Printable View
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
Break Down
Heat pulsing
mind racing
head pounding
slipping
loosing my grip
oxygen-breath-
air-need-drink-
drowning-starving
whirlwind suck me
up, flushed free
pins and needles
prick my skin
no sanctuary
SCREAM
while I flea
bare feet bleeding
pumping-gasp
gagging
overwhelmed
breaking down
wilbur's walrus cuffed me with a twig
I haven't a fig or mention what you twaddle, quoth he with a waddle,
crumping in silence with Sally the pig
in proud green battles with beach-bleached white sailors.
Thanks, kiz - and IP for previous props. Glad you like it because it seems to me to have something too, though I might do more to it. And regarding IP's second post, though both were good, I agree about the second standing out. It's got a great violence about it.Quote:
Originally Posted by kiz_paws
Quote:
Originally Posted by kiz_paws
Lo, from these folds of
an ancient land
the woods and meadows
marked by the honorable scars of
gallantry,
once more,
when malevolent intent describes
a glowering shadow round and through
the fabric of the good society,
yea, then shall arise once more
the muscular form of fiercest virtue
lashing the very air
in hunger for the challenge:
Champion,
the wonder horse.
Should I remove my shoes?
Yesterday, in her wimple,
Sister Cecilia’s rhythm, I must confess,
caught my ear,
and only then my eye, her sleeves rolled far,
her arms dimpling with the strain, winter pines
rubbing in the wind, caught in her sound of scrubbing.
Should I touch my hat,
passing her in the narrow hall—a breeze
follows the habit of Poor Clare—the brim
across my stare, do I dare to raise my hand?
How is it those trees are more beautiful in snow,
rags against the tattered bark and spreading seeds?
Where shall I confess these memories, and less
than that, who will know my heart when I am dead?
TOO much fun to pass up! ALL of you are incredible!
(It's long, I'm very sorry. :( )
then there was that time i was eaten by an anaconda.
I was trapped in an anaconda.
(“-Wait, wait, what?”
“Dude, just listen.”)
I had been eaten, to be more specific.
It was I who stepped into that murky water –
I was not pushed -
Half-aware of what was lurking beneath,
Waiting for its next meal.
I found myself being eaten alive,
Not quite chewed, it’s a snake, after all-
It’s true, I barely had a moment to scream before I was
Swallowed whole, into the dark pits of the beast's belly.
("- Don't roll your eyes at me,
I speak from experience!"
"Was it rather like being in a dumpster?")
I clawed at the slick lining of that
Slimy, taut, unyielding wall,
Until the space became too little
For me to even breathe,
And my arms were suddenly clenched to my sides
And my muscles burned with pain.
I would have screamed,
But I could no longer feel my face,
Or my flesh.
In the once wide world I was now a lump
In a snake,
And I would suffocate.
("That is so weird."
"It's my story,
Of course it's going to be weird!")
Half-digested,
Half-decayed,
Half-alive,
I awoke-
(“That’s not true,” you say,
“You should have died.”
“Shut up,” I reply,
“And let me tell my god*mn story.”)
No, I became the snake,
“I am the snake. I have no name,
I am the creature.”
We were one, living in the depths of a
Jungle’s river- we were the hidden one.
I died enough, you could say,
But one day, while idly swimming by
The shore I saw a bird who sang to me,
She said, “You were once human,
You have the eyes of a human, and
You do not eat humans,
You are sick, you starve, you will not feed-
If you will not succumb, why not try fighting?”
("Who's the bird?"
I sip my tea, calmly, and reply in an even tone:
"Not all my stories are metaphorical."
"Whatever.")
And I said, “Do you dare speak so boldly to me,
Who could end your life in an instant?”
The little bird laughed in my face, and I recoiled,
Shrank away from the sound, for I was so small by then
That perhaps she could have eaten me-
I wasn’t sure.
“Do you want me to help you?”
“No,” I snapped. “I put myself in the river,
I can take myself out when I wish to leave.”
But I wasn’t so sure then,
And suddenly I felt like I was being
Constricted, all over again,
But now
Within my own body.
“You have a very inflated sense of pride,”
The little bird remarked, but I could only hiss in response at her.
And then I cried.
("Don't laugh.
- okay, you can laugh.")
But snakes can’t cry, it makes no sense, but I had to,
I would die if I didn’t.
However,
Warm and snug and safe and half-dead in this body,
I didn’t want to leave. I was a snake and –
“You’re not a snake.”
I wasn’t?
And it came to me that
I stepped in that river because I couldn’t stop myself,
Because I’d taken one step down a steep hill and had forgotten to hit the brakes
When it mattered most.
So there I was, in a river of sludge,
And there it came, the snake,
And I barely fought it.
