad is in the military and has been on this island for a year... and now he decided to stay for another. so this is kind of about that. its probably not that great as i wrote it late at night during a very emotional period...


he is staying
for another year
over there
across the sea

the island
is stealing him
from us.

he isn't the first
it happens to them all
the longer they stay
the greater their fall.

they've washed their brain
for the greater good
to permanently abstain.

no one offers help
to the family in need
"just continue your work,
and never secede"

he's a robot now,
and he's breaking down.
his old life disavows

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 18, 2008, 01:35:02 AM
the weeds sniffle and
smirk at the same time,
gathered in my closet
and hushed away from
nosey relatives,

i start plucking
starting between the
toes, and gather momentum
as i refuse a shaver for the legs...
one snatch will wince and the next
flies as free as a turtle on ice.
another few will harness that inner
thigh sweaty area.
only the doctors count pulses
There.

a twitch and a babbling "O"
find themselves curious as to the
patch missing where the surgery dug
IN. this will not be sent by notary,
and none of you will have the time.
but all of you will wonder what
Finally took her down.

tweezers.
as small as a cat's head,
and as ruthless as canines
are inching up further to the very
top of the mountain.
There lies a lot of the night left
before they see how Clean I can Be.
take a break, darling

and for god's sake

clean up the floor.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 18, 2008, 04:10:51 PM
I fucking love you.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 18, 2008, 07:52:01 PM
one iridescent baby candle
*blink*

and you're alone

part your lips and
set free a feathery aureole
hooping a guard
round your pretty little face.


don't scrawl.
write pretty.
or i'll snuff this flame

before your eyes.
blink
and you missed me.


Sarah, i really like how the *blink* and the "blink" each fits the flow of the poem.  The first one, it seems to me, is an observation, a little bit of time standing still for just a moment, whereas the second one is a warning, or even a command, and thus is quicker and in real time.  Very creative.  And it worked, perfectly.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 18, 2008, 10:44:15 PM
Eh, well, a bit of a lark, I suppose -



Last Week


Well, of course I'll
tell you everything. 
To begin somewhere near
the beginning, you might
say it was just a small
thing that grew large.

I saw it coming.  I
ignored the warnings.
The storm in my belly
snuck up to my ribs
and uncaged little
snapping whirlwinds
honed by alien DNA
to burrow in and nest
just above my
left breast.

Laughing eels took
over my head in
a glorious and
bloodless coup.
Feet don't fail
me now
, they chimed.
Sarcastic, teasing
 weasels!

And of course there
they were, my feet,
just sitting there
in some transcendant
glue, an unmovable
debacle, my arms
flapping in awkward
cadence like gulls
drowning in tar and
oil with their own
last, frantic kicks.

I've paid attention.
Lesson learned, I'll
tell you with a smile.
Dramatically, I side-
step the barricades
and pits.
Raise the rope higher,
I'm back in balance.
I'm walking like an
easy stroll on
the avenue.

And, if you don't mind,
I'll stick to this
character for awhile;
just one more day,
one more hour. 
Then I'll be prepared for
that other, longer walk,
the one where I get
to hear your story.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 18, 2008, 11:37:33 PM
deveryyyy--- that was UNCALLED FOR!!! iT WAS SO FULL OF energy, imagery, and the "observational lenses" you must have put on for this one --SUPREME TRIUMPH. Do not lose this one, no matter how fast the Shadowbox kicks your eels OUT. OH MY GOD.

and of course you were right about Sarah's ditty --I can't get "blink" out of my wee brain now.

Now I have the two of you to feed off of like a vulture and I only hope to raise the bar to an equal status!!

You two dolts! Knock it off! (she is a LIAR. don't stop writing Ever.)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 19, 2008, 01:15:48 PM
Fuck both of you. I have bills to pay!! hahaahaa. No. I love both of you. I just like to say the word Frig.


the hyacinths and rhododendrons
have died and are awkwardly licking
the turf, where here, in an autumn dusk
turning over sheets of a strange orange sky,
the cousin walks through what was once a glorious
playground. Kept neat by a changing rangling banging
group of men who had nothing but the seasons to sit upon.

There is a line of solid oaks and Douglas trees in the back.
She heads towards them giddy in the weeds as the grasshoppers
fiercely puncture her shins and hop off as mad as a hatter, and hopeless.
The rest of what was a fountain lies shattered before her, but Cupid stares
out into space with an incredulous grin, forgetting the terrain that is slowly taking
his feet under. The champagne she drank has made her wave her arms like a plane
in a quick sweep over this remnant. But the fountain has dug into rubble and racks of
glue that knock at her swollen feet. She wonders if the fort is still somewhere in the middle
passageway, ready for Indians and Cowboys to assault with their deadly scalps and high pitched
giggles long gone from adolescence.

She feels like an idiot, this curiosity getting the better of her, and sweeping her chores away from
her ailing mother and the constant drips of laudanum that are punched in between thin lips. But she wants
to forget the party inside the house. Small and noisy with whistles for a birthday that should matter but doesn't.
She walks through the twigs with her tiny wrists snapping off the branches that tuck at her face as if she were a
dirty mattress. There, lying in the distance, is a tiny shack of wood that is flying to the left ground clearing. Tiny
yellow finches start to wrestle behind her, but this is of no consequence to her eager steps.

What will be left inside the opening? She cranes her neck like a freakish swan, and peers at an angle, suddenly afraid
of all the holes in the ground and the probability of snakes. Nothing. Not a toy pistol. Not a slingshot. Not even the doll she had lost to the boys on a bet years ago. Someone is calling her name but she is caught in bristles and a syrup-like demand of weeds. The thorns pocket her hairs and go out for coffee. She strains to hear some music and
that slippery smile has left her face. None of this is memory's gush. None of it makes sense.

She turns to head back and tries to lope like a deer, but the ground eagerly takes snapshots of her grimace, and the
birds call out in attack. She feels a peck on her head and swipes in anger. Then another slight shot on the cheek. Then another slap of a wing to the eye. Then another host of falcons seem to pull her face back like a rubber stick and check for honey. The bird feeder is 10 yards away and lying to itself, completely full of seed, but so far down on a slant, that the squirrels have conquered. She yells when another bite plays on her arm like a piano.

She yells and knows there will be no one to hear, but something is calling her name like an echo over a cliff. Closer, but slow as a handkerchief, she fumbles and meets ground. To her left, Cupid is smiling wide and vividly awful. As she leans, hands and knees to the ground, a small yellow finch comes to dance with the rest and there is finally silence. Her dress is ripped in so many places that the tailor will hike up the price. Her face is marked with small blood pin holes. Her arms are sticky with a bastard glue,

and she is sleepy. Harder than she can imagine. She is so tired, she can barely raise her chest. As her knees fall in deeper inside the fountain a small gush of warm water sprouts. She watches as bubbles crest up her legs like ants on sugar. She lies down in the warm water and lets her dress float out like a drowned cow. She watches the shade of orange shift away from the house and turn dark blue, and as she lies next to Cupid she feels the urge to kiss, Stops. Imagines what they will say upon her soiled return.

She will not return. She digs her elbows into the warmth now crawling from belly to inner thighs. She feels the tickle of insects taking her brow for their journeys. She says her name 3 times and closes her hands inside the muddy warmth of the water. Her face falls next to Cupid's glare, and moving one leg to the side, she knocks him over with an elbow. She pushes him next to her belly and the water...

See? She thinks.
Remember?
You used to flow and spit this water out yourself.
See?


Can anyone see this?
and she falls into the hush of it.
she lets the water lap her chin like a dog.
she is caked in mud and jelly grime and she doesn't

even

Care.




-----------------------------------------------------dammit. time for bills. this might mmmm. maybe the prose thread instead. but too late. Suffer.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on August 19, 2008, 02:49:01 PM
this might mmmm. maybe the prose thread instead. but too late. Suffer.

Not too late! Please post something in my lonely, lonely prose thread ^.^
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 19, 2008, 09:45:47 PM
deveryyyy--- that was UNCALLED FOR!!! iT WAS SO FULL OF energy, imagery, and the "observational lenses" you must have put on for this one --SUPREME TRIUMPH. Do not lose this one, no matter how fast the Shadowbox kicks your eels OUT. OH MY GOD.


That's the Jennifer I've been missing!   XD  Thank you, sweetie.

To be honest, I had a few little projects all lined up last evening, but then I read The Writer, written by you over in the Prose section, and it so inspired me that I just had to write something right now!


eeee devery you got exactly what i meant by each blink.
the 2nd stanza of last week actually gave me butterflies, love! another of my favourite bits was the last stanza - beautiful.


Thank you, Sarah!  I always aim for the butterflies.  This time I got eels.  But they leave me alone now; sometimes they even let me blink.   


Fuck both of you. I have bills to pay!! hahaahaa. No. I love both of you. I just like to say the word Frig.


Hey, I know something we could do that'd be lots of fun.  Let's go do a bar and get real drunk and say "fuck you!" to each other all night.




the hyacinths and rhododendrons
have died and are awkwardly licking
the turf, where here, in an autumn dusk
turning over sheets of a strange orange sky,
the cousin walks through what was once a glorious
playground. Kept neat by a changing rangling banging
group of men who had nothing but the seasons to sit upon.

There is a line of solid oaks and Douglas trees in the back.
She heads towards them giddy in the weeds as the grasshoppers
fiercely puncture her shins and hop off as mad as a hatter, and hopeless.
The rest of what was a fountain lies shattered before her, but Cupid stares
out into space with an incredulous grin, forgetting the terrain that is slowly taking
his feet under. The champagne she drank has made her wave her arms like a plane
in a quick sweep over this remnant. But the fountain has dug into rubble and racks of
glue that knock at her swollen feet. She wonders if the fort is still somewhere in the middle
passageway, ready for Indians and Cowboys to assault with their deadly scalps and high pitched
giggles long gone from adolescence.


