write a really WEIRD poem

Aerie and fairie and fluffee and floss

The future in essence belongs to us.

We sift and discover it,

Part ways to deliver it,

And circumnavigate that which we have dislodged.

Ode to the resilient,

Ode to the wise,

We spend our life retaining

The rote they have dispensed,

And narry a regret have they despaired.

My horse for a future

I decry to the stars!

What is theirs is my right,

I’ll assert solemnly

To the knaves within the range that I’ll smite,

And I’ll pilfer the peasants

And sequester the virtuous

For want of an edict

That they would mine accost!

All for this a glorious captive audience

And the tribute shall follow.

The horseless troops back to the citadel,

Supported in the hearts

Of the prostrate multitude

Who partake of their rigorous rewards.

Alive boy overhead.

Hallo chaps. Keep your chins ups. Spake the lord. See the wheel. It’s a human show. It’s real.

Time tickler ribbon fancy motion sickness deride timetable figure fealty and fold a fatuous fatuity into feathers. Lick a pickle. Take a sandwich. Meet you half way. Scope for derailment. Scoop de poop. Prickle fickle pickle tickle. Salami.

Maybe it’s real or maybe it’s feel. Maybe it’s not a note but a gnat. I can’t tell too well just from the smell. I can’t smell too well anyway and it’s never too welly to smell it with hay.

Leaven it with bretheren said bed fed ked keep it for the veep seep under the toilet seat sweet skeet sheet heat beat. You go gone get gat got butt fut put tut stut cut shut hut whut brut. I’m liking de hiking. I’m miking the biking. It’s all to my liking and it’s totally frightening and whitening. Kind of told the hold fold gold. Kind of bedded the headed wedded, totally shedded, completely shredded. Knife the the heart, in part for a fart by a tart with a cart. Step to my loo, keep to the poo, seep through the shoe and defeel the flu. Cocaine. Cocaine in Spokane. Cocaine’s on the wane. I would fane take cocaine. in the rain.

Ambulatory.

Anger eating idiots

Manager going greedy guts finding nobody eating nothing saying stop
**** off figure active. Folks your folk wisdom fixture ****er fake fact finder
Feed me. Fed up. Chipmunk dungheap dotage doldrums demon detail dagwood *******.
Ship off for fancy world. Fealty failure. Ferocious Ed. Hi, Ed. Ed is saying, Hi.

Changeling mountebank depository trash heap happenstance globe bolus.
Feely wheely failure derailer. Drop worthy ants pants toblerone copper coping candy cobble.
Old Shep. His ship is shopped. Chip chop chip chop top cop pop stop hop whop.
I meant Mindy is money mongering for mainly misty musical material.
I made maybe by a matchstick for a happy chick with nautical aerials.
I did it. I only did it to annoy you. I got sick just to pick at sticks. I thick. I rick a nick.
Find feeling folding upper tupper cupper hupper bupper. Peepo keepo coppo hoppo
Harop belabop candicop randichop. Chimean anstance devolve rover ever dever.
Lever lover cover caver hover reverb ever never. Joinery of devoinery. Moanly goanly.
Glad rad dad bad sad fad.
Chamonix chimney chip shop chop suey sandwich bluey bloater.

Ugly bugs. Dumb dippy kids. Silly childs. Stupid burps. Flops. Losers. Angry pants.

I will ruin you. Motor ventricles. Candy pads. Dick stops. You over-eaters. You got a pog. You’re problematic.
You’re stupid.
I mean I on the other hand. I said it when I did it and I got it by a big bit. I’m like
Yes, fine, chinny up your ham sandwich chip shop chimney pot poltroon toblerone baggage
Completely. I mean it. If it this if this is if this is what you eat when you’re not looking at pictures.
If this is what you deliver when people aren’t eating. If, I say. I mean it. If I didn’t get a house boon.
If there wasn’t any candy left. If it was all only about you. Yes. Well, Cheap, I say. And I don’t buy it.

Conscience en panache

Two-faced and unabashed

The gall of a smug self-entourage

That pinches the witness

And his sense of fitness

And profits him in newfound “it”ness.


What can be more cunning

More indefensibly stunning

And as indefatigably funning

Than a quality control

Of a nattering session toll

Where the static atmosphere can loll


And accrue around each guest,

Put stale gossip to rest,

Prone for spice and vigour to ingest

And make a dialogue

That translates to demagogue

From an ephemeral bog.


The murky cool of pride

Overwhelms the risk inside

Before a chance has died

And been justly squared away

In return of the day,

In obtrusive array,


And remarks the pause

Of the commoners’ natural awes

As he wends through their laws

Enjoying his own company,

Ignoring the staunch litany

Of peripheral prices and their tyranny.

Nice one, that last one, alakungfu.

Thanks blp.

I know it should be our work
But English is not my original language
So I ll get a hammer, and a fork
Go sit in the garage
Grunt and utter like an Ork
And throw you this garbage.

But, to save my neck
I also throw you
This one which is a heck
And surely is not written by Larry, Curly and Moe:

Ladies and Gentlemen, Edgar Alan Poe.

