thanks, Veva.
familiar, ff.
Imagine if you
were this new-born grass,
when would you be the weakest?
Right after a rain.
I realize that this is NOT Disneyland
and there is quite a bit more
to this than providing a rush.
Printable View
thanks, Veva.
familiar, ff.
Imagine if you
were this new-born grass,
when would you be the weakest?
Right after a rain.
I realize that this is NOT Disneyland
and there is quite a bit more
to this than providing a rush.
Pursued by a bear
running in fear
blood pumping fast
panting for breath
don't want to look back
feel it comming down after me
hot breath on my neck
think I might wet myself
or have a heart attack
what can I do
I find myself running in place
as if suddenly trapped in glue
but I need to escape
jaws opened wide
enough to swallow my head
all in one bite
when suddenly
open my eyes
wake up in a cold sweat
find myself in bed
twisted in my sheets
"Tiger" I shout, and
push the cat off my face.
I want to dip my big toe into this temptation pool
So I can feel what pleasures the fool
Not too much I say to my beating heart
I deserve this, and gently pull apart
A moist sweaty sock
But then I find to my dismay
Its too much for me to handle this way
As I gaze at my toes
Evenly lined in a row
And realize it isn't to be
I cannot have this indulgence in life
Unless I'm prepared to dip in all five!
All things end, flicker out like a bulb
breaking into sand,
the earth salted with egg shells,
plastic bags, an apocalypse
opening from garbage cans,
lidless, empty as the wind.
very nice, IP. You know, maybe we should have a thread entitled: Write a Random Poem, some of these don't strike me as weird, or angry or bad, just kind of random, and random in a way that doesn't beg to be critiqued in the main Poetry forum.
I agree. Good one, IP.
Also
But to put the counterview, it's already difficult, at times, to know whether to go weird or bad.Quote:
Originally Posted by blp
You're changing your palliative memory
with a coach bar for a tertiary match
well then, I can see that, but just for the sake of discussion
if thinking was working as you insist
if you were labelled like the ham you portray
in your sunlit morning hours, there
by the fountain
what then, oh petulant, unlucid cherry blossom,
what use would your iambic incantation be
against the paintings of a motorised detention centre
upon the seesawing fortunes of a mortgage backed
indemnity vehicle
on a clear summer afternoon?
Foregoing then further with fallow failure
followed us back along the grass verge
unfeeling, fatigued, fetid, disconsolate, so
I got up, walked out, took a walk, awoke
watched a newsreel about Surinam, or
somewhere similar, smelt a saltbush,
slipped on something more comfortable,
stretched and redrew, repapered, re-
defined all my desert meanderings
in the light of new knowledge
about you, Hedwig, callous, fickle,
unkind, unkempt, single bore Martian.
Thanks, both.
I agree it's often very hard to tell. When I wrote mine I wasn't really in a very weird mood, but I think this thread works for random. Just keeping Weirdness in the back of my head while writing helps free me.
(blp I think wears the weirdness crown)
Shucks, I just say what I feel, y'know?Quote:
Originally Posted by Il Penseroso
I guess I win on quantity anyway.
tents, and we were fireflies
in a cravaneted jars
strung together and canned—
but I hated sardines,
too much salt, kills the snail—
ears,
epic nights,
between the faces of light,
neither black nor morning,
imagining the sky was below us
like grains of sand,
our flashlights illuminating nothing
When it's really a matter of black frostbite
Irreversible injuries, not just picturesque
Poetic pain, the craziness comes
Straight out of a MacDonald's Happy Meal Box
Straight out of one's dogged intent to really
Do something peculiar with time and space
These phone calls full of gloomy regret,
These forlorn lookings backwards you want to reverse,
The thing about other people is
they have to die too.
In order to see through the glass less darkly,
I think I should think more about dying.
But what am I saying?
I don't know; I wrote the last line first.
As if it was in Sanskrit,
The poem is happening backwards;
I don't even know what I'm seeing
Just now
I hallucinated that the snowflakes
were coming right through the window pane.
Very nice, blp.
Coleslaw slacked across his jaw
a geezer crumbled cream, razor-like
in the sickening abscess of his maw.
A plaid workmen's shirt carried
the dressing spilled from fuzzy
crinkles in his cheek, a robust
Pollack-print performed by age.
A tangle massages the sound
of a clear silhouette, storm
beyond these clouds,
tearing the sky into shards,
as static clings to the drymachine spark,
tufts carry a pain of springing
Dear gawd, this is a dandy. Think of the heads spinning at a smokey coffeehouse as you stand at the mike... :DQuote:
Originally Posted by blp
I love it! :nod:
:thumbs_up Awesome 'weird' poem, IP; there's a lot of charge going on here -- you can feel the pulse of a dilly of a storm! :eek:Quote:
Originally Posted by Il Penseroso