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Author Topic: the poems thread  (Read 257566 times)

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Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #465 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.
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 #466 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.
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"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 #467 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.
Logged
"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

The Great Ma Chao

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #468 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
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Just follow her next time you see her head into the bathroom, and corner her. Women love that shit.

preferpencil

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #469 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...
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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 #470 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.
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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

Schplynthia

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #471 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.
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I've seen better days, but I don't care...

Musings

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #472 on: May 26, 2008, 09:04:38 PM »

Eh: the idea was good, the execution was faulty.

Inspirations:  George Carlin's Seven Dirty Words

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, Schei├če.


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.
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Devery

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #473 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.
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"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 #474 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.
 
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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 #475 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.
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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 #476 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.






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"The world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but it sure is nice up here on the hill."   A. Kujawa

lanskyy

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #477 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.
Logged
That someone as beautiful as Regina Spektor looked like that as a child should give hope to millions of ugly kids.

Musings

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #478 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.

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Re: the poems thread
« Reply #479 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...
Logged
"But it's never too late for the poetry of regret."--lee upton
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