---------------------------------------
*Fill here with the best Poe you know.
(my original choice was Annabel Lee )
:D

Bat.
Two chickens are walking on a street
and a bat suddenly fell at their feet.

But.
They chuckle swingle rumble
Oh mighty Chi-cken they mumble

Bit.
Take care of your birds
a bit because we're not thirds

Bet.
Laid a wager on who would win
or regret our ethernal sin

Bot.
At night we'll be flying rats
just not to lose the mot.
:crash:

Once upon a cad

a miscreant called

a scoundrel’s bluff

hemming in the villain

in his own reprobate trail

making a rebel

of the malefactor

when the criminal turned and ran

leaving the offender

the suspected fugitive.

It was ugly when they
threw out the cutlery
after the burglary.

It's attractive to speculate. In one's mind's eye, one does it, with an elan that
oh, in practice, mon petit, it is not so easy, ones expectations, ones hopes...
One learns to negotiate as one gets older between this kind of pearly credulity
and the cool soldering of one's vision to a practically possible picture of
gravitationally conventional day-to-day hyperactive proactivity.
Well,
that's the way we do things in Chicago. But realities rub shoulders with one another
so intimately that they are like leaves, turn a page and you are somewhere else
with different laws, different parameters, different cultural values. Here, for
example, no one cares a whit for that Italian charlatan Michelangelo. I'm
sorry, I have forgotten your name. Are you sure you were invited? Will you
stay?

haggis? no, it's
popcorn popped in donkey bladders
strewn across wire fences
jaundice butter dripping

some equine mystery neatly wrapped
in a mammalian lie
all the hooves turned to glue
soon they will float, above the
moon

take the organs, the meat, the bones, the
marrow
and parry all the evil spirits as you
devour from the heated rock

Motorcycles and bicycles both point to hell.
Spin in a lazy circle then cry for Apollo's Chariot
to take you to heaven.
Rebuked once, twice, thrice?
And still you try to steal away on stolen wings?
You will not find a happy place.
No such haven exists for robbers;
and robbers of words no less.
Consider, then, thy existence...
terminated.

I usually write short stories and this is actually my first go-into-light poem written in agony: have fun, because I am not really having one now :thumbs_up (think it is the worst thing that ever came to my mind)

Through the cuts on your face
over the bruises on your chest
how far can I ever go?
For I never meant to hurt you this way...
I got what never could be mine

Through the cuts on your face,
over the bruises of my being,
had I even known the taste
had I ever made your blood go to waste
whether mistaken or not
I will give our love another shot

But for good or for bad
all I need is a cure
of what you so stupidly called
my heart-shaped freezer
nothing more than one stupid stitch
promise me never to see that b*tch

Mystical oblivion
Takes a turn
Blossoms through the mossy barkbed
Into a bed of ramshackle primroses
Charging the prim border
Of the sweet cherry tree

Long brace of scents
High brow glints
Tragic rinse

Age is linear
Time is asymmetrical
in aspect, like rain

A testament to innate skill,
A fetching beauty
For an inordinate thrill,
You've lost your breath
'Til you've got your fill.

Profound exaggerations
Lead to
Sound evaluations
Perpetrated through
Round cogitations,

Innermost sentiment
Emerges without
Impediment
To champion
Glib experiment -

A new phase in a sense;
Promoting
Ultraconfidence
Just veering to
Near quasi-eminence.

Straight talk
Sanctions the truth,
Straight walk
Disguises the uncouth,
But the foremost rule of honour
is
Staid secrets unlock
Precious glories of youth.

When Glander enters
even the barflies hold their breath--
not in suspense--but so they won't get a whiff
of yesterday's urine/semen/rotgut,
plastered in aimless greasy splotches
from his chin to his shoes,
he jerks like a marionette
then slithers to the nearest stool.
Hunching like a sick toad,
he licks white lips,
winks scarlet eyes,
bobs his rotten apple head
then mumbles out: "Blue."
Takes a gulp--lets it dribble
to join yesterday's brew--
swipes a sleeve cross his nose
dripping green stew.
Then
he notices the picture pinned on the wall
of Dolly Parton and her twin friends
and he drools on the bar:
"That's eatin' stuff," he croaks
and cackles aloud, fondles the barstool
and crosses his legs.
Then
silence
as the demon within
gives him the password
he'll repeat again and again:
"What is it--what is it--what is it to me--
nobody--nobody--nobody but me."
Until
a song on the jukebox
spins him around
and a fragment of lost lust
stabs through his brain...
Blinking frog eyes
fill with blue mist--for an instant--
then
Glander shrugs it off,
leans forward,
grunts,
and breaks
yesterday's wind.

Life after the Moon

They interviewed Buzz Aldrin in the paper.
He said some lives have a before and after:
life after that novel, life after love,
or life after the moon.
What he forgot was life after a should-be-friendship,
a story that ended before it began.
After a "Keep me posted" and "See you soon",
one day outside your office and back to
"Best wishes" the next.
Life after you blandly said you were my lover
and taught me not to look back.
Long after dreams of trains should have warned me
that life after you would be fun:
new people, wine and Spanish vocab.
Now I realize that I cannot re-create in me
your stoical beauty, your other-sphere smile or
the way you frown when you cross the road.
And when I listen for that place where I could feel you
I know that life after is longer than before.