Now that ^ is quite a sight!  The perfect form to hold in all the glue and giggles.   :glasses9:


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 20, 2008, 01:35:12 AM
Dammit lovely, you have made me cry...(yes, sarah. of course. You.)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Mandolin Rain on August 20, 2008, 04:58:28 AM
trying to forget what we'd done
i partied like a fool
downing vodka like water
burning myself with that clove cigarette
falling into a puddle on the floor

you wouldn't answer me
my phone isn't broken
though i almost let it
fly off of that balcony
when i heard your name

the carpet in the room that i fell
was one that you stole
from the old KFC
that was razed months ago

i just wanted you by my side
drinking high life
smiling stupid grins
kissing those kisses again

the next day
i felt reality again
the bruise on my ass
the burn on my arm
the stories from the night before

you were there
at the art store
pretending that nothing happened
hiding the nervousness
staring at me while i got my change

when i wanted to fuck
i texted you
no more secrets
no more lies
no more trying

mandy doesn't hate you anymore
i told her you're civil to me
how much of that is the truth?
i can't tell anymore

consuming my mind
raging through my body
damaging my nerves

time for another cigarette
time for an additional drink
time to quit opening my legs whenever you'll have me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on August 20, 2008, 04:56:32 PM
Wrote this at like 2 o' clock this morning after listening to the Clash's live album ^_^ So, it's a bit crummy and kinda obsessive, but, I dunno, I like it ^.^

My God's Bigger Than Your God

So your God forgives you your sins? Well big whoop
Mine saved my arse before I knew who He was
He doesn't need creaking and crumbling cathedrals
He's got speakers and headphones and Capital Radio
I don't care if yours made the whole Universe
With one pnumatic leg mine'll grind it to dirt
So yours is the Word? Mine's the whole battle-cry
With a snarl and splutter He'll burn down the sky
With a growl and a grimace and a clashing of chords
Your God'll shit bricks at the coming of my Lord
Your prayers are just posturing
Man, you're just stalling
Yeah, fuck Jerusalem
It's London that's Calling.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on August 20, 2008, 06:02:24 PM
So, your god is Mick Jones?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on August 20, 2008, 06:08:42 PM
Would that make Joe Strummer the Holy Ghost?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 21, 2008, 02:47:08 AM


the typewriter is yawning
in the closet, where the thrown
"s" is coasting on one wedding
antique glass.
oh, such a loss of you
makes my shorts bleed without
a certified check or my buckles
popping off their belts.

the opera glides into my ears
and this is the eon becoming
a flash from a camera, where
dead friends wrote best wishes
and cake actually tasted sweet.
stop your accusations.
the shoes are tying their strings
into spotlight knots.

here's the rub of it.
here's the phone call i missed.
here's the kiss without teeth.
here's my hand checking pages.

in the thin garage's grumble
there is gas sloshing around like boots.
there is a baseball bat filled with
spiders and green yards' mulch
Standing Straight Up.

and that is what comes next
in the movie, but not the show.
Back Curved into the corner webs,
Nose shot full of coke--the drink.
Toe nails shoved into a mouse
and the gear stuck in idle for the
Rest of several lives diving in

splendid superman whirls out of
seatbelts and airbags into the
river.

You broke the vow
when your nose blackened underneath
a dead battery. I pressed the pedal
into full shave, and my hair has not

recovered.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on August 21, 2008, 04:11:58 AM
No-o-o, my god IS Joe Strummer - it's his birthday today, incidentally. Plus, that leaves me with a nice neat St Paul and St Michael to boot ^.^
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: benmoody0220 on August 21, 2008, 01:33:22 PM
I'm gonna cut in here...I wrote this a few days ago...

"Traveling in Circles"

Traveling in circles, I don't know where I'm going.
Take a right, no maybe it's left.
No, I'm not alright,
Take me home, kiss goodnight,
Too much beer....tonight.

But that isn't the problem...
The problem is unsolvable,
It's become unthinkable.
Going right - hold me tight.

Traveling in circles, we should drive all night.
Just go straight, through red lights.
Take me home, turn out the lights,
And we'll fuck tonight,
Too much meth tonight.

But that isn't the problem...
The problem is unsolvable,
It's become unthinkable.
Going right - hold me tight.

- End
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 21, 2008, 03:19:44 PM
Hypatia
--------------


that old subordinate repression
has stolen the falcon's talons
and headed to the ocean with
gallons of plastic milk,
where the sand meets your dead
bones, rattling in a chamber pot
that once made you Speak.

what you offered is lost upon a
professor's desk, where Plato thinks
the blood is beating without fingers.
all of the rabid dogs are refusing
water in fear, and we will vote the
earth itself out,

whipped over the shoulder of the moon
in a knapsack and forgotten. i bid you
farewell, knowing a mob is forming
its mosquito lances, and as for me,
i'll be the first to fall when that old
time religion demands Delilah to sell
her last garnet.

we've dug in, and you've dug in under
papers and dusty brows. they're talking
about CO2 emissions from computers,
and the Industrial Age pumps its fist
in the air, making a spectacular gas
chamber for those

nephews. cousins. distant pavilions.
before i am attacked for being a hyena
in a lion's musical, i've got garbage to
throw out.

and that includes you.
again.
your hair trampled and spread out
over a vase in green preludes...
the mammals are bolting the doors.
those who are aware of death
have stopped speaking
from the top.

instead. there are drawers full of
dirty sparrows, those old dinosaurs
as Stable as shifting continents.
a plague of tidal waves washes over
your dead skin pieces
and keeps one molecule
in a pan.

i need a smoke when thinking of it.
and so do you, fallen female
upstart.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 21, 2008, 04:05:58 PM
there is a finish line for the
chronically pain-ridden,
and it starts with you slapping
the side of your head at a concert,
pulling your hair out on a table
where the physician scratches
his pinky and prepares the injections.

where you lost your chance
at becoming a Professor begins in
a car ride where the green light
slips off its nightgown and sits
on the edge of the bed waiting...
no, not a stroke.
but some rotten tomatoes are
falling around your eye,
where the permanent ice pick
keeps its backhoe ready for
service.

seven years later you take out
the sheets of a swallowed and
void checkbook,
glaring over you is the ovaries
they've sold to customs. two
hernia repairs are just barely holding
your glass-cup bowels together.
approximately fifty hospital visits
are bleeding down your back,
and the pills are utterly devoid
of promise.

triglyceride and cholesterol beasts
are waving their flags on the fallible
heart plugs. three cancerous moles
dance in E minor against the batch
of newborns they are feeding,
and you are alone in your parent's
house.

you have been proclaimed a territory
for gambling entrepreneurs.
no job will take your smells inside of
their promised HMO dossiers.
no friends are left except the line
of electric fence Cons that love
you for what

you might be.
one last resort is to snip the branch
in the back of the head and let the
face fall into a tin can,
halfway smiling,
you are ready to kill ether,
but inhale its cousins
into that red pin cushion
kept for quilting.

the shadow of attempted flights
out of the country
tear up the passport
and birth certificate,
saying finally,

finally.
ultimately.
you should be dead.
you have made it this far out
of aluminum baking,
only to find there is no way
to clean the oven

spitting out on an intercom
right next to your brain.
one step too far,
and the deed
rests its feet on a coffee table.
your ashes will Be.
your ashes will Succumb.
your ashes will roll around inside
someone else's dresser --

that black anesthetic light
turns over the page
and is shocked.
repulsed.

shhh.
shhh.
shhh.



HeeHaw.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on August 22, 2008, 11:01:52 PM

the typewriter is yawning
in the closet, where the thrown
"s" is coasting on one wedding
antique glass.
oh, such a loss of you

Poor little typer.  Still your baby, though, I'll bet.



I am
am I?
living someone
else's life,

my dreams
slipping in
and out again
with hardly
a ripple,

then to waking -
like a space worm
wriggling from
its suit, looking
for a good place
to bivouac

it isn't real,
my soul, nor the
silence taken
in measured doses.

it comes like
clockwork.
the sheer size
of the thing
paralyzes me.
it roars and struts
and tells me to
lie back and
take it.

I am dying the
death of no one
but me.
I ordered locks
because I've
grown used to
this security
and I'm afraid
of open doors.

I could say that
tomorrow I will
steal a key and
take a walk to
the fountain

I'll find a girl
there sitting on
its smooth edge
dangling her legs
impatient at the
dawdling pace I
adopted from some
other dream

 she will say
to me:  sleep
on the wind
take your dream
like a lover
stroke it 'til
it won't let
you go.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on August 23, 2008, 05:02:50 AM
I have one box left
for the invention of
fresh bits of birth.
There are two blinking
lights sighing out their
stretch mark yields,
and these i dangle from
the neck,
letting loose of feathers
and the plop into the infants,
or enfants'
rocker.

there is a breeze in the
pharmacy doorway,
where your former butt
quakes as you are unfolded.
the tissues have left for
Troy, the hiss of the Himalayas,
or a cottage in France.
wander to the locations
and find your fool's gold.

darling, i have only one
brain and heart,
but the sewing maching is
marching along a turnpike,
hooking out its thumb and
saying to a trucker:
"i need the Siamese tokens,
 but please turn up the stereo.
 you are about to finish the
 Directions."

on the back of a few skirts
there are zippers probing
the beetles dry,
and in the front of a cumberbun,
Helen waves the fishing ships
into her foyer and offers pudding.
in the morning you can have
All the ice cream sprinkles.

by noon I will have shaved
and given the toads in the yard
two tickets for a G rated movie.
one ashtray for some melted
chocolate.
three pairs of socks for Autumn.
one straw for cocaine.

take me with you dimpled girl.
open the can of pecans with
your shifting teeth.
take out a bow tie and throw
it into the clean lake,
watch closely now...

the waves are submitting
designs for evacuating clothes.
and here
a fissure rips off what's left,
and throws spring water
where the hearts were torn out
deep in South America,
a picture from my youth

will find your thumb.
I have left my breasts on
the chimney mantle,
where clever as book ends--
they do indeed jiggle without
force.
let go of the watermarks.
forgive the length of 'hello'.

sit down and eat the berries.
your knuckles will endure the
winding staircase of licorice sticks.
i cannot predict whether your
feet have met an Irish bog.
i can say for certain that my
name will conjoin on demand.
there is no way to offer
a triumphant march without
condolences.

but i will try to answer the
dubious nature of permanent
Press:
you can have the pieces of
the tubes,
but brass will be harder to find,
distinctive in taste,
and pocketed with amalgamated
Coins.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 05, 2008, 05:51:50 PM


I ran out.
One pill at a time,
like you're supposed
to.

I called the Dr.
More, please.
What a reliable pusher
he is.
So accommodating to my
needs.

Of course I have others!
Do you think me so
negligent
about something so
important?

But these are enough
to do the job.
Not that I have firm,
concrete plans you know.
Just in case.
Something to fall back on,
like a degree in economics
or teaching.
Just in case things just don't
work out.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 06, 2008, 06:06:05 AM

I arrived prematurely
with the midnight sun,
my heart already old,
beating contradictions
into my first breath.

The sun passed before
the moon and with it
one small soul taken
to the dark,
an ink blot lifted
without a trace of
its beginnings.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 07, 2008, 08:04:33 PM
devery that's very sly. i thought we had a new poster for a minute there! and was going to mention their poetry had a hint of yours in it. i loved both of them.

Just a hint of me?  I'll have to try harder next time.   :D  But...thanks!  By the way, Sarah, I love your new style.  The imagery reached out and grabbed me, and the ending was unexpected. 


My heart is still beating.
There is nothing else.
It is all I know.
It drowns out everything
that isn't you.

I can't hear the
waves on the shore, the
taxis honking and jockeying
for position, the person
talking next to me, the sun
ablaze with the wind
rustling through the trees
like a silent movie.

I will hold you darling.
My heart will teach you
its language.
There is nothing else.
There is nothing else
that matters.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 07, 2008, 10:39:41 PM
*dips foot back in water tentatively*

-------------

I sit across them
wrinkled, spotted
faded across the mind.

I imagine the men as boys,
as racing teenagers,
as college football players,
soft-spoken poets,
jazz musicians,
mad scientists,
as people I would have crushed on,
dated, loved, forgotten
only to be reminded later
by a stranded letter or email.

Now the men stumble,
look embarrassed,
forget the words I tell them,
and I worry about some,
about where they go home to,
whether there's someone,
someone like me
in fifty years,
someone who someone else
will imagine as the girl
who held these moments
until it all wrinkled,
and she, too, faded.
------
The next one needs a fair bit of work
------
juxtaposition

In light of others' conversation
I find angles of your face framed
by the words "strenuous" and "effervescent".