("You would be the one to trip
And fall into the amazon river
And get eaten by an anaconda.")
“What will they think of me,
The humans? They have great stories to tell,
They’ve seen wondrous things,
And I’ve only stories of sludge and starvation.
Where are they now,
What have they done with their lives?”
The little bird cocked her head to the side
And seemed to smile,
(“But, of course, that’s silly,
Birds have beaks,
They can’t smile.”),
And she said,
“Why, not all are humans.
Some fell in worse traps than yours.
But we can always escape,
If we remember that we’re human –
We have the choice-
We always have a choice.”
“But I’ve been eaten whole- there’s
Nothing left of me.”
“Then start over.”
“I’m scared.”
“Then die.”
Such paralyzing fear swept over me then.
And I rose, and I tried to stand,
But I had no legs,
So I began to shed.
I pushed,
I strained at the corded bonds around me,
At the thick muscle,
(“Not unlike escaping mother’s womb!"
Because it's my duty to quote movies
No one has ever heard of.)
And my skin shed,
Layer after layer,
And I rolled and fought
Against the itch that
Nearly forced me to give in
And just be a snake,
In my river,
In my sludge,
Left alone.
And then I screamed.
The sound was so deliciously my own that
I tore even harder at the skin –
Now my hands were there,
And then they ached from the force of the fight–
But the bird helped, pulling off the layers,
Pecking at the skin.
“I’m so tired, I can’t fight,”
I wept, and felt weak and ashamed.
“You have to fight, you’re almost there.”
And then...
And then there was one last layer, coating me as a cocoon would.
At my first movement it tore, so delicate it was,
Crisp to the touch.
("Oh, like a wafer?")
I unwrapped myself,
And stood, naked,
But unashamed-
I was free.
And the little bird flew away,
Because she had her own life,
And I had mine.
I took my first step up that steep slope,
And I fell countless times
On my new limbs,
But I was dying -
Well, I won't say that
- to see what awaited me at the top
Of that ridge.
And so I rose,
Again and again.
And do you know what I found?
"Um, no."
That’s all right.
Neither do I-
I think that’s part of the adventure.
Virus
Twisted inside
opened-closed
gnawed
limbo between
waking
sleeping
walking
standing
Light to dark
flicker-fade
shift-change
days into nights
into weeks
still half-alive
grotesque misery
trying to deny
seeking numbness
inside
but refused
left cracked
open
Very cool. The ending caused me to go back and savour the poem a second time. :)Quote:
Originally Posted by blp
I loved the nostalgic feeling I got when reading the first two verses. But that third verse was very powerful. Ending with a question like that was awesome, I really enjoyed this one. :nod:Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
wonderful stuff, ff.Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
Startled by sudden hail, radish shoots, garbage-men
laughing, yelling at dogs and liking the morning;
the perfume of broken tea, floating steam,
snapped towards the upbeat,
the jam jewel-like, tasting of sunlight;
noticing green again along with
the contrast I anticipate, but don’t think about,
like hearing, but not listening to,
the sound of wind chimes carried on a coastal breeze
through a window left open in another room,
in this sidelong way it comes to me
that it is possible you are,
and I have never been,
one of the race with
whole faces built of ice,
made to freeze the mellow
back to winter.
I like all the competing sensory inputs leading to the ending conflict.Quote:
Originally Posted by Riesa
I would leave out the "that" in "that you are" - that is if you want to do so. :)
thanks, you were right.Quote:
Originally Posted by firefangled
Death hovered in the off-yellow rug
and later it was night outside the popcorn crate.
A kid tipped me while the lamps tried to glare
and I knew you'd answer the phone "Ja bitte?".
Posh and cold.
I'd never ring you.
Meanwhile I got up every morning.
Should I be more afraid or less?
And, besides, if I knew how to cry,
I'd like to get drunk.
The phone rang, you jumped up,
a bit too fast, but softly,
stood a bit too straight, but weak,
and said your name.
I know I'll never ring you.
Haven't we met before?
You were at the centre of the web
debating the existence
with the other coffee spiders,
one strong gust of wind, and the web was broken
I lost your number I told you.
Have you got a pen? Here, take my phone.
Hold it! Have you got it?
Just like that, yes.
There! I'll be back in two shakes of a banana
with milk, two eggs, and a little cream.
Your eye twitches in the background,
but I cannot read it.
Could I read it? What I once saw?
Quote:
Blades of green grass
wrath Khan in his absence
the curtains shut me out
turning light turncoat on me
Riesa, I enjoyed your poem, and in particular the phrasesVery beautiful. :)Quote:
the perfume of broken tea, floating steam,
snapped towards the upbeat,
the jam jewel-like, tasting of sunlight
Sleepy, your poem I enjoyed -- I liked that touch of German in it. :) And the resolve of the person that would not be ringing the other -- I liked the way the lines read.
