2X2E5 Thread for his Poetry

[2X2E5]

Are they geniuses or “handicap-able”?
Or are they the ones that bridge both?
I've not been informed of the context
in which I have enrolled.
My language here is obsolete, and
my passions fall forward on one-
way streets – stuck, destroyed, and
stopping to watch others go past me.
Some inquisitively stare and I respond
in my taught humanitarianism – smile.
Others are not part of my Matrix experience.
Are they my illusions? Of matter or of mind?
How do I not know that I'm not naked
on my desk with **** on my chest, jumping
on my desk, while my open eyes are asleep?
I lie to my civility.
Desperate to use words like “lost”, “alone”,
but “wanting” to be bilingual.
Perhaps I'm Nietzsche?
Why not feel so when absurdity melts
covering every surface. May as well melt
myself with my absurd offence.

The weirdo beside me – commonly found
and placed in High School Learning Centres,
where I participated until the world no longer
saw me – us – as special.
This weirdo laughs through his smile, and
is fidgeting with his solved crossword puzzle
stabs my sanity and vanity.
Does he understand I'm not a point on this
class's line today?
The Weirdo's kind and indifferent while
his head is the centre of a sunflower.

My professor senses my stillness through
the classroom's dense air, dense and thick
pulse of vanities, prejudices, ambitions,
confusion, telepathic lusts and loves, and
the whispers of frequencies – objects in love;
still phones waiting in everyone's pocket.
In my loss of gravity, he catapults words.
I punch myself in the face for thinking I'm
Nietzsche. Maybe I could be, but I'll only
care or resist if behind the curtain of my eyes
I'm standing on my desk. I'd rather be the
bottle of bourbon of the homeless man outside.

I want to act in poetic convention
and look into the mirror
looking for myself
knowing
that the appearance I'm looking for
is the one I'm building to see
and the other that
will never
be visible.

[2X2E5]

I appreciate all feed back!
I'm still in the process of self-discovery and discovering my voice and how to voice it...
and hope to learn something about myself and my poetry through the eyes of an other...

[Delta40]

Omg Im tzping on a German kezboard!

Lol. I enjoyed your poem. It struck me as a little wordy but for all that, you captured a fistful of stuff and squeezed it into a poem.

I'm a poor critic btw but definitelz keep writing.

[2X2E5]

Thanks Delta40. I appreciate your support :)

[2X2E5]

Through poems I escape my daily verse,
not the one brought by Capitalism's curse.
Every other day I walk out of my cave
with a fresh, oiled, dusted, new beard.
Ready to hear, collect, respect, my peers.
What astounds my ticklish velvet nose,
is how very good questions, beautiful prose,
exits in ordinary mouth and in ordinary clothes.
Laquishas and Alexanders singing poetic
and philosophical whips into their phones,
in the manner of groans, but somehow
behind these battery mouths swims acid.
They walk in white knitted mannerisms
and dance in wine coloured words, but
say a word against their blurs, and their unfickle
hearts and capricious brains, will throw you
in stupefied wasteland drains.
How can beautiful questions be asked,
and philosophical statements be made,
by people who are uneducated and selfish,
in conflicts that would make humanitarians
lost their head, vomit, and rest in bed.
I'm not growing tulips that sweat ignorance
to those who find wisdom in booze or
in picking up puzzle pieces in their blues.
I'm sculpting the pages where complex
bolts are in the hands of mindless herds.
They throw paper planes today for they
are content, but ask them a question to think
or reflect and soon they will throw bombs
at the sites where their words come fromz.
Perhaps they are smart and more insane.
Perhaps my words are coming from pain and vain.
But given my odds - learned from nourishing pods -
I'd likely believe their hearts run away from floods,
rather than build bridges and branching trenches|
to grow 21st Century bright meadows.

[AuntShecky]

Welcome to the LitNet,2X2E5.

You're off to a good start. You might find, as yours fooly has, that posting all your pieces in a single thread is a wise move.It will help you locate a specific poem quickly (rather than sifting through several threads), but more importantly it will allow you --as well as other LitNutters --observe your progress on a --it is to be hoped-- long-term basis.

Your first posting, in the voice of a savant, is interesting and at times resonant, but as the great Delta noticed, you might want to cut down some of the wordiness. One of the many things that differentiates poetry from prose is judicious compressions. But on the other hand, you don't want to be overly-cryptic.

I like the opening couplet in #5. It reminds me of the Robert Graves line: "There is no money in poetry, but on the other hand, there is no poetry in money."