Green Bananas

Under spinach drooping
do not break your neck
The yellow wind blows fine, fine
blue-green nothings, but a fleck

The spot for green bananas
will not abdicate it's crown
A crow hides in the lantanas
though it wears an ermine gown

About the pudding cupboard
ju-ju beads strung, for a lark
You know the baby's crying
because the toast is dark

The lights are slowly dimming,
fading till they're gone.
My brain is slowly slimming,
till eventually I've got none.

Playing on one of my previous:

Greetings to the malfunctioning being
Preaching philosophies of sound acting
Dragging, drag madness in ample hailing
Love, vagabonds of a never-be comprising
Still Light, cast in the livelong dry-runs

a cow, while walking through tall weeds
wondered if God intercedes
and ruminated, is it fair?
cows can't petition God with prayer

Why is this so hard?
An eternity of waiting.
Steam rises up to my face,
no progress yet.

I know it is getting hot,
hope it's finished soon.
Put the milk away,
it might go sour.

Did I switch it on?
I'm sure I did.
I know it's happening,
bubbling up within.

I am impatient,
I think it is close.
-Ping!- but it's cold,
stupid kettle.

This ones pretty wierd due to one reason. I was rather drunk when i wrote it and I wrote it too the bottle of Malibu in my hand rather then about it. Then when I went over it I read it aloud to the bottle as if I expected a reply.

“ Caribbean Rum”

My drink, oh my stolen drink,
have I become so aroused?
Your love is so great,
your heart's just like mine
alcoholic and used,
like the darkest of shine
together we fight,
through each of our days
with all of our might,
both heartless and bland,
but as strong as the wind
it is you my good friend,
who brings just to my sins

Lover leaver, smileeater
had a life but wouldn't keep her
put her through a special hell
and there he left her
so unwell

In earth we grow the crops
which, if we’re lucky, feed us.
From earth, we have been told,
our deity even made us.
The earth we use to make our pots,
the bricks to make our homes,
But earth can also wreck our hopes,
And turn us into stones.

In light I see the light,
A blazing hub of whiteness,
Burning, calcifying hope,
Reducing all to ashes.
Thus the atoms of the stars
Blow as dust on solar winds,
In time, will form new suns,
Of thought and careless sin.

Unremitting in its advance,
slicing off seconds, minutes hours,
the pendulum of fate
dissects time into morsels;
bite-sized chunks of the present,
which pass along the alimentary canal of now,
through the sewer of then,
to swell the turgid sea of memory.
Infinitesimally, incrementally,
with every tick of the celestial clock,
history grows fatter.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Revolte

“ Caribbean Rum”

My drink, oh my stolen drink,
have I become so aroused?
Your love is so great,
your heart's just like mine
alcoholic and used,
like the darkest of shine
together we fight,
through each of our days
with all of our might,
both heartless and bland,
but as strong as the wind
it is you my good friend,
who brings just to my sins

---

I think I owe you (and your friend there) a drink for this one. Malibu and coke is my drink of choice... I may try and memorize this to impress the next bottle I come across.

[said in a computer-voice]

Hello, you have reached the household of Lady Potbelly.
If this is Lord Potbelly or his new blond wife, please press "End."
If this is a teenager calling to make fun of the Lady's surname, please press "End."
If this is the Lady's nephew in need of some cash, please press "End."
If this is a solicitor for plastic surgery or a nursing home, please press "End."
If you're still here, please leave a message after the tone.



...I hope this would still be considered a poem...

I hear there are orange squidders
in Patterson
they pitters

They pitters
then they patters
some are sons and some are datters

Milk and butter the baking seem of your eyes.
They platter each font of skill you caress and steal the margarine.
Magpies douse your blackbird flames but leave the food famished.
Moods flood this conflagration and nag at windless skies.

Can't Get Back

This magic meat that I must eat
Shines bright as if in play.
The sky is blue. The grass is, too.
May God drip consciousness on you.
I think I've lost my way.

Magic Boundaries


looking throuhg the lense of Tike
do you see just what I can see
rubbles, gubbles upside and trees
wondering the ins and outs of Rheeves
noisy and brash in single bash
trebbling, brumbles cut up the grass
tussels freckles flying just pass
counting one each in sums of threes
spotless and free ready to flee
wondering the ins and outs of Please
sires, ladies, cartoons and cars
lifting the parcels out of place
smiling cute faces handling hats
rafting but slowly out of chase
dangling their fashions out of air
wondering the ins and outs of Mer

sausages
my fingers
are sausages
bite the bastards off
fax me my fish fingers

Doyle went to Mommy's bed
upward she did sit
busted sleeping with the dog
and they were doing it!

Doyle yelled...called 'em names
turned as if to run
Momma said, ''We need to talk''
and Rover called him, ''Son''