write a really WEIRD poem

A Wasp Brings Music in Spring Clouds

A day like today with all of the windows thrown wide,
a new wasp near the rim, appearing to want out,
the window open so near, it seems a trick, as he somehow overlooks the exit.
I spatula him out.

The new wasp, lost, with no thought of life, but to life,

Caught on new blooms, the clouds and the wind,
the wind won’t stop, nor its music in clouds.
To play music would act against the wind,
would disturb the look of the clouds turning in on themselves,
no music, but a new wasp’s wings, the clouds, and the wind.

The wind sings of long-ago hills, a wild queen riding bareback,
breathing crushed clover and sunned horse,
running heavy and relentless as a mountain falling,
past the hut of an old mountain man,
an old man living on raspberry tea,
keeping warm by the blaze of peacock feathers,
the blazing eye of peacock tails, his mirror.
Sleeping in a circle of mushrooms,
dreaming of wild queens,
haikai on his tongue, like health.
A wasp lands in his tea and drowns.

No music on a day like today, but the wind sings of
the pallor of winter, the sorrow that strays over all endings,
no matter how anticipated, or welcomed.

In hours like these, nothing means more than the lyrics of clouds.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by kiz_paws

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

---

very nice. I liked " we could leave spaghetti lives, limp and tasteless" very much! yay, kiz. I loved it. :thumbs_up

?
OK
now
this's
I admit
I do things
when I see you
yes, I can't keep still
when I am far from you
it's something to remember
the way you walk so adorned
Your wardrobe fascinates my senses
the way you walk so adorned
it's something to remember
when I am far from you
yes, I can't keep still
when I see you
I do things
I admit
this's
now
OK
!

LOL mmaria, the first thing I thought of in "looking" at this shape poem was a wardrobe malfunction! Very weird, and clever. (typo in the 10th line)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by ~Sophia~

LOL mmaria, the first thing I thought of in "looking" at this shape poem was a wardrobe malfunction! Very weird, and clever. (typo in the 10th line)

---

Thanks! The situation that inspired it was such: wierd and clever:lol:

you talked of woods but there were no trees in your voice
and even as you grinned and called yourself my lover,
the stuffed crocodile peeped out from its planet under the ice
and phase-shifted round to abstract from itself some more

Fitting together the interface
That once was dripping like slaw
Falling like moss at a rapid pace
Dodging arithmetic law.

Seldom again will the Mind do time
Within the confines of limits
Now I'm aware of a shift sublime
In the perspective of scale that rivets

Deftly the tools of calculating
Resonant fruits in filigree
Degrees o diffidence abating
In rays of shed reverie.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by alakungfu

Fitting together the interface
That once was dripping like slaw
Falling like moss at a rapid pace
Dodging arithmetic law.

Seldom again will the Mind do time
Within the confines of limits
Now I'm aware of a shift sublime
In the perspective of scale that rivets

Deftly the tools of calculating
Resonant fruits in filigree
Degrees o diffidence abating
In rays of shed reverie.

---

wow, this is really weird and I love the flow and rhymes.

history flows slower around you,
measured glint when you cross the road.
I could have done my ritual of traipse and peek,
you could have done your ritual of smile and shoulder,
lips that could be sensual,
if there was malice
in the space between the sky outside your window
and the doorframe borderline,
I wouldn't have noticed the wars and the floods,
or the line-up of fathers gone by.
Life could have brushed through me, uninvolvedly content,
on its way from here to the night.

Very nice Sleepy!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by alakungfu

Fitting together the interface
That once was dripping like slaw
Falling like moss at a rapid pace
Dodging arithmetic law.

Seldom again will the Mind do time
Within the confines of limits
Now I'm aware of a shift sublime
In the perspective of scale that rivets

Deftly the tools of calculating
Resonant fruits in filigree
Degrees o diffidence abating
In rays of shed reverie.

---

this is great too!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Il Penseroso

Very nice Sleepy!

---

thanks Il Penseroso :)

Whirly
Twirly
Swirly
Curly
I am
A pretty Girly :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Riesa

very nice. I liked " we could leave spaghetti lives, limp and tasteless" very much! yay, kiz. I loved it. :thumbs_up

---

Thank you, Riesa. :blush:

Quote:

---

A Wasp Brings Music in Spring Clouds

A day like today with all of the windows thrown wide,
a new wasp near the rim, appearing to want out,
the window open so near, it seems a trick, as he somehow overlooks the exit.
I spatula him out.

The new wasp, lost, with no thought of life, but to life,

Caught on new blooms, the clouds and the wind,
the wind won’t stop, nor its music in clouds.
To play music would act against the wind,
would disturb the look of the clouds turning in on themselves,
no music, but a new wasp’s wings, the clouds, and the wind.