Hope you'll post some more pieces as well as weigh in on the works of your fellow LitNutters. I'm sure you'll do some copious reading in the works of other modern and contemporary poets.

Good luck, and enjoy your experiences on the LitNet!

Auntie

[2X2E5]

Thanks AuntShecky, I'm glad to be participating and apart of the LitNet community :)
Thank you for the feed back. I have to admit I rushed posting the first poem by a feeling/obligation
to myself to just put it out...so I didn't edit it well. But thank you for raising my attention about over-cryptic, that's a problem I'm still challenging to overcome in other poems I try to write.

Looking forward to reading LitNutters poems!

Would you be able to recommend me a modern/contemporary author or two?

All the best,
2X2=5

[prendrelemick]

Ok, they're cryptic and wordy and that does hide the message, but you show an interesting turn of phrase that jumps out and impresses.

[2X2E5]

Thanks prendrelemick :)
Are the phrases that jump out and impress ones that are cryptic and wordy but to a lesser degree?

[2X2E5]

My imagination; my colourless book.
Tries to step on streets and sidewalks,
with every other step.
Do you know what I mean?
Can you feel what I feel?

This circle with a line running across,
the same one on which you can traverse,
out of the whole or out of eye's focal spot,
it splits your membrane and causes you
to feel insane and rejoice in the mundane.

Your verbal ejaculations begin to be
taught a font. Bakeries grow your ears
X-large; they endure the delusion of
having flight (wings).
Rolling down sweat falls into a Tetris box.
Shameful.

You judge your unsteady amplification,
or tap your foot to your adolescent
vibrations.
Do you know what I mean?
Can you deal with what I feel?

Beware! For what I write is a curse;
sometimes, when I'm stepping into
a field of fresh grass to find verse,
when my mind turns around to see
if I've dropped a dime, my arm throws
ahead of my feet a landmine.
I have to apologize and claim I'm sick,
because you are the feet and heart that
will land on it...
Your hearts are your deceivers,
they've invested in your ears and eyes,
and would love to see a black kite
exploit the bleached-blue wet sky.

I'll stop with my oxidation,
and get back to my metaphyical
masturbation.

I'll say it here and say it twice,
the circle never existed,
twas defined by poetry,
the sense defined as
“obligation”.
So let us stretch over a couple steps,
feel guilty - for our dusty and cold friends,
and slip back for no reason,
well if you'd like one...
at the top awaits circular treason.

[2X2E5]

Danger, more danger.
Dark eyes with light
eyelids and red eyelashes.

I built the cabin; so far in my head.
Why have I built it in the middle of,
in the middle of fear, and placed a bed.

Romance and light projected from my eyes,
this wooden structure around trees, bees, and
mountains, and my blood's brother,
who is more refined...what was I seeking in
building nest of romanticized lies.

Where I'm from the heat is hotter, and the cold
shows a white to brown picturesque shoulder.
Where my friends are dead,
my hiding spots all come together, and
where new dangers lie over my head.

It's danger for I've never walked in boots,
or given a glance at compass or interest
to nature's roots.

Danger, safety blanket,
wool knitted, not built by I,
at least we share the same sky.

[2X2E5]

What if I whispered a modern tale
- or does it need to be shouted out?
What you perceive and how you react,
your not alone and you shouldn't feel whack.
The baboons you hear and the gorillas you see,
whether on the tele-frequency or the radio wave,
is meant to kill that beautiful heart and powerful brain.
The ladder is made such that while you climb and spend
your valuable empathy made time, to reach its end,
you actually have to descend. Quite far and quite lo,
do not worry because a dignifying mattress awaits
at the bottom of your manufacture empty soul.
But take away the print and look under the foam pit;
if you claim to care and your “soul” is ready to dare,
and you will find unfilled and quivering (breathing)
sacks, machine gunned tax, and cement vinyls playing
on repeat the song of “Hegemony”.
“It doesn't have to be so”, cry through cold tears,
colder than American cold beers; and you should
ask what it is they are trying to freeze, those who
have grown beards. But that is them, and I nod my
head to what they consistently have said, in our
diaries through some of our mouths, but don't take it
from me, instead listen to some: bearded cat, bearded dog,
and bearded toad. As far as my first thirdly of my life goes,
I would like to sing in a crying intonation.
(Zizek, Dostoevsky, and Salecl)

[2X2E5]

Have you noticed or have you thought,
that when you tell a joke in a crowd, you
have to maintain a facial expression, to
validate the reason they are laughing,
you host people's beliefs and capture
their insanity – cruel and healthy.
What if you keep an inexpressive face
or intonation-less face?

