that’s a good one,
witches fear it coming,
subordination
is their bailywig, which
on the carpet this year
style may dictate
that that
is the way
to go
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that’s a good one,
witches fear it coming,
subordination
is their bailywig, which
on the carpet this year
style may dictate
that that
is the way
to go
of wierd or bad, I think more bad (heh, heh, heh...he said more bad)
house I built
night windows
full of dreams
in every room
pieces fallen
like crumbs
why are mirrors
frozen in time?
glass is yin
and yang
false light
and no light
why a choice
do not sweep
the floor
for I am lost
here and alone
mirror’s timeless path
or the grit
under my feet
listen now:
you cannot go
all the way
back home
A Detournement
I am still
one alone
sitting
one who
in time
is still
I sit
unmoving
this
is the
defiance
against
the limit
the no more
the aesthetic
If women could understand
by mazHur
she grew up to 43
pretty and intelligent
once married once divorced
two kids inherited
then history took a turn
she befriended a boy friend
who sucked her for whole 10 years
and then suddenly vanished with a shrink
taking away in a leap the engagement ring
and the promise to marry her;
time passed on
then enter a dragon
an Indian guy in the middle east
acting more loyal than the king
impressed her and won her heart
and finally vanished mysteriously
leaving no news behind.
Lately she bumped across me
and we exchanged our ideas
our aspirations, our likes and dislikes
she liked me for whatever reason
I liked her for most of the reasons
she wanted me to cross the skies
span the oceans and come to her
in a far-fletched land
I wanted to but my feet were fettered
with previous commitments
relocating was never easier for me
I told her this but she resented
said i was fooling her
that i was just entertaining himself
Ah! how she thought!
Oh, how could i tell her!
sometimes women are hard to convince
it takes men to die twice, nay thrice or more
to make them believe
the truth, the reality
that they are not disloyal
that they are serious
in matters of heart
but there are limitations
everywhere
If women could understand
I would be but too glad to tell them
That all is possible
that all could be accomplished
but there's a time for everything
that everything needed time
to enjoin or disassociate
that she should wait if she could
or take another way to Rome
as all roads lead to Rome
but remember
that Rome was not built in a day
that a tree will not bear fruit
instantaneously even if your poured
a thousand buckets of water
at its roots!
They go
talking of arithmetic
in the hollow of their eyes
a screech trailing
their movement
like a nylon glove.
Each number
turns to the next
counting
what they cannot have,
registers clanging
their buttons
pressed
Good poem, IP.
Practice dullness in the bath,
Take the grey and lifeless path,
Be boring so you'll blend right in,
See self-satisfaction as a sin.
What's wrong with being dullQuote:
Originally Posted by blp
as long as you don't lull
everybody else to sleep.
Some bores are pretty deep
and grey sometimes proves silver-ore
laden with glittery bits galore.
Excuse the shaky geology,
there is no silver-ore, you see,
but who's the self in "satisfaction",
does it exist before the action?
:D
I'd say you were right and my bad poetryQuote:
Originally Posted by SleepyWitch
was just an expression of worse philosophy,
but your deconstruction
of self-satisfaction
is rather undone
by your inclusion
of that grinning emoticon.
So there! :nod:
Masturbation, with lines from Oscar
Do this, and the boy gets it! Blindness and death.
‘for each man kills the thing he loves’
a little man, a little death.
Self love, the only
love worth having
on a lonely night
with only your pillows for company.
There! Two shakes of a monkey’s tail
and you’re done.
lay back on a pillow and think!
Feeling wise and grand
While the mind is in a sink
slimy as the scum on your hands!
wonderful response, delta! :lol: ha ha ha!
Yes I often ponder
whether to do the dishes
Or lie in bed and play with Slurkie :lol:
I have my art, it is my poetry
my darling moon, with
tresses of star shine
the deep drone of the cicadas
spawn indecision,
I bow towards the liquid sky
darling you are mute
I'm hungry
And my soymilk is waiting for me
With round chocopuffs
No coffee, just tea
I think it's going to be
Same old same old me
I posted it on litnet before too but perhaps that place wasn't as suitable for the poem as this one is.
Nothing nice to present you with
No rose to make you gay
Nothing beautiful to charm you with
No smile to display
Nothing to feel you with
No physical touch between us lies
Nothing pretty to attire you with
No jewellery to embay
Nothing shiny to bestow you with
No show of love to make your day
Nothing to dine with
No money to spray
Nothing else to toy with
No game to play
It's merely words I have
To take your heart away
It's only love I have
To get in your heart's way
It's just this luck I have
To crush the distances that between us lay
I dunno, Pensive. Hard to say. It's sort of bad, but sort of lovely too. Maybe it's loveliness depends on its badness and that makes this the right place for it.