The wind sings of long-ago hills, a wild queen riding bareback,
breathing crushed clover and sunned horse,
running heavy and relentless as a mountain falling,
past the hut of an old mountain man,
an old man living on raspberry tea,
keeping warm by the blaze of peacock feathers,
the blazing eye of peacock tails, his mirror.
Sleeping in a circle of mushrooms,
dreaming of wild queens,
haikai on his tongue, like health.
A wasp lands in his tea and drowns.

No music on a day like today, but the wind sings of
the pallor of winter, the sorrow that strays over all endings,
no matter how anticipated, or welcomed.

In hours like these, nothing means more than the lyrics of clouds.

---

Though this is published in the "weird poetry" section, I wanted to say that it flows beautifully, and there is even something Hendrix-ish about it, if I may compliment you in this fashion. :nod:

No cars,
light coming up
with the radio-
Lenny’s here, really here.
Do you cry
when you play him,
where the fret moves into the music box?
I dance inside,
sometimes I risk it driving—
bow my head and shake
where the clear notes sound tenor up the neck,
bass in a tin can like a kick
oh my!
Muffin for my sweetheart—butter me—
whiskey’s too early, but those cigarettes
sleep in my heart like a snare vibrating
in the red rising sky, coffee me, it’s all I’ve got
left.

Here now, people come and go,
Lenny’s low loud lingering me in the parking lot—
I can’t leave you in this radio,
staring into the space behind the world,
your fingers walking like yellow pages—
not for sweet love or even neat coffee.


March 2009

Aloft

Light
And
Urgent
Grazing
Hummingbirds

The constancy of youth
Prompts the eons of their truth
And renders beneficial
The ranks of celebrated ritual.
The fortitude of chastity
Weaves a rustling rhapsody
That salvages the reputation
Lost in a tippling libation.
The essence of response
Is chagrin when more than once,
Because time will not tarry
And we're lost after we marry.
The cost of peccadilloes
Is the tax of waning paramours,
Missing when you reach them
And innocent if you teach them.

Provocative vulnerability
Spewing from
Groomed tendrils
and costumes
and accessories
Tenderly outfitted
Premature felines
Frisk freely
or haunt the sidelines
headily
In the prime
Of their attractive
Natures
tares from
the frumpy mousetrappers
Waiting in their
Round middle-section-
Pampered frames.
Too kewpie;
cutie coos,
"What's to become
Of you?"

Cultured fantasies
Have a proclivity of the eclectic,
Tend forth a frenzy
In fear of the apopleptic,
Hold down a bazaar
Of serially typecasting
Living to breathe
And wanting what's lasting.
Occupy a stage
Where the hot theme is roasting
Ferocious likenesses
In genres politely riposting;
Occurring in positives,
Preventative denial
before the mercury deadpans
Quickly scares up the dial.
The excitement will cconfounnd you
In your regalia of conceptions
And muddle your perspectives
With your tinctures of deceptions.
The drama will afford you
Opportunities and disaffections
And a timetable's worth
Of disavowals and exemptions.
The wiser for experience
Without a doubt
But never much closer
To crass tedium's antidote.

Rule Number One:
Jump the gun;
Rule Number Two:
No rest-cue;
Rule Number Three:
Rut in glee;
Rule Number Four:
Work the floor;
Rule Number Five:
Toast of the town live;
Rule Number Six:
Internet flicks;
Rule Number Seven:
"Motional revvin':
Rule Number Eight:
Watching walls undulate'
Rule Number Nine:
Crashing dates refined;
Rule Number Ten:
In denial again.

Here I was, about to stake everything
on one card
when it dawned
on me
that the game was off
and the philosopher butterfly wasn't circling me
because he liked my hair
but to defend his territory
and he tumbled on and looked for someone
else to defend it against.

Superpeople move mountain
flashy *****slap the terrorist threat
with lightning palms red skin or surging
with the coolness of the toothy dead
the smily happy blooddrinkers,
shoot me round corners back to the capital
before breakfast, arm flying up boldly Yo ho!

Dayday kungfu practice makes us supremely ultimate
eight hour training is best
or cybernetic enhancement perhaps, having money,
also taking lots of super drugs
better to test first on people, be nice to animals.

But watching magic wonderbattles
soft in pleasant couchdom
only needs cost/energy of lifting a finger
or by online subscription or download.

***** like butch, but itchier.

refer to my post in personal poetry, all my works are really weird

Dear Sir,
when you are finished pondering
man, language and the question
of free will,
could you please remind the person
that goes by your name that the one
who goes by mine is a concrete
entity bounded in time and space,
the time being here,
the space being now
for any value of IF.
Or, in conclusion,
this is you and me,
with probability on the horizon
and my question is "yes."

tell me, when does 'some time' start
and is it gritty or is it pink and
when it ends
(how will I know?),
will it idly drift by or
drop with a clang?

The Vogon fixed us to our seats
to take the words and make them greech
and dribble gluesome, like a toilet stench
which wandered grimly by the beach
to the sound of a ragged cowtooth moan.
Like cloggy marsh or faecal squelch
we felt it underneath our teeth,
and thought with every sodden breath
he'd made that room a place of death.
But screaming would not be polite,
since we had bade him come that night.

