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Hope you don't mind, I feel like writing terrible poetry today. How about this one:
Dear John
My love
your absence pickles my heart
I lie there
on the shelf
waiting for you to throw stones
and smash my clear glass shell.
Your letter comes.
The pregnant sausage of my mind
sizzles in pain.
I squeak out my suffering
but you continue to fry.
I'm laughing as I type.Quote:
Originally Posted by Silas Thorne
Extra points for 'the pregnant sausage of my mind'. [more laughter]Quote:
Originally Posted by Silas Thorne
I felt the pen in my hand,
slowly unwrapped the thoughts~
a vowel, a consonant lies naked
as an adjective sky
full of brights and gleamings
glitters and falling
nouns
woke up
head stuck
in a grapefruit
went there
no one there
woke up
head caught
in an apricot
looked around
around town
woke up
head place
in a grape
I have some oranges on the sofa
I am boiling some water
soon I'll make coffee
the oranges are blood oranges
I have a slight ache in my middle back
on my right side
perhaps I slept in a strange position
I am typing (I can touch type. I'm quite
fast).
Seriously some of these poems are so BAD, i had no idea that one can create something so dreadful.. u must have spent so much time putting these up! but still you have my respect, I had much fun...
Join in! Anyone can do it.Quote:
Originally Posted by Veva
Poppa popped me one.
Forearms like Popeye
he twisted one eye to a bead,
swinging hamfisted havoc.
Kapow!
the card castle that I am
oyles away like olive to the ground.
A dag-rattling battler
from water-trough scarpers
they're coming with clippers
for three bags full.
Oh neigh no I say
Oh neigh no.
I much like those pastures
a long way away.
This genuinely has something.Quote:
Originally Posted by Silas Thorne
Or I will go away on other legs
foregoing Childish dumb fancies to learn
the ways of the cricked neck, sore head and dry eyes.
I will not go away on legs at all. I will not use the legs.
I will not go, I will not walk, I will not move, be glass.
I’m walking nevertheless, stopping, walking and stopping walking.
Running is something I do less.
Stop coming after me. Leave me alone. If you cannot come with me
without jerking me back, don’t come where I go, go away, stop it, stop
running in other directions with me roped to your sleeve, it’s
making me sick.
I don’t need to be hurt for running and walking. If you don’t like it, speak,
don’t run. Stop taking me into the domain of shock, making me run when I don’t want to,
making me stop when I do. Stop pummelling me with your senseless hurry. Slow down.
Let go of my arm. It hurts.
there is no waiting door,
nor near you (where
my breathing starts),
love begins:
never only,
only is
Sam, get a plan
you are supposed to be the man
and yet you every day dispose yourself
to be a little bit of ham
Your most egregious remarks have been recorded to be used against you later
I know you’re comfortable with this, masochistically speaking, but consider
nevertheless, the position of your family, they who never so much as cocked
their hats at a pander, what of them, fickle, feckless dandy of the demi-monde?