Silas, your title was awesome -- loved it!This was a very cool passage, I liked it a lot.Quote:
You were at the centre of the web
debating the existence
with the other coffee spiders,
one strong gust of wind, and the web was broken
:DQuote:
There! I'll be back in two shakes of a banana
thanks kiz :) but does it also become clear that the reasons for not ringing have changed?Quote:
Originally Posted by kiz_paws
Kiz, thanks so much for reading these. I sincerely hope that one day I will come to this thread a see that you have posted a wierd poem of your own, come on, pleeeeaaaaassssee? give it a whirl? :)Quote:
Originally Posted by kiz_paws
Well I took it that the person in the poem has discovered a cheater after all, so I would say that the reasons for not ringing changed at the end. :)Quote:
Originally Posted by SleepyWitch
I absolutely LOVE reading what everyone posts, and they say that if one reads good stuff, there is a better chance of one writing good stuff. I don't feel that I'm there yet ... :blush:Quote:
Originally Posted by Riesa
I have a few things that I struggle with in writing poetry, and I am foolishly shy about it, je suppose. When I read my 'stuff', I think of Hallmark Cards for gawsh sakes... :blush:
Oh well, there is still the Haiku threads... :D
Thanks, Riesa, for your encouragement, and you keep up the awesome work. :thumbs_up
Liberal Appeal
Pulsating through the bodies
of the has-beens and the hotties,
a new inarguable creed.
The by-product of greed,
the great and gruesome classes,
who can't clean up their gasses,
look on in massive scorn.
The ripple sect suborn
unwritten rule supporting
lewd celebrities cavorting
in blatant flattery
of a greasy battery
of presumptive fiscal soldiers,
propping the ratings games of Folgers.
and their modesty-snubbing siblings
fishing through the purse strings
of the teetotalling, unaddicted,
disaffected, undepicted,
disenfranchised, underrated,
unqualified and separated,
afflicted souls of the free base
of the selected core of constitutional case
the lucky, the proud, the old and the young
the root of the matter, the restive unsung.
Bullykins, madder, dely, mould, trough, swede of the folio, mathching socks decision time,
It's not a little detiny for gulping and clipping weeks of revenge fantasy and lying authoritarians.
But, y'know, sometimes Wellwyn vacuole or repeat meeting molting coat of marketry pointing
Will then eventually if tenuously leading no more from fast and round appreciate or coo
Calculated alike not for repeating or Mary who went there alone and not without her tutu
said Hi and loved the wind the rushing reeds and marsh flowers humming with buzzing
life of all kinds the rinklets of speciating look now coloured prettily likening to living on chuckles
keeping their ideas there and liking all the opposing factors and the wildness of loading cots
or cutting cheese in spite of the pollen, your hayfever, the domestic violence, the tornness
of your jeans. Oh well. At least [counts off only the beginning of long list of quotidian blessings]
And it's precisely to stop the stepping pedaco of chattles snood elegant mild row house
of powder blue, lemon yellow shutters, wide, uterine sky, cells wheeling, specks of what
what
lode smith
To each his own,
Light yield,
Thrown scantily
Fur afield,
Narry so frigid,
Robust as gaunt,
The bust in theatre.
Drum, atnosphere's haunt!
The flame does stay,
The tear dries at the root,
The fire arrays
A primal likeness of soot.
The ideals fail,
The fever fades.
The station shifts -
The palazzo shades.
And the molten mass,
A puzzled deck of glass
Gleams in glossy strand
From some neighbouring land.
Code:This was the decree:
no clichés
and of the words gather them
two <x> two into the synta
declamation forty <x> forty twelve <x> twelve
the drowning of the symbol<s>
they accrued in the banter from currents
<x> marked the spot synta rested there
they departed two <x> two
from the banter into the impeccable field
count them the sounds of the consummate
in absentia:
no wing song
phases of reflection silenced
censored the changing of the territories
soundless the torrents of atmosphere will fall
(mark them all <n> <v> <a> <p>)
sanguineness extinguished
no clichés
a man is speaking in his head
as if to write
the season of turning
through the window
outside in the branches sawing of the year
of her eyes he writes
of her
tucked bare legs on couches
in him his chest like before a rain a front
(passing through)
how she reaches on toes for kissing calves flexing
her finger now polish (Sanguineness Gloss)
in a coffee cup handle
glass in between them (glass) and the sawing the breaking free of
branches
she list–ens leg out under the table toes how she does this
he stutters remembering vaguely the lost words for these things
This is so good, I almost don't mind that the reasoning is so precisely opposed to my view.
