write a really WEIRD poem

write a really weird, wired, wacky, absurd, abstract, abstruse, pointless, pointy-eared.. poem. sensuality and reference to your late Uncle Edward are forbidden :)
oops, this was supposed to go in the poetry games section, but I clicked the wrong link. could you move it, mods? thanks


here's mine

!!!Attentione, attentione!!!
madames et monsieurs,
prepare for a breath-taking piece
of intertextualism
and have all your expectations upset,
it takes a lot of breath, for sure
it’s not what you think.
Between the sheets
.
.
.
of a scarlet silk notebook,
made in China,
pink sunflowers facing orange pine-trees
or pine orange-trees? from Japan
there’s folded up a page,
A4, white with black letters,
common enough.
A poem.

A contract.
You handed it out and I must have
signed it. Or at least I underlined,
sheepish signatory, the important parts,
and jotted notes in the margin,
one out of thirty
not random
meaning : contradictions
stress is unlikely?
stress it’s unlikely
I stress that contradiction is likely
structure is taken up again and again
realized by clause
to live

Basically it said “Never”
about the poet and the girl
and love and all that,
or maybe “Yes, but only if."
And you know it’s unlikely.
Only, the poet put it much better,
otherwise he’d hardly be a painter,
when Africa’s children battle the bulge,
and the weeping willow dances at the skylark’s wedding,
and angels grow chest hair in blue-wine crates
and researchers know.

It travelled around the world
and peeked at the heart of England
from the lining of a frayed old coat,
silk, from China, like the notebook,
taken up again
not random
where it hid with coins and a teabag
for a year.
Ready to pounce.
The tea was still good afterwards.

But if you’re so sure it’s “Never”,
Why not write one yourself?
I’ll cry your tears for you
if you mind my own business
and you’ll renounce me
to keep me near.

"Did you know," I hear from a woman friend
of mine, " women typically sniff their husband's/bf's clothes
but men don't normally sniff their wives'?"

Which only goes to prove
that having a really good female confidante
is almost as good as sleeping with one.

But please don't ask me the measure
or weight of "almost"...

Believe it or not, this rather pointless blow-off of steam was published in LA in a magazine called Up Dare? for disabled people.

Another Day

The sun comes up.
The light through my window awakens me.
It’s another day.
Another day of fighting to stay sane.
Another day of struggle to keep this daemon under some control.
(For what daemon can torment like a diseased mind?)
Another day of turmoil, trying to keep mind and body together.
It’s almost a relief when night falls.
Then it’s time for sleep—
Sleep, the brother of Death—
where at last my troubled mind and body can rest.
Then the sun comes up—
It’s another day...

DL Harris
© 11/24/97

heehee, Uncle Pen,
well... I'm sure this poem was something the readers of that mag could relate to , but it's probably not your most original piece :blush:
I wouldn't call it weird or abstract etc though :)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Pendragon

Believe it or not, this rather pointless blow-off of steam was published in LA in a magazine called Up Dare? for disabled people.

Another Day

The sun comes up.
The light through my window awakens me.
It’s another day.
Another day of fighting to stay sane.
Another day of struggle to keep this daemon under some control.
(For what daemon can torment like a diseased mind?)
Another day of turmoil, trying to keep mind and body together.
It’s almost a relief when night falls.
Then it’s time for sleep—
Sleep, the brother of Death—
where at last my troubled mind and body can rest.
Then the sun comes up—
It’s another day...

DL Harris
© 11/24/97

---

I don't know about the rest of you but it's obvious to me that your pen ain't draggin'.

I wrote this for my english class, a few months ago: (I have some arabic references, I'll translate in the bottom)

Decaffeinated Coffee

she lies.


Tomorrow I will tread along
the cracks that form the horizon
of yesterday. My every step sparks
in ballistics gel—Ah! It's sign
SQUARED ex, not negative co—
La, Na'am, Laysa...Bala!*
WHAT...now is, time
which shouldn't be. We dwell,
and I
am the fiber of the leaf on the dried-out
neem tree of what was, un—
Real-ity is the clapper under the cobwebs
tightly wound inside the body
of the bell that when she strikes, roars!
inside the parchment soul that's freed.
She is the box that holds the cat who's
dead or alive or dead and alive—well,
you see that there is authentic thai furniture
inside the 15 bdrm, 5.75 bath with, of course,
a brand new jacuzzi! Let's go inside—
her heart, her mind, her yellow facade that
melts on her forehead, not in her spine.


and she lives.


* La= no
Na'am= yes
Laysa= there does not; not existing; not to be
Bala= yes (a reply to a question like "Did you not go to school?")

Yeah, my whole class was cracking up when my teacher was reading it (no one knew who wrote it)...People guessed it was me after a while...

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by crazefest456

I wrote this for my english class, a few months ago: (I have some arabic references, I'll translate in the bottom)

Decaffeinated Coffee

she lies.


