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Author Topic: the poems thread  (Read 257542 times)

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preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #375 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!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #376 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.
 




                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                     
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

dangerpants

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #377 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
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So in conclusion it wasn't all the sex you were having, it was his suspicion that you were a vagina elf drug dealer.

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #378 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.
Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #379 on: March 09, 2008, 10:19:35 AM »

OH OH OH OH OH OH OH



OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH






(this is my best poem ever!)
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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

armyoflarry

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #380 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.

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Also, oh my God I could eat your family pets right now. GNNFFGH!!

Goodbye-Umbrella

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #381 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
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armyoflarry

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #382 on: March 11, 2008, 09:32:23 AM »

blink twice if you feel anything
cry if you are numb

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Also, oh my God I could eat your family pets right now. GNNFFGH!!

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #383 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
Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #384 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
Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #385 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:

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"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton

Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #386 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
Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Marldance

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #387 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
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You could write a letter then or, God forbid, come visit me !

shoeless

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #388 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.
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Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #389 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.
Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa
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