It did not surprise me then:
You are with child swimming inside
Soon to emerge, find the perfect corner.

How will he fit in this craziness
Born in the seconds of twilight
After the 2345th genius, before the rat killer.

Drop him in this frenzied world
You can only take so much care
Hope he'll find his place after it all.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 08, 2008, 01:43:25 AM


Musings!  It's great having you back.  The first one is perfect, the second one nearly so.  Can we expect to see you diving right back in, head first, more often?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: paper-doll on September 08, 2008, 07:20:12 AM
The first one is indeed perfection, well done :)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 08, 2008, 01:34:07 PM
Thank you, guys.  Devery, we shall see...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 08, 2008, 03:46:29 PM


translucent skin, a pile of
selfish bones, heart borrowed
from the trash-heap, screws
and pins jammed in at the
joints, a taped-on mouth
to keep the infectious puss
inside, propped up on the
curb with dead bodies like
carrion flowers, thieves taking
glass baubles from the pockets,
dogs come for the stink and
roll in them, a rare delicacy,
like alewives on the shore,

an eye-blink, dry, shaken, no
tears, limp hands unable to
hold or push, the mouth moves
silently against the teeth
and claws, bones pop and are
dragged off, finally the heart,

a sniff, a small taste, discarded
with other useless parts, night
cleans the sunlight with quiet
rain, the body washes itself for
scavenger reinforcements,
a last vestige of good manners.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 09, 2008, 09:58:57 AM
Tin Can

Blunder on the counter-top fingertip pie.
Pledge of receedence backwashed lie.
Pencil shaving coconut lipid meringue.
Sipping slow suicide time machine tang.
I want my tin can...

Side-stepping goose-necking wandering eyes.
Misty-eyed billboard drop shoe flies.
Regurgitation flowers in a mistletoe booth.
Anti-proliferation mouthwash blues.
Give me back my tin can...


Rocket prophylactic rain dance mine.
Tag-team braille kissing jellyfish spine.
Kick the can policy post-marital mail.
Feather in the cheddar the wisp of a whale.
Don't you take my tin can..
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: paper-doll on September 09, 2008, 10:43:38 AM
Context
I wrote about you today
I say as I lie for you / I lay for you
and spread my lips to form an ellipsis.

The mouth of the bottle shapes my words.
Is it love or vodka?  I know the answer
but it’s not snowing this time.

We are made of thorns, of robot parts,
and yet we are the pretty ones.
See how the sheets glow acid-bright?

You are not my deliverance,
but when I said that I will never need you
what I meant was that I have never needed you / more.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 10, 2008, 10:51:41 AM
    Flim Flam Bop

While weeping sticks break clanging ticks, the mustard is on the loose.
Man the can tin plan bends sharply, a prophet spent obtuse.
Big fat caboose at the end of his moose, haunted by his own whimper.
Whisper to the drone we are never alone, crumpled on his shoulder.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: paper-doll on September 11, 2008, 12:40:18 PM
   Flim Flam Bop

While weeping sticks break clanging ticks, the mustard is on the loose.
Man the can tin plan bends sharply, a prophet spent obtuse.
Big fat caboose at the end of his moose, haunted by his own whimper.
Whisper to the drone we are never alone, crumpled on his shoulder.

YOU ARE FUCKING AWESOME.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on September 11, 2008, 08:40:43 PM
aww thanks.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 16, 2008, 10:56:35 AM
This isn't about me.  I had to write it.  For someone dear.



I did not know such beauty
held unearthly rings
to raise me from my bed

you, a petal folding
over me, the soft tendrils
of your lips pull mine
towards
unfinished cartography

and open seas
holding us in lunar phase
until I see its double face
had blinded me with shadows

how cruel you are, to leave
me so undone by your
blender, your chainsaw,
your blood pushing through
my heart
like opened doors
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 16, 2008, 04:26:13 PM
that's beautiful devery

a sad and devastating beauty.  and I only used "and" once in this poem!  thanks, again, Sarah, I do appreciate it very much (also your comment on my poem from last week).

paper-doll:  it's been a long time since your last poem.  too long.  I really like your new one.

larry:  I'm liiiking! your new stuff.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 18, 2008, 09:50:59 PM
*thinks...jesus that bitch Devery has collapsed the last two pages...what an absolute tart!! and as for Sarah, my heart clinches over a letter to be written...and paper-doll, and the rest of you...you're a bunch of devastating wits in a twitching vessel i'm about to shake like a rubber dolly!!! you soiled and decent purveyors of lexicology!!"


christ...

take down the cathedral,
the pumps those catacombs wear.
a beard sliding down and trimmed
in blood,
no. certainly not a white man.
or a banker's novice swearing to
the tutted women swishing out
mean meat in the market square.
not a crucifix waiting for the
martyr, but the rapid thinking
dump tank where the bullies
poked their fingers inside
his ribs and solidly flat nose.

II.

more like a cage on some
dry and squalid sunrise,
where his fingers were pulled
by the weight of my reflexes.
it's Him on the shore of a
pristine lake with one bottle
tossed sideways into earth.
lapping at the water
like the good girl,
I shudder
announce,
reverse.

and trollop,
gliding his hand to wear
bras, underwear, dresses, and
tunics broken off in bits of raunchy
halos.
here i am
all hide and seek like that
blasphemous ribbon
tying our shoes together.
i'll be the man,
you the wife.

dinner,
this last one in particular,
spreads over oiled breads and
Angel hair pasta.
your favorite dish has left
me empty like the devil's plain
hat.
here we sit in silence,
playing at Victorian justices.
forgetting the pain.

where jesus
the idol of spears and plague,
enters the conversation
on a napkin embroidered
with the finest silk stitch.
"--let me accept those things..."

but we don't.
nor the price of the feast.
never the haughty host.
forget the best of war's books.
punch out the steam machines.
drive to meet the dusk,
and fail loosely and wrung out

like my cracked lips.
my soft belly lifting its lead.
my legs part and flex for myths,
my hands pull and startle in a movie.
my eyes pivot and prey over politics.
where i sweat at night is private like the
hush of a church...

my god.
jesus christ.

merciful mary
son of a bitch.

you've taken me

all the way

down.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 19, 2008, 08:56:36 PM
did you mean it,
without pumpkin lips
and the snowy cliff of
a hung brow.
drifting like an elephant's
muscular rubber hose
there was something
like taste down there.

i boiled my hand and
brought it to the table
of your delicate tummy,
turning the engines to
the side and inspecting
the knobs on your surface.
my mouth hungry for
dessert, my leg wrapped
around your skirts.

did you mean it.
taking my neck to the
dispensary. holding my hand
as they punched the tiny hole.
not there, i wondered
not where the clamp starts
bleeding out my spoiled
and dusty ovaries.

throwing kisses to the air
at terrorist repositories
where soon a banana was
purchased against the backs
of air conditioned greens.
while i trembled and stung
a line at the library as
research for oceanography
bridled and loosened a
plethora of indians and
cowboys.

did you mean it.
that we'd remain tied together
in a womb of fresh air and fires.
the sun would pour itself like
dainty pickles on our plates
and remind us of our skins
clutched and stalled on a
suburban hill.

waiting for the r.s.v.p.
flying through the tunnel,
i calmly sit upon my piggie-
butt. pull out the camera's
needle-nose and gather
the restless feet kicking
at your door,
saying "quiet" now.
a little bit of peace for
the pay of tonics.

hunch over the gullible
tears,
and figure out the diameter
of your iris at dinner,
during the bastardized sex,
during your coffee throat,
during salted relish.

did you mean it?
did you?
did it?
did.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Cheddars Cousin on September 20, 2008, 01:11:30 AM
<3

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 20, 2008, 04:50:33 AM
It is so good to have you back, jennifer, laying down your licks,
 as only you can do.  <3 x 5729!



I pictured: the first tentative
advance soft
and tender
as a schoolgirl
with nervous hands and
quavering lips

the whole sea once so
distant was laid
before you in a whispered
ceremony

wrapped
in threads of golden promises
still resounding
in the tunnel at the parting

clasped like a photo
for your wallet
proof that it was real
now
during the unraveling into
carving stones

and the howling quiet of
the severance
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: paper-doll on September 20, 2008, 05:17:54 AM
I think nobody is saying anything because we are intimidated by your Awesome.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 20, 2008, 03:48:04 PM
Here are a few.  Not my best but suggestions are welcome:

This I pass everyday:
a CVS, a church, a garden.
"Come worship", the sign on the CVS says.
"Condoms in Pew 12," the church offers.
The garden needn't advertise at all --
I pick the flowers, put them in my tub,
dance naked under the steady stream of water
----------------------
I dreamt the same dream you
dreamt on the train:
yes, that black and white one
in the park in Lyon.
You walked right past me,
and I would have waved,
but I didn't know you then,
didn't think to stop a stranger
in a park.

Next time, let's have coffee:
I know this place by the water,
and we can exchange scraps of paper
with nothing written on them,
gossip about the people we know
in the day.

But you're still snoring now,
a wet spot on your shirt
your book similarly loose-jawed
across your lap,
and my stop's coming up after New York.

Maybe I'll see you on the way back.
------
Let's be quiet for a while.
Turn off the music,
close our eyes, sink
into this nothingness.

Let's empty our heads,
cut thoughts free
one by one by one
and let them drift
into the clouds
and disappear,

let our heads go too,
newfound weightlessness,
travel above it all,
nothing below us
but disembodiment
from all of this.

What is this?
The little thoughts
of grocery lists,
the bigger ones
of work and news,
the gargantuan ones
of love and death,
let's lose them all,
and stay, like this:
quiet.
----------

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 20, 2008, 07:17:10 PM
I really like the dream section.  You did a good job of drawing the reader into the dream and described it very well.  The ending "maybe I'll see you on the way back" was enough to allow the reader to imagine the continuation of the poem/dream without actually saying it.  I often, though not always, prefer the reading between the lines, or under them, or after them, and not have everything spelled out or described.

The last section got my attention even more than the preceding one.  Upon a first reading, I thought that there should be something beyond the "and stay like this:  quiet".  After reading it again, however, I asked "what more can be or need be said?"  Answer:  Nothing.  It's a perfect ending.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on September 21, 2008, 06:00:10 PM
Thanks for the comments, Devery!

Yeah, they all need a fair amount of work.  The dream poem is part of a longer poem called "Footprints of a Sleepwalker" that I've been on and off again playing with for a few years now, whenever I remember about it.  In fact, I think I posted the first part of that poem as one of my first poems in this thread.

I actually feel like the ending of the last poem is the way it should be: hushed, but the lines leading up to that, especially the 3 stanza need work.  Ah well, someday I'll take that one out for revision as well.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Andy Pants on September 23, 2008, 10:11:15 PM
Secret Window


I'd like to put a window in an art gallery
And hang a frame around it.

Then when you walk past
I'll grab you by the shoulders and scream.

Then when I'm done screaming,
And you're done being terrified,

I'll laugh hysterically.

Until you punch me in the face.