Rent Mosaic
Erroneous glitch,
felonious switch
stitched along
summa resinous pitch;
it breaches the mind -
trestles that bind -
finds the esoteric in signed
collected clocks that rewind.
A fault lies within
the most precious violin,
invading as a pretense,
a modelled figured sequin.
But the tone is the richer
for the internecine flaw hitcher
which her timbre vibrates nicely
and her solos so lovely feature.
Expeditious Vaunt
Cancelled sequence
In incontrovertible aspect,
Respective tense
Of philosophical dialect,
Having brought back from yore
The humanistic dialogue,
Language of more
Of sensationalized pedagogue.
How then to retain
The fruitful encounter
Of sound and the sane
In a determinate, yonder
And herein, a state
Of quasilude enhances
A dimensional date
For delayed second chances,
When true fate shuffles out
On a risque beat,
Ushering in little doubt
Of encroaching feat.
An edible clairvoyance disintegrates
as absence flutters like a silken heart
over our skin, an anchored doctor
schooled in loops, trireme tangles and the stone-
combusted net of disorder, flowers
nestled in the final lap of lost seeds.
Narrow, straight
left, right
curved, unbalanced
inverted, untouched
discover, reveal
is it enough
or is it too much.
N3Rd2 r3J01C3
r3J01C3 y3 n3rd2!
4Nd 48h0r 73H H3Rd2
7H023 DUm8 4Nd D3N23
@ 7H31R 0WN 3Xp3N23.
R3j01C3 y3 n3rD2!
4ND d37357 73H h3Rd2
7h023 m1ndL355 c0w2
W17 7h31R wh02, wH472, 4nd H0W2.
R3j01C3!
:alien:
Pallgrave reverberates matchlessly, fawning over an inviolable mink.
End this now, Atom Man, he cries out, gathering his powers about him like a
power glove.
At once, Harem Man and his conclave of super-powered concubines
sally forth from the bathhouse, hurling blasts of enzyme nutrient vapour
in concentrated form.
End? says Atom Man, unruffled, brushing the dust of a decimated city from his cruel lapel,
these trifles are a mere diversion. Look here, beyond this Mayan veil, observe the nucleotide, the contradictions of the quanta, here, in the always divergent centre,
is the joke you do not seek. But it seeks
you.
Primate, my pet
given PG Tips and biscuits
a fine-toothed coat, suited ape
smile pretty for the camera!
Chimp, some jungle! Urban
man chump, fumbling
for cashbox keys bundled
on borderless journeys, chloroformed shrieks
pricetagged and painless.
Play, Bananaboy, play!
No, not on the
just polished coffee-table, Chimpsky!
Follow Simeon's house rules,
no climbing on the curtains,
don't play with the phone
or we'll send the cleaners clockwork like
to take you out tendered, treedweller!
This is choice! Choice I say. 4817 3NcR1P72huN. Maybe more.Quote:
Originally Posted by Dori
If only could be as happy as we
thought, once the winding road
had snapped from too much turning
around and around, like a
stairway to heaven friday night air guitar
fretless and hopeless, strung out
with much airtime, beating
Hugo the bear with batter splatter-pale,
and tricking for a fiver honey.
What colour is anger
red, as the flames
that once ignited my heart
blue, or is that just a feeling
black ... when there is no light
everything is black
even your glances
but what does it matter
it is all blurred in a crossfire
even the unspoken is painful
if there were no passion
we could lead spaghetti lives
limp and tasteless
so let the tears fall
it is my heart's way
of speaking for me
Somone is gnawing on invicible bones
and there is nothing to do about it
as it is completely, and utterly, natural
There are those who gnaw on bones
and there are those who observe them
I observe them, and I favor this the most
Alone he will address the troubles
and flaws of the times:
willfulness, ignorance
and drink driving.
Geriatric Man sees through their disguises
with a biff and a bam , zimzam,
flailing taichi magic out of his palms
he makes them eat fist munchkins,
sad and sorry for the day
they turned tail and flew from righteous mindery.
Geriatric man soars through the age
with the power of gentle manliness
and a stiffly starched tie,
throwing rude people onto the back of his pickup,
and processing the rubbish at the police station.
Woven webs of written illustrations
Populate a seasoned structure
Prompting late and plural sensations
A concocted current reasoned rupture.
A perfect composition of smitten stealth
Steals the senses and lines the psyche's shelves
To decimate underwritten wealth
Left with the confounded nature of ourselves.
Hold a grace period to lend a thought
Of crystalline genius, a radical paragon,
And manufacture the ideas that were wrought
Outlining in elyptical polygon.
So mesmerized the mind at will
As per our following would uphold us
Entering the odd empty rind to fill
And surreptitiously build and mould us.