[2X2E5]

It's winter, ankle high snow.
Walking rather than driving
today. Massive Bentley passes
and I smirk. I shiver but am
not sure if its from the wind
or from my fear produced
by the essence of the vehicle.
My path is illuminated from
behind and my shadow quickly
shrinks. I turn with irritation
to see the cause slowing me
from reaching my destination.
Out of the Bentley emerges
a man whose age you can't
prescribe, one who never
seems to age, but his groomed
beard and hair let you notice
that his head is filled with air.
“What the **** was that smile,
punk? You think you're better?”
I never know how to respond.
My only friends are books,
my girlfriend, and my heart.
“I think I'm love, I think I am
the good in people. I think I
don't represent myself through
shapes, but I am also what's
worse about people. Got it?”
It took some time, but my smirk
was returned. “You're ****ing
nuts. You must be poor, you
must drive a car by my company
Honda or poors-mobile? Are you
even that valuable? You
failure, you social tit sucker.”
I have expected and I have
hear this message expressed
by caged birds and pigs.
Over taken by a sudden shiver,
my wordless intuition yells,
“Who are the men behind you
in black, one holds a trigger!”
The poor Bentley man turns
to ensure he is safe and I am
insane. “What the **** you
talking about punk? You...
crazy? Poor and crazy is what
you must be, stop pretending
to be a tragedy.”
My sweat turns to snow as it
falls off my nose and gets
carried away. “Please, all I
want is a kiss, those men
will hit and won't miss!
One swing and my name
will be crossed off the list.”
The Bentley boy slid back
into his leather and drove off
and the snow buried me.

[2X2E5]

Snorting you like a fat line of cocaine,
I yearn and burn to sink my canines
into your leg like its red meat.
I am a cannibal to your genitals.
Dodge your veins in my attack,
**** you – grab and tear my sack.
Ravage your body and tear it to shreds,
limbs like candy – broken, wet, stick in bed.
Shower you in cum, roll in the slum.
Feelings - taste them inbetween your gums,
ripping your clothes apart by threads,
dripping adrenaline filled drool down off
your erect ripened tits.
No words just torn chestnut cheeks
with wide pupils and a juicy pumping
sweating heart; spitting out cold sex
through your blushing skin.

[2X2E5]

When morality meets reality
I'll met you on the dark blue
side of the wave and my plate.

When my second hand fades
behind the condensed window
my hue will face the tracks.

When blackness around takes
strength and makes of itself a
wool blanket and a evaporating

shadow.

I'll be tip toeing on park benches.

[2X2E5]

If you multiply twice
the azzhole you were -
when you thought to
borrow her; and placed
a mattress in your basement
locker, with flowers
and condoms – you'd
have been a conqueror.
But you didn't have the
guts to smite or to show
your soul, you were 16
with cream and did not
drink coffee.

[prendrelemick]

Just read this thread in one go. I feel like a lie down.

I thought #5 was stuffed full of interesting phrasing I liked it a lot.

In fact I enjoyed the unusual way you construct the meaning of each line in all of them, even though I can't always follow that meaning. Does that make sense?

[AuntShecky]

But you didn't have the
gusts

did you mean "guts" or did you mean what it says --gusts, like gusts of wind or hot air-- as a play on words?

[2X2E5]

@ prendrelemick - Thank you for the feed back, I take it as a compliment :) I can understand the senselessness it can produce...in conversations and writing I'm often told I am unclear and I guess that translates into my poetry by being overly cryptic and being stubborn in understanding the true definition of a word. But I also try really hard to include one sentence in almost each poem that just feels interesting in a kind of thought/image/meaning it produces. Thank you for letting me know you noticed that :)

@ AuntShecky - Yeah, I meant to say "guts". Originally had a typing error by forgetting the last letter -s in "guts"...must have added it twice. Thank you for the heads up.

[2X2E5]

Extreme pleasure and your wise
words and dogmas about Dionysus
enslaves your opposite, but you like
to shake it off and continue your
phallus and superego stimulation.

You value winning and devalue losing
because you haven't grown eyes on
the back of your primitive brain – stop
your speeches on progress, when you stab
your own third and fourth eye out,
and then parade it in banners and flags,
in cars and in bars, the only real part
of you is left in your salty guilty sweat.