Then I'll apologise profusely for the whole affair.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 24, 2008, 12:58:04 AM
I am impressed. Like a bitch in heat, Devery, I hate you sooo much for your latest. (you actually made me cry and you know i hate that) Musings. I agree with Devery, basically--as the third poem has the most punch for me. Just as Devery is a sort of master at leaving an air of mystery behind even Those Lengthy Tedious Poems...I tend to be for...about 2-3 styles. The third one, Musings, is succinct in the correct areas, drawing the reader In. I like succinct if it Draws. The first one is missing more adjectives, and Could be something spectacular if worked into a dialogue of sorts. I'm going on too long. I have a bad habit. Andy Pants just wrote something of a tidy poem, which could be called a "statement" poem, yet it's so short that there is a certain charm in it. (my opinions are only mine--who am I to judge?) So. If I had a hat right now, it'd be off. What other style do I like? Mid to late Sexton. Unlike Devery, who is a first class twit, I sometimes need a Lot of juicy and jarring adjectives/metaphors galore. (did you like that?)


--------------------------------------------------
the battered wife creams up the folio
nice and tight as desks and permission.
she is lying on a coffin rambling about
wicked water bottles growing parched.

the thief knocks on a parish gate
laying down jaw breaker sickles.
he is crammed into a dossier's fist--
liars picking garbage on the freeways.

the butcher dilates and prods the fish eye
out upon the liver's barren comfort.
there are stripped viscera dancing a jig--
steamy ballots, forgotten at the poles.

something tinkles in your knapsack--
under Your dresser are the syringes.
self-absorbed avarice turns home on
the jobless, detrimental, cretin triumphs.


the boss is funding projects for the poor,
where the shacks find beer cans adrift.
pull off the veneer and suits disembowel
right below the vines where people swing



All necks broken
after being slapped.
All bruises pinched
on bathroom doors.
All your efforts
absorbed above.





---------------------------------------I can't FINISH a damn one of these. I'm lugubrious.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 24, 2008, 01:13:24 AM
she brought the dumbest thong
and the garbage bag for tidying
up the after effects of affection.
but it wasn't like that around the
entire house, which settled in a
moan.

she kissed the cups and placed
them carefully upon the bed's
chamber pot. i went down on
her like two bookends and made
a bet against the windowpane's
hissing and folding breasts. i was
belittled, told her the winter ice
soothes.

she broke the key inside my ugly
chin with a torpedo that cackles.
i stripped down to my socks and
sent letters of intention or regret
to her furnished dwelling--there
only her teats would show how
to fuck like magnets on a fridge.
did i think once that i'd whisper
I love you
to That?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 25, 2008, 03:49:20 PM
PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

GAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!


a folder just became zipped. that means locked, doesn't it? I hate my 'puter and will write an Ode to it soon. But I can't compete with what you just wrote. Keep doing it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: CeeGBee on September 25, 2008, 04:40:32 PM
PPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP!

GAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!


a folder just became zipped. that means locked, doesn't it? I hate my 'puter and will write an Ode to it soon. But I can't compete with what you just wrote. Keep doing it.
Just unzip it....   (ya know, that sounds kinda dirty if ya read it right...)

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 26, 2008, 12:15:54 AM
I am impressed. Like a bitch in heat, Devery, I hate you sooo much for your latest. (you actually made me cry and you know i hate that) Musings. I agree with Devery, basically--as the third poem has the most punch for me. Just as Devery is a sort of master at leaving an air of mystery behind even Those Lengthy Tedious Poems...I tend to be for...about 2-3 styles. The third one, Musings, is succinct in the correct areas, drawing the reader In. I like succinct if it Draws. The first one is missing more adjectives, and Could be something spectacular if worked into a dialogue of sorts. I'm going on too long. I have a bad habit. Andy Pants just wrote something of a tidy poem, which could be called a "statement" poem, yet it's so short that there is a certain charm in it. (my opinions are only mine--who am I to judge?) So. If I had a hat right now, it'd be off. What other style do I like? Mid to late Sexton. Unlike Devery, who is a first class twit, I sometimes need a Lot of juicy and jarring adjectives/metaphors galore. (did you like that?)


--------------------------------------------------
the battered wife creams up the folio
nice and tight as desks and permission.
she is lying on a coffin rambling about
wicked water bottles growing parched.

the thief knocks on a parish gate
laying down jaw breaker sickles.
he is crammed into a dossier's fist--
liars picking garbage on the freeways.

the butcher dilates and prods the fish eye
out upon the liver's barren comfort.
there are stripped viscera dancing a jig--
steamy ballots, forgotten at the poles.

something tinkles in your knapsack--
under Your dresser are the syringes.
self-absorbed avarice turns home on
the jobless, detrimental, cretin triumphs.


the boss is funding projects for the poor,
where the shacks find beer cans adrift.
pull off the veneer and suits disembowel
right below the vines where people swing



All necks broken
after being slapped.
All bruises pinched
on bathroom doors.
All your efforts
absorbed above.





---------------------------------------I can't FINISH a damn one of these. I'm lugubrious.




In a world where hate means love, always in an air of mystery,  I'm just delighted!   :love3:  And, at least I'm a first-class something.  I'll call this ^ The Great Unfinished Poem About Thieves and Butchers, Drugs and Cretins, and The Veneer of Disembowelment Wrapped up in Neat (Sweet?)  Box of Broken Necks.

she brought the dumbest thong
and the garbage bag for tidying
up the after effects of affection.
but it wasn't like that around the
entire house, which settled in a
moan.

she kissed the cups and placed
them carefully upon the bed's
chamber pot. i went down on
her like two bookends and made
a bet against the windowpane's
hissing and folding breasts. i was
belittled, told her the winter ice
soothes.

she broke the key inside my ugly
chin with a torpedo that cackles.
i stripped down to my socks and
sent letters of intention or regret
to her furnished dwelling--there
only her teats would show how
to fuck like magnets on a fridge.
did i think once that i'd whisper
I love you
to That?

This one is plain and true and graphically, bitterly and brilliantly dark.  It made me cry; sorry that mine did the same for you.  But, that's poetry for you.  No point in taking that road less traveled when the one you're on is crying out for some equal time and for a little sense to be made out of a senseless situation. And, even perhaps a bit of relief.  And, yeah, I dug the "juicy and jarring adjectives/metaphors galore." in both of them.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 26, 2008, 02:16:30 AM
Roses are red
Violets are sties
All of you suck
Especially I
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 26, 2008, 04:52:48 AM
Roses are red
Violets are butts
Practice, dead
I've been fucked.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Golly Mina! on September 26, 2008, 06:45:23 AM
Roses are red
Violets are sties
All of you suck
Especially I


Good one ;D
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 26, 2008, 11:03:49 AM
My roses are dead.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: SomewhatDamaged on September 26, 2008, 03:03:15 PM
My roses are dead.

Try fertilizer, there is enough about on the box.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 27, 2008, 08:40:11 AM
Jennifer and Devery's IM Poem

9-26-08


Poeticalnessousity



the downtrodden canteloupe
draws a bead on the blank crowd staring in its direction
spinoza sits upon a tree's edge.
then it slumbers off in a wasteland of knuckles
jammed...
into the corderoy joylessness of the ennui suits
that claimed it as their own
the brass heathens blustered
forming an
escalating!
bilge pump
where lipstick corderoys snacked on
little crackers made of tinfoil
to ease the rampant malaise......

and decidedly ungodly vibrations
of a minion
or a million separate touch torpedos
lodged inside the bookcase
jiggling the foul pestilence
with taciturn
waterless air vessels streaming
up the ramparts
ratcheted sanguinely and deep
on the lower hoists of hell!!!!!!

the dyslexicon of wenches
caught every eye and fingers twitched
staging
not a coupe but a corpse
blinded next to
virginal meanderings

but it was cumbersome,
quickly shedded
underneath the gadgets
held firmly in stark pliers
fisted in the rudest consternation
and petted, after, as a sort of grace
and atonement


infinitely dismal
coaxing gorgeous hairs upon the bodice
ripping and waxing..
one bold thigh cupped
on a vacillating, control mechanism of
lips covering the jets' bare
sheen

exhaling
the knocked up foyer
in stitlted crescendos
ruined and festering capitulating
conversations in curtainless rooms
and ancient dust to draw our names
hiding underneath the doormat, bulging, obtuse,
a veritable
feast for the scrivenor

laying toes in cannisters
re-capitulating
whistling
quartering
pounding all expectations
barreling and magnanimous
into small, even desires
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on September 27, 2008, 10:02:55 AM
My roses are dead.

Try fertilizer, there is enough about on the box.

Ooh, what a bitch!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: SomewhatDamaged on September 27, 2008, 12:22:01 PM
My roses are dead.

Try fertilizer, there is enough about on the box.

Ooh, what a bitch!

Bitchy, yes.
Truthful, absolutly!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on September 27, 2008, 02:10:04 PM
My roses are dead.

Try fertilizer, there is enough about on the box.

Ooh, what a bitch!

Bitchy, yes.
Truthful, absolutly!

Is "absolutly" even better than "absolutely"? And besides, you're just jealous cos there's no WAY you could cram as much angst into one post as our Boxy comrades here.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 27, 2008, 05:44:11 PM
My roses are dead.

Try fertilizer, there is enough about on the box.

I'm not seeing it.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: SomewhatDamaged on September 28, 2008, 06:38:44 AM
My roses are dead.

Try fertilizer, there is enough about on the box.

Ooh, what a bitch!

Bitchy, yes.
Truthful, absolutly!

Is "absolutly" even better than "absolutely"? And besides, you're just jealous cos there's no WAY you could cram as much angst into one post as our Boxy comrades here.

I never said anything about the poems, im talking in general.

My roses are dead.

Try fertilizer, there is enough about on the box.

I'm not seeing it.

Then you are not looking hard enough.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 28, 2008, 06:45:08 AM
Point me in the right direction, because I'm looking everywhere.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: SomewhatDamaged on September 28, 2008, 06:50:23 AM
Point me in the right direction, because I'm looking everywhere.