Sizzling hot,
The pot calling the kettle
Charred,
Culling
More than just piecemeal
Scraps
For animal feed,
Spread liberally
In a sturdy
Trough,
Inspiring
Swine's
Minds and stomachs
To accept the
Nutrition
As a mainstay,
Not a temporary
Recuperation
Delivered
By rote
Without substance.

They say that such intangibles as determination, success, willpower
And the like
Are meted out to everyone,
In a fair manner.
That one has to merely make the effort.
So why is it that it seems more of a challenge to some
More so than others?
Do all go through this agony,
This mind-wrenching, soul-gripping
Torture
In order to gain something that in no way has bearing
On the essence of one’s life?
Why should it be thus?

Jan 4, 2007
02.20

Following blindly through crystal landscapes,
Through bloody hallways opening empty doors,
Either side is the sun the moon is ahead
Above streets of winding fear

Close your eyes
I have no eyelids
Then cover them with your hands
Do not leer you might get caught
These foamed fingers scratching roughly at skin

Would you care if I left and never came back?
Walk golden-rimmed deserts
Where half-eaten scorpions breed with the sand.

A vivid nightmare, beautifully rendered! In the 4th line of the second verse you might want to change "leer" to "fear"?

Brave sons of steel
our voices hoarse, out of alignment,
grind off to metal points when men come near.
Blood beats us hard with rain
sharp shines our skin,
our throat's a pit of stone
the fruit has left. 'Tomorrow
is another day,' they smile
while we spit oil, gluggy on their shoes,
demand attention to an angled face
and turn in step with chiselled chins
to mark the bleeding endpoint to the stretch.

High above, the circular sawbird
carves up the sky to ragged flames
and all the horrid mess of it crumbles,
sprinkles tinsel in the mouths of starving fishes,
in streams bitten off the ocean of question.

And then when vapour, tired in our teeth,
burns off in slouching Summer's lot,
we'll know then that the pull of metal thoughts is strong,
and rest our iron bones from rage.

Steel saliva still maintains its shine
of real experience, with lines of spittle
flecked from the tongue's patinaed sheen.
The silver crust of newly-molded words
chosen with exceptional care.

i lie awake again tonight
and the echoes of my nightmare
are thrown back at me
from down the hall--
dancing up and down
like the big purple four-square balls
i used to trip over
during recesses
so long ago...

Not by Chance

Never
Is the way I feel about you,
The chance that we'll ever be together
Ever since the look you gave me
That said
Never
Not in this life time.

Earthworm kitchen hope tape capital roving reporter Dave Louski coming to you live
from the cave dwelling not-so-recent past
It's
somehow nothing nor even going or getting and waiting it
just gets that way when you get it out, but inside, no
it's so very something else,
yes,
but not too much, no, nor too taut or kinked or kindled,
no,
not even with a whisk or a brisket
not even with a nosegay or a petit-four
and no
certainly not for you
Dave Louski
there in your up to the minute time traveling silver news globe.
hark at you
go get ya
ya hobgoblin, necromancing, singles-bar-frequenting nautical naught.
Where do you get off? O r r a t h e r I would, I mean should say,
When?

Tacticle pedant reprobate hopscotch queen, sorry,
king (it was the hair, something feminine, in particular
about your moustache, I'm sorry, I've been ill, a disease of the
brain pan, I'm
better now, but I still get these
febrile little
buzzing sensations
especially when someone nearby smells as bad as you.
I'm sorry, did I say that?
It wasn't me. I was not myself. I never am. No one is. There
is no self or causation. Nevertheless, we must take
responsibility for the selves we are not.
I choose Ghandi's.

Good to see you back B! Yes, the big Louski. we shared cheap scotch in a Ramada Inn bar in New Mexico. I was not the least uncomfortable with his nose.

Exquisite intricacy

Bordering on

Technical genius,

Suggesting

Inordinate skills

Of the tarrying kind,

Brought to the surface by

Antiquary tastes,

Recognizing subtleties

Long forgotten

In contemporary

Contexts.

True vision

Mirroring

Innuendoed images

Gathers dust

In the

Tepid foyer

Of toasted declamation

Screams
is all I can hear in my ears.
Filled with the pain they bear.

I look around,
but it's so dark.
No, wait a minute,
there's a spark!
The sky is 'breaking up'
stars are falling down,
and the screams in the middle.

I try moving,
but I'm all tied up.
Tentacles of Malice
binding and leeching,
my life's torn away.

Beasts and Devils,
along with brighter
beings like Angels,
danced in an endless battle.

The Earth was crying,
creatures were dying,
screams were deafening,
and I was shouting...
but I knew I was alone.

Suddenly, everything stopped,
my senses went dull,
and I closed my eyes...
I expected to rise, heaving
from this hell I was dreaming.

But no, my friend, I wasn't on bed;
I was still there, I'm just simply dead.