Oy, counter parts, you conservative
self-righteous responses to power.
Learn to inject doses of corruption
its a drug that your shouldn't fear
unless you fear yourself – **** you
if you fear yourself. Learn to live off
of cabbage and off of ice cream or, I
did not want this to be a threat, you
will perish.

Naturalness as the sculpture gets dug
too deep; don't misinterpret it for nature,
and the felonies continue until all that is
left is a pile of crumbs. No more Rodins
but a colourful variety of Picasso’s.

[2X2E5]

Polished several horse shoes
romanticize an old man on a
bench.
I spend my days off staring at
ants and picturing marble cafes
rusting.
Im exhausted from hearing 21st
Century conspiracies become
waste.
Canadian folk are too polished
and clean from soft bubble baths;
living in Spring.
(Arrested if the bubbles are not
round, friendly, service polite, and
if they ask questions.)
Death a commodity, love is served
in biodegradable plastic, and
green rectangles are sewn to magnets
so that their filth can find bubblish
hands.
These shapes belong in museums
and maybe one day they will, but
this generation Id love to lead
is lead by loaned dry clay.

[2X2E5]

My hands are not Sorels
and Myshkins portrait
sways in my hearts chamber
when I glisten and float to
the party of tears dancing
a waltz behind Raskolnikovs
lower eye lids.
Doctor says my Zeitgeist
needs beer and rum,
and to stare into a swollen
faced homeless bum.
My dreams are crooked,
because there is an industry
of making crutches.
My heart is swollen,
horse numbered 21,
she has good odds, and
does not see the left side -
a dangling (burning in ecstacy)
whip - and the right
side of its fenced land of charms.

To fend off the broken glass,
while admiring the inconsistencies
protected in new wave perfect
prison shaped inspired galleries,
I propose to give Billy Pilgrim
a box of chocolates, and
Ivan a tank, then ask them both
to return their gifts to their original
state – cacao beans and undiscovered
metal caves.

[2X2E5]

I don't believe in binoculars
for making 50 year warranty
chains. You may look at the
backside of a watch, but that
doesn't stop it from ticking.
No, cream lace, and strong
taste, come from burning
cigarettes. You might not
wonder where the masterful
ashes meet, and grow, but
that wont cause your cat any
sorrow. The velvet blue candle,
out in the silent deserted oasis,
on which no eyes fall upon, and
no deer or camel traverse, sits
watching itself get buried away
in your frame of mind. Ha, yes.
You didn't think a painting could
see itself in your eyes reflection,
did you? Well it does, and it learns.
Just like that passion for which it yearns.
What's left is to knit yourself an
armour of red butterflies, and shout
into your morning cup, forget, and
pack your book's sleeve with words
that distract you from the astrological
adventures you draw...when pulling and
tweezing your arm hair, and coughing
to hide your symphony of despair.

[YesNo]

That's an interesting idea of a painting seeing itself in one's eyes reflection.

[2X2E5]

XOs
with some
blow.
Winner
hits the floor.
Burn your face
at a bar,
twist your neck
break a star.
Find twisted lips
in a cactus bush -
doesn't brag
doesn't
drag...
press your nipples
into your soul.
Feel my heart
burning coal.

[Härt Noiz]

Wow! Usually I'm not really an admirer of rhymed poetry but this is so bright! And the dynamics of the poetic image, splendid : )

[2X2E5]

4 Glasses of Water
Hate on Each Chair
Illuminated Faces
All Ages Despair.

Generationsare close
to Dull Dining Knives.
Sacrificial Wedlock.
Obesity and Pride.

A kitten has nowhere
to hide. A Whisker
on each Cheek ---
Dirty with Neglect.

A Fang Leashed,
A Stare that Bleached.
A Kitten with no Meow,
a button left to drown.

[2X2E5]

Hart Noiz, I appreciate your compliments and feed back. I think its my favourite and best poem so far, written in despair and frustration to write authentically. I'm happy it didn't go unnoticed and brought you some pleasure.

[2X2E5]

Dubstep

ON: Laptop
Craving: Satisfied
Welcome Home.
Utorrent, Steam, Updates
Facebook, Twitter, 9gag
scroll scroll scroll
jumping back and forth
like a dandy mole.
Porn, junk, merchandise
Don't need drugs,
I'm half way to paradise.
37 tabs,
suspicious lags.
Denouement,
closing tabs revives
my crave
every time I leave
I feel brave.
Virtual Reality
at the demand
of my hand,
I don't need my eyes
nor the sun,
when arrows block out
the sound of my hum.