Your an intelligent man & im not dumb enough to directly refer to what im talking about.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on September 28, 2008, 06:58:23 AM
Well, it was an honest statement.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on September 28, 2008, 07:59:11 AM
i chuck up the equivalent of the hot dog.
it was in itself, a treat, as it was unexpected.
what some would call 'surprise' - but that sounds
like a birthday. can it.
i hit the toilet lid, and am disposed to sit back after.
this is one squalid affair. one attack of the body.
'attack' isn't the right word. scrap it.
my lover-partner-ex is about to creep in and
throw up her hands as if that means anything.
i am on the tile floor. you've been there. you
understand. i'll play black jack. spades.
you can demand that i cease. 'cease' isn't the
right word. bolt your door.

the addict pushes you to another room.
'i'll clean this up. jesus Christ!' you are lighting
the fire on a cheap sheet designed to
resist acid rain. but crumple in a second.
'second' isn't the right word. are you hanging
on? don't.
paper towels are brought by your face.
it means nothing to the digestive system.
here is the failure of the nerves to execute
with proper force. here is the bomb shelter.
get in and die anyway. evaporate. hungry?
'hungry' isn't the correct term. neither is
'correct'. the right word lingers in the
bags of temporal lobes making you feel.
put it in the recycling bin.

your mouth opens in sorrow, but there
are insufficient funds. she barks and--
knocked to the floor. the legs actually
become something as the war starts.
except you can't afford the gun.
preparation is key. 'key' sucks. drop it.
grab anything as you plant your feet.
yell. scream. she is doing it as well.
how it has come to this, is understood.
it is documented even in movies.
the fickle foible. being short with hips,
the only deadly force you can inflict
is directly into the knees from a tackle.
make that the thighs too. 'too' isn't
proper. now you are throttled by the
neck and swinging shirt. pinch.

locked out of your dwelling. now ram
at the door with everything you have.
'let me in!' to be fair, the parents are
paying for the lover. the one inside.
inside the squeezed walls. on the trigger.
i just talked about sex. that is really
where everything starts. it becomes a
raw deal. 'raw' isn't the right word.
fuck you.

the cops come. sixty cars and twelve
belts. words will get you nowhere.
the floor collects drool from your brow.
your partner is explaining a mistake.
the jail is full and pills are on their way.
it is amazing what one can get away
with. especially if they refuse to take
you to a hospital. restrain everything.
lockdown. 'amazing' doesn't work out.
neither does 'groovy' or 'foxy'. but
you have never been this turned on.

the ride to the pharmacy happens
inside a 3,000 dollar car. it's yours.
leave the addict to drive. she complains.
i think of the hot dog. i think of tile.
i think of legs. i think of how quickly
i could turn the car over if i clutch
the steering wheel and turn hard.
at the drug store. waiting in the car.
traveling up the throat is acid. 'acid'
doesn't mean anything to you.
put it on your tongue, but not
backwards there. that will be the

second or worst mistake of your life.
no. the mistake started with that
first kiss. smooch. lip-lock. peck.
a whiff of clean air hits the cortex
as the car door opens. this is the
third or fourth error your judgement
has made. 'judgement' sounds like
shit. so is writing. so is breathing.
living.

why forcefeed the coma or senior?
but something like a dose of alcohol
shaped in tiny green bugs. your mouth
is opened and the insertion begins.
i told you this was about sex. if you
have come this far. if you have even
tried. 'tried' is only useful if said after
'i' --this is just plain silly. nutty. ha.
green turned to yellow in a parking
lot, and that is art at its best. but
the seatbelt wins. it actually wins.
it actually saves your life. it is
un-fucking-believable.

maybe it was ten. it was a multiple
of 5. the woman is upset enough
not to share this time. the woman
bleeds every single month. you refuse
to eat it. that is far too picky.
put the aluminum in that mouth and
start chewing. it is a little like what
i am asking you to do. this is not
a love poem. it 'works' and it does
not.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on September 28, 2008, 11:16:44 PM
i chuck up the equivalent of the hot dog.
it was in itself, a treat, as it was unexpected.
what some would call 'surprise' - but that sounds
like a birthday. can it.
i hit the toilet lid, and am disposed to sit back after.
this is one squalid affair. one attack of the body.
'attack' isn't the right word. scrap it.
my lover-partner-ex is about to creep in and
throw up her hands as if that means anything.
i am on the tile floor. you've been there. you
understand. i'll play black jack. spades.
you can demand that i cease. 'cease' isn't the
right word. bolt your door.

the addict pushes you to another room.
'i'll clean this up. jesus Christ!' you are lighting
the fire on a cheap sheet designed to
resist acid rain. but crumple in a second.
'second' isn't the right word. are you hanging
on? don't.
paper towels are brought by your face.
it means nothing to the digestive system.
here is the failure of the nerves to execute
with proper force. here is the bomb shelter.
get in and die anyway. evaporate. hungry?
'hungry' isn't the correct term. neither is
'correct'. the right word lingers in the
bags of temporal lobes making you feel.
put it in the recycling bin.

your mouth opens in sorrow, but there
are insufficient funds. she barks and--
knocked to the floor. the legs actually
become something as the war starts.
except you can't afford the gun.
preparation is key. 'key' sucks. drop it.
grab anything as you plant your feet.
yell. scream. she is doing it as well.
how it has come to this, is understood.
it is documented even in movies.
the fickle foible. being short with hips,
the only deadly force you can inflict
is directly into the knees from a tackle.
make that the thighs too. 'too' isn't
proper. now you are throttled by the
neck and swinging shirt. pinch.

locked out of your dwelling. now ram
at the door with everything you have.
'let me in!' to be fair, the parents are
paying for the lover. the one inside.
inside the squeezed walls. on the trigger.
i just talked about sex. that is really
where everything starts. it becomes a
raw deal. 'raw' isn't the right word.
fuck you.

the cops come. sixty cars and twelve
belts. words will get you nowhere.
the floor collects drool from your brow.
your partner is explaining a mistake.
the jail is full and pills are on their way.
it is amazing what one can get away
with. especially if they refuse to take
you to a hospital. restrain everything.
lockdown. 'amazing' doesn't work out.
neither does 'groovy' or 'foxy'. but
you have never been this turned on.

the ride to the pharmacy happens
inside a 3,000 dollar car. it's yours.
leave the addict to drive. she complains.
i think of the hot dog. i think of tile.
i think of legs. i think of how quickly
i could turn the car over if i clutch
the steering wheel and turn hard.
at the drug store. waiting in the car.
traveling up the throat is acid. 'acid'
doesn't mean anything to you.
put it on your tongue, but not
backwards there. that will be the

second or worst mistake of your life.
no. the mistake started with that
first kiss. smooch. lip-lock. peck.
a whiff of clean air hits the cortex
as the car door opens. this is the
third or fourth error your judgement
has made. 'judgement' sounds like
shit. so is writing. so is breathing.
living.

why forcefeed the coma or senior?
but something like a dose of alcohol
shaped in tiny green bugs. your mouth
is opened and the insertion begins.
i told you this was about sex. if you
have come this far. if you have even
tried. 'tried' is only useful if said after
'i' --this is just plain silly. nutty. ha.
green turned to yellow in a parking
lot, and that is art at its best. but
the seatbelt wins. it actually wins.
it actually saves your life. it is
un-fucking-believable.

maybe it was ten. it was a multiple
of 5. the woman is upset enough
not to share this time. the woman
bleeds every single month. you refuse
to eat it. that is far too picky.
put the aluminum in that mouth and
start chewing. it is a little like what
i am asking you to do. this is not
a love poem. it 'works' and it does
not.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Damn!!   Finally.  I have been waiting a long time for you to write this.  It is indeed a masterwork of the highest order.  We both knew it was there - inside you - and now here it is in all its honest and brilliant glory.  A knockout!  Beautifully and perfectly done.   :love5: d.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Steppenwolf on October 01, 2008, 07:05:39 PM
Ok.Here goes.It`s a very recent one.I feel I can do much better though.

Dualty

Through the lotus leaves
I could see your face/
His face covered in thick mud
As he lay down
Hands holding onto
Liquid ground
The weight of our age
Resting in his palms
As he and I,we hinged on
`Til the evening tide
`Til sweat gushed from our skin
and turned
into
That single
flow of life.
The one force of nature
That should,NO!
Must be
Praised
Worshipped
Followed.
..as we rose and tore
Our thick bodies toward
The ends of the earth
I saw your face
Your full
Quivering lips
That pale skin
Your fingers
As you played
The organ
Of my life...
Passion
Anger
Sentiment
Despair
...On my back
Through all
The layers
Protecting me
The eyes
That render me
Speechless...
Gobsmacked
Dismantling me
Completely.


Shut them tight
And dream
Of me.

Bear the crutches
Of my soul

...and now I can breathe again.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: I wrestle with my brain. on October 09, 2008, 02:35:52 PM
Okay old stuff from my notebook :P
This one doesnt have a name, I wrote it when I was drunk  :-\


Falling apart at the seams
She's clinging on to her liquid dreams
Are you real or is this a joke
I'll never remember a word that you spoke

Room is spinning
Winning is fake
Waiting for you to say
I was a mistake

Oh God, nothing's as good as it seems!
Countdown clock (tick tock tick tock)
I'm lying on the railway in advance
Tie myself up because I know there's no chance
you'll stay anyway

I'm tired of being the victim
But im hating the flipside of this
It's not all worth a half-hearted sin
when all I want now is one final kiss

 :headbang: lmao
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: I wrestle with my brain. on October 09, 2008, 02:44:01 PM
Simon Says

I'm not complaining
But I'm pretty confused
Should I feel wanted
Should I feel used?
I'm trying to anchor my hopes and my dreams
The thread's tied to the bedpost and between the seams
Of the mattress we lay on.

Whispers and games, now I'm not naming names but
(I love you, I love you, I-)
I kind of miss you
I'd walk through the night
A thousand more times
Just to wake you and hide you
And do this again

It means nothing
but it's my favourite scene
Of the movie that's rolling
Clickboards inbetween
The lacing of fingers, of lips and of legs
Simon Says we're all androids
Simon Says, Simon Says...

Visions are blurry
You hand'sunder my face
We need to hurry
Let's pick up the pace
The rules have been bent and you're making me fall
Simon Says we're alone now
Simon Says nothing at all...
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on October 09, 2008, 06:29:46 PM
This one doesnt have a name, I wrote it when I was drunk  :-\



It shows...

The second one could become something with a little more work.  It's a good concept.




Planning my triumphal return
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lil' lindsay on October 10, 2008, 01:08:23 AM
splash of red

candy walked beneath the factories
late night puddles honoring the last remaining security lights
with piercing reflection
she sure could walk in heels
in all the black and gray she was a flash of red
some nasty troll watching from a bombed out warehouse
thought it quite an event that car
that other splash of red in the night
he hated his shoes and he hated puddles
but he wanted to walk where she'd walked
factories and warehouses gave way to overpasses and parking garages
he saw that splash or red again
the full moon white and midnight blue
highway silhouette black and headlamp orange
except them goddam xenon blue motherfuckers
a splash of red
there's that car again
kicking up a rooster tail of broken glass and gravel
a fountain of urban decay's geology
wonder if he let her off there
if he only had a fifty
crunching was quite a feat for his age soft walking shoes
he let her off alright
a splash of red
gritty wet dress cast into a shadow
but a splash of red
still
her last splash
splash of red pouring out into the night
guess he wont be needing that fifty
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on October 10, 2008, 09:07:51 AM
You are wise beyond your years.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on October 10, 2008, 02:04:01 PM
The Great Depression?

I feel

that

finally

an enormous weight
has been lifted
onto my shoulders.

Closing fast on forty

I find
my back is strong
but
my spirit is weak.

I don't have the cash
for a fast car.

I don't have it in me
to seek escape
in strange beds.

Instead,
I took up smoking
again.

It's not much comfort,
except
that first one in the morning.

still,

I pull drags- unsatisfied
from each cigarette
as if it contained
my Mother's
unconditional
love.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on October 10, 2008, 05:14:50 PM
Goddam, Wyatt.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: 85283-071 on October 10, 2008, 10:28:21 PM
It could use some tweaking. She's only nine though.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Great Ma Chao on October 11, 2008, 02:05:58 AM
With the mind of a whore, no less.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: nottheonethatscrazy on October 12, 2008, 11:30:01 AM
All of my shizz is untitled.

First One

Not to distress you
But I'm not trying to impress you
It's just when you look at me
When your pupils reach the place where I see
The liquid, limpid center of chocolate, of burnt umber
All the things I said and thought to keep my head become a blur and I'm encumbered
By you
And I thought that it could never happen, that I'd never be so completely lost
That there would never be a time when I had no more words to exhaust

Because they told me it'd be wrong
That it wasn't okay to prolong
Things that aren't perpetually strong

But I've always wanted to ask
Does it feel good in abysmal oblivion?
And I've always wanted to ask
Does it feel good to split skin?
So let me ask
Does it hurt to let your mind spin?
I just want to ask
Does it get loud with walls that are so thin?