*laughing* This would have been so much better if you'd used 'mote' and 'plash'. And 'glimmer'.Quote:
Originally Posted by Riesa
The crepuscular sky is stagnant
as the decision mumbles on
in winding fountains of a florid
afterthought, the room exagerated
to spindle clouds, yarn of a grandmother
echoed with the polite nudge of
romance, dust with a neon hue
loam of her leg the vehicle
catapulted like a child-trolley
chiming
bad, weird, whichever
what if the word
write it true
to this path you start
crying before it's
done it before they say
rewrite rewrite re-
gardless persist (keep)
in eliminating what grows
from the trunk makes
limbs thickness means
worlds inhabited by
roamingly cummings wrote
and it's true it does
not write on the fogged
glass is like lake-ice like l-
ake i ce
in the great hall
open the front gate
step on a break
your mother's back
in the USSR lucky man
he was once dis-
connected from this
or
only inebriated
or stones throw from
sleep will not disturbed
the gate opened take
one step then another
man they think I am
at home remembering this
means you are there
but you will not be gone
a long long time no
one will know
what shirt you wear
and tear on the planet
earth is blue bayou
where the you know
what happening now
not what it is do you
are in the hall of the mountain
fetched up with snow
balls of fire jack frost
I will get up long before I go to bed
crack walnuts on a face
like thin felt over a concrete floor,
chase lean deer on mountainsides
and pound the whole world flat beneath my feet.
With each footfall, my buttocks in their hardness
will crush molecules of air with an audible pop.
I will fart plentifully, with the fragrance of pot pourri
and all those who look upon me will tremble
and shiver like small birds
trapped in a walk-in freezer.
I laughed out loud. You and blp need to have Weird Write-off. Thanks for starting what was going to be a glum day with a laugh and beyond that I will smile every time I think of this (which I will try to remember to do for relief during the asinine events at work of late)Quote:
Originally Posted by Silas Thorne
Have a good one Silas, whatever time it is there. :D
Yeah, really good, Silas. Too good for this thread, in fact.
This is some bad verse,
Bad as cannot be worse.
Watch me bound from here
to here. A fleshy pear
told me to write this poem,
And to fill it with foam.
Thanks blp and firefangled! Happy to entertain and glad you enjoyed my crazy poem. :)
Sometimes you get these poems that don't leave you alone but you are not too sure of. That's why I put it here.
firefangled, love the cummings madness:
and it's true it does
not write on the fogged
glass is like lake-ice like l-
ake i ce
Dori, yes. Oh, the baditude of foam and poem, here and pear! I love the jump from here
to here. Write on, dude!
Thanks! Yeah, I thought the jump from hereQuote:
Originally Posted by Silas Thorne
to here was quite clever. I swear I write best when half-asleep, as I was when I wrote that.
super duper trooper star
how I wonder why you are
up above the world so high
firing missiles in the sky
would you would not could not can
take me bake me
every way you want me
you don't even have to touch me, man.
Man, man, icecream man
two scoops more and I'll be screaming
dreaming of food you knew I was hungry
but all this icecream hurts my head, instead
give me a cold sandwich
or a bite of bee venom or some
paltry poultry killed for its sickness
getting into my veins with its saccharine sweetness.
Whip it, whip it good.
Show me a wilderbeast
and I'll give you a thousand dollars.
Orange porridge gets you there
where your cares are filled with hair
Though you never liken lichen
It's still a place to ride your bike on
Therefore you should put it under
All the cups that make you wonder
Stones bugs eggs coffe tables
Catafalques, pictures of Betty Grable
And admirals in ashtrays eating cheese
In fact, we need some more of these.
Aloosha better ever cap draper kid
You with the horse marine jumper
You saying la la in the bathroom there
Where time is rancid and erased in space
I got you and I noticed in a tympanum
That being is knowing is later than it
So saying, and being, and begetting with
a fragrance of notional weeds, widow's,
There goes it, pallidly, plaintively,
with a growing notion of disbursement.
This is a poem
Buried in loam
Etched in styrofoam
Then sprayed with foam.
I was on the phone
Talking about this poem
To a home
While chewing on a bone.
I feel so alone
Sitting here all alone
Eating corn pone
The thought just makes me wanna moan.
I'm here at home
Waiting for the mail to come
Reading a big tome
That I had to take out a loan
for.
The End.
I made sure to make it extra bad.
Oh Verdana, I love ya
But now I've got Georgia on my mind
Without shame, sans serif.
Your care in this matter shines through. It's kind of genius.Quote:
Originally Posted by Zeniyama
I think I just saw Robert Mitchum
Coming out of the bathroom without a stitch on.
Scoot the scat from scooter trails
mirage your dreams to Red Lodge Ales.
There's plenty there, the seasons swim
in amber, stout, and wheat beer sin.
Sip ambrosial head, tasty foam,
linger before descents to home.
I got my new trike bike
There's absolutely nothing it's quite like
It's a trike bike that anyone would like to bring
To a garden with a paddling pool, croquet and a swing
If you think you can get a trike bike like mine, you're a fool.
Never in your life have you seen anything so inimitably totally cool.
Your eye, so like a leadweight goat,
preponderance.
connected to the spankled world, collapsing.
FREEDOM! Mel might say.
But not in despite for in spite would say:
'two heads do not four trees resolve.'
Putting into words
Getting off horses
Going through something
Trying out a kite
near the Dolly Parton roses, rising
zombie-like, a love poem,
long buried, vow-
els trailing ov-
er mulch, catching higher
on the prickly canes, mush oo-
zing behind its poor life-
less meaning―someone
else lives there now.
Sitting too long at the squeeze
texting
my left leg turns clubfoot
touching flesh, it feels like zombies might
and after the flush
I drag my dead weight bedwise
to wait on sense returning.