My mind plays games to distort you
Your voice turns from euphonious to
Nothing but firm tones
Nothing but cruel
My eyes play games to distort you
Your face turns from clear-cut features and soft lines to
Nothing but rough
Nothing but hard and cool

And I've wanted for so long to reach inside you
To feel what's inside you
As I'm tied to you
And I've wanted for so long to bleed into you
To bleed with you
To watch as it imbues through you

And I can't quite explain my current situation
The yearning for complete domination
The unexplained excessive salvation
The pure euphoric ongoing sedation
The sporadic feeling of desperation
These feelings of utter infatuation

The perfect raw sienna that my teeth surround
All the secrets that are yet to be found
Polar hands intertwine
Long fingers reaching back to feel mine  


Second One

You taste so good
I can taste you and you're
Bitter
Sweet
And you burn so well
I can see my saliva run down your thighs
And they quiver
Is it for me?
I'll make it for me
I hope you can feel my fingers in your eye sockets
I've always wanted to hurt you, I just didn't know how
And I've held my hands off from touching you for too long
I want to turn you on just to feel your body against mine
I want you to bruise from my fists and I
Want you to watch as I kiss each and every one of your injuries
I want my lipstick to stain you red and I
Want you to feel full when I'm done
I want to tear into you
Just so you know what it feels like when you look at me
My breath warms your skin and you're
Writhing
Like I've always done
And I would like to pull your hair out
Strand by strand so you'd scream
And it would hit the walls and bounce off
So this time
It would be for me
Would you let me tie you up?
Marionette
I'd love to play with you until you can't breathe
Because I thought sensory deprivation was your thing
My lips would find your mouth and you'd feel the heat
That you need to feel
'Love' won't leave my lips
Even though it presses against my teeth and threatens
To break them


Third One

Your scent finds it's way into me
Like always
Creeping up
Into my nostrils like smoke
Filling my lungs
There's nothing left when you leave

It's euphoric
Savage, almost
Ushering it eagerly into my open mouth
It's exclusive
My poison is exquisite

It comes out
In wisps
In huge clouds
Passing through my lips with such haste
The frantic gulps I take can't bring it back in
My chest is vacant
Filled with a void  


Fourth One

Grunts and sighs break through gritted teeth
My speech is fragmented
Distortion has taken over and it's
Broken
You don't seem to understand

For one moment, it's
Perfect
Bone against bone
Hips rising and falling
And I want to
Feel you
I want to know all the things
You keep hidden

Tired and exhausted, I crawl into your lap
To wrap my arms around your waist
It's distinct
Tangible, as I lick my lips
Your taste has stained my tongue


Fifth One

Fists connect with flesh
In slow motion I can see you
In the flickers of light
That are stationed before my eyes

Gasping disguises the laughter
That's mounting within my stomach
Sickness disguises the hunger
That threatens my euphoria

I'm swallowing pavement in vast gulps like air
My lungs are becoming heavy
As they rise and fall in my chest
My face drains of color
Yet it only means I'm darker
Blinking up to look at the stars
And bleeding out unwillingly

Faces are splitting in two
Grins spreading wide across dirt-stained lips
Fingers rake across my visage
A subtle sense of horror
As they feel me
As they hear my laughter
And whisper:
It's okay to feel like this


That was definitely some shameless self promotion.
 O0
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: lifeisnocabaret on October 13, 2008, 10:16:53 PM
hello all. sorry i've been absent from the box for so long.
i have a few new poems....
keep in mind these aren't really finished

Go
life's too short to hold grudges
life's too short to be pissed off
life's too short to be a bitch
what am i waiting for?
what are you waiting for?
what are we waiting for?
let's just go
go go go
because life's too short to have regrets


Untitled
i wish you remembered
the things you said
the things you did
the things you wanted to do
but it's just the same as before
nothing is different
you'll never change
and
i'll never change
we're stuck

it's
a
mind
fuck
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Indja on October 14, 2008, 07:04:12 AM
That's it, I'm becoming a nun

The bent girls are all bitches
The nice girls are all straight
The single boys are charmless
And the charming boys are gay.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 14, 2008, 08:20:49 AM


You're in Dorothy Parker territory now, miss ninja.

A+
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 14, 2008, 11:28:12 AM
Dorothy Parker!  Miss Ninja has much to offer us...
Devery. You are so overdue, that the library has shut down and sent you hate mail. Your two-bit contributions are an abject self-pity fest, whereas mine are imbued with the best Frost ever wrote. Try writing something in iambic pentameter, or perhaps consult "The Poetry Dictionary" before you come back.  :coolsmiley:



i was three.
she popped off a lid.
poured a favorite potion.
took the required smokes.
hopped in the car and headed
for the deadly nightshade--
Blue.
perhaps the game Scrabble
was somewhere in a closet,
the board decomposing.
the letters tumbling and
lapping against a beaver's dam.
the typewriter had dug itself
a foxhole, peeking cowardly
out to watch a trumpet
eat bacon.

there was no note left.
what would be the point
when sound and miracles
of soap have drained?
even flying down the stairs
to pinch faces into pity,
even sulking at dinner
where food rested in its
putrid Fall colors.
there is no allure for any
action once a reaction
has been confirmed.
lab rats pronounced the
edict the same.

they say if you've tried it.
failed. the chances for
you to succeed rise down.
shuttle buses will wrap
their long arms around a
tornado. offer perspective.
where she landed,
the face would be immune
to the drone of lightbulbs.
each bra could be burned.
this last masturbation,
a call to lions around
the globe.
the kind of rumbling bass
line one feels through soil.

a deck of seagulls lost
their eyes at a casino.
a pair of roses shaved off
their thorns and clamored in 
shelter. the salvation army
raised its honking bells to
the sky, and soiled itself.
a single hornet told the rest
to take a vacation from
religious tenets.
past notes pry, ambivalent
about their voting record.
she had taken scissors to
the marriage, and released
the vacuum hose from her
daughters' hairs.

with enough time in a garage.
a few enlightened chorus girls
start teaching the alphabet.
there is mockery under gables,
and jello in steel tubes.
foundations themselves meet
fault lines with one hand
behind their backs. treacle
is served raw, running the
silent slaughterhouse.
she clicked off the engine
to let Hansel and Gretel
write their own screenplay.
she clicked on the engine
to finish one last poem.

i was three.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on October 14, 2008, 01:13:05 PM
Eric

Eric is the new guy-
Maintenance division supervisor.

He sold his own business
because
he didn't want to work anymore.

I guess he got his wish.

He runs around
headless chicken style,
Spouting three dollar words
Now worth about a buck fifty.

Maybe less
since he doesn't know what they mean.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: mangosta on October 14, 2008, 08:46:20 PM
Rob, that made me laugh. =]
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Demitrious Pious on October 15, 2008, 02:18:36 PM
Lord, Have Mercy On My Soul

half past six,
open my eyes,
turn off that banshee,
she released me,
from myself.

attempt to walk,
don't dare try to talk,
don't know what I'd say?
actually,
I think I do...

Why Didn't you make Coffee!!!!

meander into the bathroom,
ew...
Is that what I look like?
majorska still bitter sweet,
If I don't brush my teeth,
I'll be inebreated,
in about two seconds,
Hun!?
where's my toothbrush?
Under the sink?
You're so strange...

Goddess this feels good,
so warm,
such liquid,
should be patented,
by divinity herself.

scrub scrub scrub,
rub a dub,
whistle whistle roar,
that burns...
too hot!!!
too hot!!!
thats better...

i'm not hungry,
thanks though.
scrambled eggs,
like my brain,
I guess I'll drive to work,
hope I make it.

where are my keys,
scruffie!
Scruffie!
Give Daddy his keys!
stupid cat...

figures,
some schmuck,
just had to hit another car,
now I'll sit here,
and sit here,
in an impromptu parking lot,
my car,
rumbles like a car shot,
hope it makes it another three feet.

I know sir!
I know I'm late!
my deepest apologies,
... traffic,
Yes I know,
you weren't helicoptered in,
I should have left earlier,
you're right.

what does it say on my mug?
"I hate mornings"
couldn't you guess?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 16, 2008, 02:15:18 AM
I.

you are remiss
to think the golden shadow
i forged into the checkbook
is the stained avalanche
blooming mold in disinfected
showers.

II.

the hypocrisy dividing itself
from post traumatic lipservice,
the lies running through
waterfalls with beverages in hand,
all of the building's chipped and
purring hearts,
reside in earnest sofa shops.


III.

take your fable to a
blistering rotisserie.
my own room as frosted
as a haul of textbooks.
closed with gratuitous
thieves turning back clocks.

this is where the ice
boomed over a filthy carpet.
this is where two widows
retire, vows and vices
balled up in a tissue.
this is where you sliced
through the artist's muscle.

my lips disheveled and
wearing out a pram.
my mouth violated out
of wedlock, and holding
that quiescent vigil.
my eyes following the
snare drum's naughty
noose, and letting the
gentle guard perform.


IV.

a fluid kiss.
an explosion of bats.
the unlocked jar.
the miscreant's fodder.
a staunch publication.
a synonym for blindness.
a cup of chili powder.

my neck
unwraps the knife,
placing it backwards.
pointed at hyper nerves.
resolute in fashionable
lenses.

the handle rests
on a fleeing
cower.
it jigs as fiercely
as the gnash
of chimes.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- :buck2:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on October 16, 2008, 09:50:41 AM
My beloved pencil remains sharp!

I have some new shirts.

My BLack Shirt

A black shirt
changes everything.
My brown belt
and socks
remain at home
on the days that
I wear it.

They have been
a part of my life
every weekday
for years.

Still,
three or four
times a month
I step
out of my house
in my black shirt.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 16, 2008, 12:11:02 PM
Rob.

I don't like the supervisor, and suggest that you throw spitballs at the back of his head when desired.
But I love anything you've ever written about co-workers and shirts!
(when you wear them, they stay at home>>that happens to me with socks)

You were absent for a long time.
Don't do that again, please.

<3
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 17, 2008, 05:03:49 AM
I want to die this way
she said.

i turned the wheel for home
and the knob up louder.
i looked over at her face
as her knuckles dug into mine,
and saw the red light turn
that face ridiculous.

I want to die like this too
I said.

but what i meant was without her.

the promise to follow one
into the deathbed
sounds exactly like

my unbuckled canker sore.
books making crank calls.
a ceiling fan repeating odes.
my bolted legs receding.

i don't want to die this way

but i do keep the locket.
i keep one pornographic tail light.
i hold two tickets for myself.
i playfully toss my ball inside teeth.

lying down, lying down.
getting up, getting up.

squeeze my eyelids hard.
not for the goblin, monster-ghost.
for the accentuation
of thunder.

am i dying?


no.
no.
no.

yes.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 17, 2008, 09:40:39 AM
I keep losing me
I'm trapped in clockwork
The right thing to do
Not the right thing for me
Impossible to be honest
When I survive on a lie
I want to lash out
My own expectations
Imprisoning me
Making me "them"
Killing my self
Trading blood for nickel
Time for dollars
Wisdom for bitters
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 17, 2008, 11:28:23 AM
i keep my eyes down to my feet
waking moments wasted in walking sleep
every conversation tears me in two
can't say the things you want me to

cold wind and frozen handshake
brittle words begging to break
pity eyes stare me down
let me drift out to drown
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: armyoflarry on October 17, 2008, 02:06:06 PM
^ those were both lovely, i especially like the 2nd one.
:)
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 17, 2008, 10:05:40 PM
The Breakup


When our love is over
why do you climb
my stairs with your
spikey hair and
flannel shirt and
a look that says
you're fucking
someone else
just when
another girl
is there with me?

Before i can ask her
to stay, she leaves -
then so do you.

waking up.  thinking of you. 
pounding the wall when I wake up. 
because I thought of you.


I climbed your stairs again.
for old times' sake. but
we didn't say that.
we just went through the
motions then cuddled and
fell asleep in your new arctic
sleeping bag.

The old wooden stairs I had
painted two-toned brown
3 years earlier were cold
on my feet when I left.

It didn't work.  out.
and, anyway, it's all cool.
And where's the word for
that?

Five years and then the
dead time
for real, now, it's over.
finally.
right.

until later, then?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 17, 2008, 11:29:18 PM
Overnight Sensation


someone rose quickly
in the large room
they're still talking
about it

the humble stance
several coughs
unbelievable trails of knick-knacks
from his pockets

black-locked adulation
tangles giddy dreams
into ugly mantras.

"now i know i should go
with the flow but
jesus, he's lost his kick
and stutters
as the movement goes on"

he fixates on simple beginnings
and leaves his shattered epitaph:

don't play those same old tunes
to me (they can fuck themselves).
when you leave me i'll
put scratches on them all.

with my knife i'll really
turn some ears with a
perfect deepness of stroke.

then i'll hear something.
then i'll hear something new.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 17, 2008, 11:33:28 PM
Just Another Death Game


yes.
there you are.
still there
waiting
for me to
walk over
and empty
you.

i can hear you
in that
insidious whisper
you've affected
to tempt me.


what are you
good for anyway?
trying to justify
yourself with
your careful
instructions?

you know that
whisky and
cigarettes
are nothing
without
you.

i wasn't born
yesterday.
you can't suck
me in with your
pathetic tricks
and pure
pink attitude.

you're here
for only one
thing.
you know it and
i know it.

fucker!
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on October 17, 2008, 11:35:46 PM
I hate to say it, but...I hope you never feel better. 

You amaze me.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 18, 2008, 08:20:02 AM
Fuck, Devery.  Those are incredible. 
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: shades_of_grey on October 18, 2008, 10:16:45 PM
Here's a few of mine. Most of these are pretty old, but I like them nonetheless.

Summer Storm

The velvet heavens open
To allow a sudden shower
That glazes everything silvergrey
In the lightning's flash.
The rolling thunder is
Comforting
Like a lover's low voice
Or the heartbeat of something
Much larger than we'll ever be.
And as the raindrops
Fall on the leaves
Soaking into the earth
Pattering
Around the house lit only by candles
I sit and listen.




Impossibility

You say that I'm not cool enough
I can't be one of you
With your designer smiles and
Brand new lies with
Price tags still attached.
So I turn away
Into my little sanctuary where you dare not trespass
And lose myself
In tales of impossibility.
I slowly turn to the darkness
Where the others like me dwell.
Yet I am still an outsider
Looking in, not quite at home
With clothes still too bright
And the wrong music
To fit in here.
And yet again I'm turned away
From the girl I could have been.
Still lost in impossibility
Of good and evil
Clear-cut choices
Where everything is as it seems.
Not here
Where hidden truths
Sleep beneath the surface
Of the right music
And the dark clothes
And brand new lies with
Price tags still attached.


Attention Whore
(not completely finished, but one of my favorites)

Speak softer,
Move slower,
And please God! learn to sing.
If you follow my suggestions
You could be the next big thing.
I've paired you with the worst to make you look acceptable.
(Any loss of self- esteem is completely regrettable.)
But always remember, honey
Good enough for me is only twice as good as you
So lift your chin and lose some weight
(What appearances can do!)
Otherwise you'll be a nothing,
A mere attention whore.
If you show for auditions, well, then I'll show you the door.
We both know you don't belong here
But frankly, I've been kind, dear.


For Sale

One fucked up
Screwed up
Messed up
Version of the perfect girl
She's blonde and blue eyed
But she'll never try
Out for cheerleading squad.
She's not what you'd call skinny either
Though not exactly fat
At 162 she's probably bigger than you
But she really doesn't lookthat bad.
She likes to wear black
(Lots of black)
And her jewelry is akin to chains
I know what you're thinking
"Far from perfect!"
But wait- there's more
She's got brains.
(Brains that her grades sure as hell don't show)
She's failing English but passing art
Band and theatre you know.
She sings plays flute and piano
(Though her piano's not really that good)
Just don't call her what you think she is
She's liable to get rather upset.
But she's quite nice I promise!
(She even tap dances a bit)
If you want her
Come and claim her
At midnight near the crossroads
Next to the old vending machine
Though she's not the real thing
She's the next best thing
The next best perfect girl.


Falling

I'm falling so fast that I don't know what's happening
This pain that I feel it remains so distracting
I listen to you and I know it's just dreaming
But I can't help but want to stay here in this feeling
With no inhibitions, no right and no wrong
I'm falling so fast, falling here all along
I love you so much but I know it's not happening
And your eyes with their sparkle are still so distracting
I want this to go on, but that's only dreaming
Nothing will happen 'till I tell you my feelings
On this whole situation, be it right or be wrong
Though I know what you'll say, I knew it all along
But I still long to be here, lost in this feeling
With both of us here, and both still dreaming
Your eyes so distracting
But oh God it's happening
Our lips meet
Please catch me
I'm falling
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 18, 2008, 10:19:40 PM
I was just happy that after more than a month without the wherewithal to write even a single word, I sat down last night determined to just write something - anything.  And then to receive such wonderful feedback for my efforts from you three wonderful poets, Rob, Musings and Sarah - - what can I say?  Thank you so very much.  I am indeed very humbled.   :happy11:

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 19, 2008, 04:51:40 PM
I am trying to write it out, really, but argh! I am frustrated, and annoyed with myself.

I once was a poet, now I sell used dictionaries

This insurmountable blankness.
This unrelenting torment.
I am stuck:
each time
I try
I sink
further
and further
into the shitpile,
the decaying debris
of my previous words.

Zombie-like,
they mock me:
You should know better by now.
This is where we all end up.
Bitch.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 20, 2008, 08:05:44 PM
This is going to get uglier before it gets better.  But... after comments, I might use this in the WKAP compilation I'm desperately trying to write, since the title was sort of inspired by Leeds United.

You have your bible, I have my MacBook

I don't understand the arithmetic of your god.
I don't understand how 1 + 1 = 3.

You don't understand the stubbornness of my science.
You don't understand how 1 + 1 always = 2.

I greet the day with the glow of my laptop
while you read your psalms and sins off the page.

We'll drift from our corners of the bedroom
and fight out ideologies by speaking past each other.

I'll open up multiple tabs on Safari
while you try to describe Paradise.

Logically speaking, I don't have to agree.
Your faith is enough for the both of us.

But someday I'll really have to know:
When I fuck you senseless, and you scream "Oh, God"

Who exactly is getting the credit there?

I'll do a Google search.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 22, 2008, 12:33:21 PM
Lookey!!! Mother fuck. I just had no idea...none. How many people feel "blocked" and are still birthing out surprises?
I still have no idea.



don't spread apple butter
over your delirious hairs.
you have one wise minute
to consider the flat globe.
you understand the metaphor
but not my crude apologies.

i'll be flawless inside a sparkling
Cupid, but snickered and
wasted on granola.
let's play, i say. let's do it
again until our mutual
sexes split our nails.

you. yes, you. what to hold
looks something like a bear,
but smells so intimate
that showers forfeit.
look at the clapping grins

guiding your humid face.
i can see your eye lose trust
as you brush off the lint of me.
you can act as if there is no
charted malady

but i've been basting inside
this warped wobbly shell.
raise the glasses, dear ones. 
i know i left the stairway
running over the tub's edge.
a cowardly runaway spells.
but this totem pole

is not my own.
not your moment to reiterate
what can't be accomplished
since my elevated election
has failed the parasite.
failed the host.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 22, 2008, 07:50:47 PM
i've loved you
with a desperate-hostel-kind
of manner.
my lonesome candle lights
winter's curses now. glides over
and busts the mighty
discussion. a hollow resonance
brings the bells in to your
praying hands.

all this simpleton feedback
is the wish of my guilty
saucers. emptying themselves
of pitiful cups, volunteering
for your neck. that holy space
before our minds conjoin? it's
the sacred heap of my verbose
recurrences.

i've loved you
and said the undeniable over
digital bulkheads. you propose
an eraser for the tattoo i shed.
taking off the clothes, grasping
the blankets, putting our rears
down...i execute the blank
vowels. we raise the standards
and cold hips.

 i toast to the
erroneous phrase and you
brush my throat. we gather
ourselves in time to dispose
our hearts down to the wick.
we notice the handsome
rhetoric of the first kiss.
i tell you what she left on
our mangled doorstep. we
describe the gory hiding, and
you tell me. you say you've
loved me.



-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------laced-mutton garble.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 22, 2008, 11:54:49 PM


i've loved you, your numb silence and
dull raiments effected to hide
your gurgling beauty
parsing your sentences
down to wobbly lawn chairs,
our backs to the wind and seam
of styrofoam whispers,
hands gently caress your rigorous
mouth, expelling chords and fills
that belie exotropic desires,
fixating singly, cleanly on
these new climbing techniques.

i've loved your eyes, your
hair, your mouth, the
haughty proposal of your neck,
buttons hurriedly broken,
the bow tie and the tux tied
and untied until we tumble
together under blankets
of cold libido and ruffled locks
to warm knees and backs and inner
places, and necks opening
like gold under the moon

i raised another phrase or two
in time and cadence to match
each word like a first kiss,
with mangled boots and
Victorian camouflaged camisoles
to describe your eyes closing
and shallow breaths and tell
you it's just like a dream.
i reach my hand out through your
dark closed eyes and push the
clouds away so there you are now,
naked.  warm.  content. 
in the sunshine. you say you
love me, my hand still holding
everything back, in love.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The Fool on October 23, 2008, 02:35:20 PM
My head is so empty
Since you disappeared
I feel so lost inside of me
That's what I've feared

I have to think about it all the time
Who's Jack, Who committed the crime
Will Melody find you, Or will she even lose her head
I see no way out. Tomorrow I am dead
It feels like there's a tiger above and below
Amanda we need you for the show!

I want to take drugs and sing:
"Strawberry fields forever"
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: NastyEgo on October 23, 2008, 03:04:03 PM
They're kinda teenage and stuff, but "boys are stupid," and I had to work around it

***
i pull the duvet over my hea
pretending that i'm not there
believing if i lie perfectly still
no one will notice me underneath

my heart beating strong
like never before
it's the loudest sound
that i've ever known

i don't want to go, i am afraid
they'd say they don't need me anyway
and all i can think of on that day
if world without me 'd be a better place

TOO MANY WORDS
too many words
slipped out of my mouth
when they should've stayed
where I couldn't find them

too many words
piercing your ears
exposing the pain
you hold in your heart

too many words
torn us apart
and nothing I'd say
could ever mend that
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 23, 2008, 06:56:26 PM
Devery.  preferpencil.  Cannot compete.  Cannot compute.





Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on October 23, 2008, 07:49:22 PM
Yes you can, Musings.



As for Devery.



It's very clear the only way I will get even, is to submit to sex.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 23, 2008, 08:07:07 PM
Haha, I'm sure she wouldn't have an issue with that. 

Here we go:


This approaching cold. I have not forgotten
the fall of years past, the air chilled
and dying, you find me among
browned leaves, you find me hushed
and humbled, you wonder:
why sadness when the days are clearing?
I have not forgotten the darker days,
I remembered to light the candles, but
still, it overcomes, this melancholy
wind, it calls upon me to bend my head
and surrender the warmth of summer,
to feel the numbed fingers spread, take.

Oh, precarious heart, fragile ego:
I can see it coming -- shelter me
in layers of hardness, seal up
the cracks with indestructible
glue. We only have each other
to survive the winter, so take care
that in hibernation we do not
waste away completely,
return emaciated and empty.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 23, 2008, 10:21:56 PM


Are you two quite finished with the talking about me behind my back?   angel :) 

Moving on:  Musings, that was just brilliant!  And please, bemoan your blockedness again (that's what poets do, anyway) - it seems every time you do that, you write another beautiful poem.  You did a masterful job of describing the seasons while really talking about something else.  I really love how you did that.

And Miss jenny:  you hit me with another poem like that, and I'll hit you right back.  And then, someday, we might just get even.   :violent5:         :love3:
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: I wrestle with my brain. on October 26, 2008, 05:50:28 PM
Top of the head
Tip of the tongue
And instantly regrettable.
I thought this time
The last time
It would be achievable.
But my predictions are a little off these days
Cigarette smoke and insomnia haze.
Well fuck this
Fuck you
Fuck what I had planned to do
Retorts revolve around my head
Evolve and forget what I said.
I'll pick off my vices one by one
And you're top of the list baby.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on October 26, 2008, 07:04:15 PM
what do you see out your window?
shadow puppets on the wall
wishing you were
here
and not hundreds of miles away
i feel lost without
you touch the soul and
make everything okay

sing with me somehow?
the days of neil on the turntable
seem too far gone
let's close our eyes
and try to remember
the best we can.


fest
crossword clues and super glue
late night drinks and musicals
red wine and vinyl
a
tent, charcoal
yellow haze of the setting sun

everything was in a dream
higher than before
words slow with repetition
silver guns and burnt out nuns
the chord continues to play
in north dakota
nonetheless
helpless.
(as always)

who's going to cry?
despite the brisk chill and vague hints of raindrops
i walk slowly through the city by the water
a soul alone without another in sight

nature.
          buildings.
                      traffic.
                               and lights.

i realize that no matter
how connected we all may be
and no matter how many times
"what a small world!" is used

the city is a lonely place.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 26, 2008, 11:13:18 PM
A Perfect Bondage


We'll say that truth
is the thread
we pull around
each other

the other end unravels
and falls into a
pile on the floor

we're brought so close
we cannot move our
arms and all we do
then is nuzzle

each other until morning,
imagine a life without
promises, our bonds
untouched by others,

always together
in the thread, a gift
not meant to be
unwrapped.



Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: paper-doll on October 29, 2008, 04:32:09 PM
It’s not hurting enough, she says with latticed eyes
and he wonders if he could ever fill that void;
there’s just too much space between them though he
clings like a cheap scarf, all static and stubble.

His hands fit around her waist, her neck when
her own barely circumnavigate the glass.
Those too-small hands can be coy or cruel
and cold is the sum of their robot parts.

Disgust disguised as distress - the ever-actress
will substitute pain where passion is wanting.
Half-way content they retreat to the everyday
of the soy sauce fish and park bench sighs.

The damsel decomposed stretches tiny digits
towards any semblance of love, however small.
He is always too close.
He is always just the nearest warm body.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 29, 2008, 08:19:20 PM
I stand
on this bale of hay,
hoping
that a million pieces
can do what
one cannot, and
hold me.


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on October 29, 2008, 11:02:56 PM
I'm at church with my family. Some charity thing...
And sitting on the rocks by myself, sporting a delightful red dress
that is slightly killing me, as I know just what it means.
Huge pictures clog the sky in a Godly, colourful... contrary jigsaw,
projecting hypodermic expectations into all the erratic Christians.

I lay on a thorny car hood, content but shaking
and realise we're supposed to be at the hospital.
I wonder who will take me
and how I will walk home alone in the dark first.
Parents, vexation, truck, corners, home.
The lights don't work.
And I'm afraid that must mean something bad for me
and the stuffed animals are staring with pity,
anxious and shaken and knowing. No.
I evade all fear, wondering if they'll have computers at the hospital
or if they'll ask whether I've ever harmed myself deliberately.

My treatment is in the form of dance! But the ballet teacher is diabolic
and lectures long about smoking weed and still being able to stay on your toes.
He demonstrates. Showing the slowing of the dexterity and wit.
We are asked to step outside and waved off with the slight of one hand,
in time to hear one girl say "I really love you" and him whisper to another..
"I hate it when they do that!"
We are given one hour to recreate. Amongst these fields of grass that stains
and hills with peaks that hurt and scratch your hips.
I wander to a café, loaded with pennies I found
in a small box with pictures of scruffy-looking animals on. Wait....
I stay standing where they touch me and ask if I would like ice in my coffee.
Refusing, I ask where the nearest church is. I have a book I must learn from
in such a reticent, polar and devoid place of worship, of...

I follow my directions eagerly and very unprecisely. Stopping to watch
a small girl throw herself backward on her bike down a treacherous stepped-mountain.
And I wonder if I'm in such a dead end. When surrounded by black and dead
and towering oaks whistling poorly tunes down at me,
yes, it bloody well would, wouldn't it?
Mausoleums are unnerving. I'm not a cracked, life-like statue-fan either.
I look down at my book for answers, y'know, like they do in the movies.
But there are only notes and lyrics there, and I realise choice should have been more selective.
Skittish and sullen. I find myself here every night,
not uncharted territory. Wanting. No, needing to pull covers over my eyes,
if only evanescently.
To be somewhere that's home. And not in a dank, mundane place such as this.
Where I am frightened enough to weep, but not enough to retreat...

You are becoming very proficient in all kinds of different styles, Sarah.  Still with a certain strength at the end.  I love this one.


love the 3rd and 4th stanzas, devery.





thanks, Sarah.   :)

It’s not hurting enough, she says with latticed eyes
and he wonders if he could ever fill that void;
there’s just too much space between them though he
clings like a cheap scarf, all static and stubble.

His hands fit around her waist, her neck when
her own barely circumnavigate the glass.
Those too-small hands can be coy or cruel
and cold is the sum of their robot parts.

Disgust disguised as distress - the ever-actress
will substitute pain where passion is wanting.
Half-way content they retreat to the everyday
of the soy sauce fish and park bench sighs.

The damsel decomposed stretches tiny digits
towards any semblance of love, however small.
He is always too close.
He is always just the nearest warm body.

Nice to see another of your poems, paper-doll.  I liked (and enjoyed) the dark theme of this one very much. 

I stand
on this bale of hay,
hoping
that a million pieces
can do what
one cannot, and
hold me.




The shortest, and most perfect Musings' poem yet.  Beautiful!

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on October 29, 2008, 11:55:56 PM
Thank you, Devery.

I've been reading Kay Ryan (the new poet laureate), and her brief and potent poems convinced me to play a little with real brevity for a change.

Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on October 30, 2008, 09:35:22 AM
I too approve of your brevity, M.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on November 03, 2008, 10:33:33 PM
it has been a cold winter
for far too long.
we have shivered by the logs,
waiting for a spark.
but now come the beginnings
of the flame, the lights
leaping through the air,
the promise
of golden warmth.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 08, 2008, 10:23:23 PM
#55 is perfect. the top of my head feels like someone popped off the lid.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: AnnaBeck on November 09, 2008, 10:28:41 AM
oh, this a thread for me ^^ my poems are mostly crappy but nah i don't care

We Can't Figure Out

She dreams about being a whore
She dreams about being a slut
She dreams about selling herself
She dreams about giving up
Why does she dream about that?
We can't tell
We don't know
She doesn't care.

Ha ha

Ha ha
he he

I love to laugh at you

ho ho
ha ha

you're such a fool

Ha ha
he he

I love to laugh at you

and you will never catch me!

Darling

Oh darling,
I'm only wondering
where did it all go.

Dreams
dreams of getting old
and being decent.
Dreams of having
a life of my own.

Oh darling,
I'm only wondering
why am I just waiting.

The opportunity
is standing right here
and I'm just watching it
flow away.

Nothing really
ecsist in here.
In my life,
nothing
is real.

Oh my darling,
let me weep a while.

Tomorrow,
if gods are willing
I will get up
from my grave
and do everything
right.
The way they
should have been
done.

My darling,
Tonight I'll die.
But it's not the end.
It is the end
and the new
beginning.

I hope.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Rob on November 09, 2008, 11:28:00 AM
http://www.youtube.com/v/mWoT9elA-oY
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: The King of Carrot Flowers on November 09, 2008, 10:31:47 PM
My favorite poem which I wrote:

What to do
In Case of Rust?
Apply Moisturizer."
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: preferpencil on November 10, 2008, 12:45:08 AM
Rob. Someone stole your password and put a video of a laughing gnome up there. !



the moon
so infatuated with itself.
scabs punctuate our hair
splitting a moisturized sea
where our fish-feet grow
querilous, amused, tokens.
opaque perdition loping
from .............................shit

                                                                                   --modify


Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: tonic pancake. on November 10, 2008, 11:02:55 PM
 i don't understand your fascination with the differences between us.
and although
i was so suddenly crushed
when i found you're not signing the lease
i was oddly relieved to have you go
because the less misunderstanding
the better.

and yet,
you were always on my side.



so where do we go from here?
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Devery on November 11, 2008, 09:04:19 AM
Chains and mouth-tape outfits
in back-alley catwalks
blindfold-eyelid visions
thin and blood red
fusing light and crystals
on guns and fingers frozen
under blankets with sharp
caressing rocks
and still
mouths and eyes move by instinct
the tape and chains squeeze
and suck lost breaths and
push them all into small rooms
with mesh windows opening
for the loosing of birthing cries
filter out like vapor
speaking to the dark universe
where innocence is stripped and
naked.
Title: Re: the poems thread
Post by: Musings on November 12, 2008, 11:51:28 PM
style change = bumpiness, as always.

autobiography of a water drop

I.
My mother cried salt tears
during childbirth and
so I was born in the ocean,
I only knew the endless crest

and fall, I only knew in medias res,
not the shores I came from,
not the ports I was headed towards,
just the beautiful uneveness of it all.

II.
My father said, my girl, you are adrift,
going too long without plotted course,
and he plucked me from the water
and put me on the side of a ship headed east.

And this ship has been going steady, yes.
It's been going for so many years,
I've forgotten where it's headed.

III.
I've been waiting for the ship to go down,
I've been waiting to see the bottom ground,
to touch the