Tomorrow I will tread along
the cracks that form the horizon
of yesterday. My every step sparks
in ballistics gel—Ah! It's sign
SQUARED ex, not negative co—
La, Na'am, Laysa...Bala!*
WHAT...now is, time
which shouldn't be. We dwell,
and I
am the fiber of the leaf on the dried-out
neem tree of what was, un—
Real-ity is the clapper under the cobwebs
tightly wound inside the body
of the bell that when she strikes, roars!
inside the parchment soul that's freed.
She is the box that holds the cat who's
dead or alive or dead and alive—well,
you see that there is authentic thai furniture
inside the 15 bdrm, 5.75 bath with, of course,
a brand new jacuzzi! Let's go inside—
her heart, her mind, her yellow facade that
melts on her forehead, not in her spine.


and she lives.


* La= no
Na'am= yes
Laysa= there does not; not existing; not to be
Bala= yes (a reply to a question like "Did you not go to school?")

Yeah, my whole class was cracking up when my teacher was reading it (no one knew who wrote it)...People guessed it was me after a while...

---

wow, craze, that's really weird! I like it :)

This is just a weird one about ghostly places, I've been chatting with someone about ghosts and stuff. Marie Laveau is a favorite song by Bobby Bare as well. The wail from the song goes into the poem. BTW she doesn't haunt this particular cometary, she's in St. Louis Number 1, but it felt good to throw her into the whole mess. Have Fun I chose Cyprus Grove as the cemetery, because it's on every list of haunted New Orleans Cemeteries. Never near the top, it is still significant, and always in the top ten.

The Significance of Five Years

Full moon rises over the bayou,
Mist hangs in the Spanish moss in the trees.
Saw someone moving in the Cemetery at Cyprus Grove
The hour is Midnight garden of good and evil.
She wails away somewhere in the swamps
Voodoo Queen, dead undying Marie Laveau …
Gonna be some trouble come morning…

My cloak always hides me in the darkness of the night,
Seems some old boy acquired a hand of glory.
I could tell him that in theses graves Tis best to leave the dead alone.
But he has the spells and the wax and now the hand.
He moves away towards his target, a mansion near the entrance to the Grove,
Laveau screams in the dark somewhere behind him…

Now he’s made his move inside the house and the Hand of Glory flames.
As long as those fingers glow blue none in the house but he can move!
What does he want from them? Their daughter. How pleasant! Lovers.
They are outside now. He draws a water pistol filled with milk and removes the flames.
In a second or two he has recovered the limp hand of the hanged man,
Now something follows as he carries his girl away in the fog

Said I not these graves in Cyprus Grove are best left undisturbed?
It is Laveau again, but this time chanting, as if dancing in a spell.
The Young Man lays his burden down to rest for a moment,
And taking the hand out seeks to throw it as far a he can.
The wind sighs down through the Cyprus tress stirring the beards of moss.

A hand takes the young man by the throat.
Eyes like flames inside of cannon barrels fixate themselves on his face.
“I’ have back my hand, me. You take from Rene, eh? Rene take from you.
“My han’ have five fingers, yes? You use no p’misson. I tink I take 5 years of your life.”
The Horrible eyes turned and spotted me among the stones,
“You tink Renee be fair, Reaper?” I silently raised my scythe in a sign of justice.

Now you know why the haunted graveyards of New Orleans are so popular.
The have a lookout to see things go on, but go on fair.
The couple were married and are doing quite well.
He worries about the little tattoo mark on his chest now and then
And he still hear Marie Laveau cry in the misty nights.
He shouldn’t worry that much. That mark just sped up his date with me.
By exactly 5 years…

Pendragon
© 12/21/07

I hope this fits the theme of the thread:

Nicotine drones
bumble through a tracheatric tunnel;
fertilizing oxy-domes.

Tick-a Tick-a
Tick-a Tick-a

Hydrothermal ash, caldera mote,
volcanic winter; unvise the hemorrhage,
With a geyser-throat

Tick-a Tick-a
Tick-a Tick-a

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by NickAdams

I hope this fits the theme of the thread:

Nicotine drones
bumble through a tracheatric tunnel;
fertilizing oxy-domes.

Tick-a Tick-a
Tick-a Tick-a

Hydrothermal ash, caldera mote,
volcanic winter; unvise the hemorrhage,
With a geyser-throat

Tick-a Tick-a
Tick-a Tick-a

---

yep, I guess it's kinda weird, Nick :p *understatement*

A lot of my recent contributions to the bad poem thread would probably fit here. Was thinking of starting a thread called 'Let your unconscious run rampant' or 'Write automatically' or 'Don't think, just babble', but I guess this will do the job.

Padge bud beep boulder baddoo
You are so scrappy mr hortensia that
no matter where you lay your hat
It will be melted when you get back
do you not dream of some more avuncular
spiritual adornment? where in the lands
of butter, margarine or coca-cola
can one find a gentle spot of shady repose?
merely, says the gottama, cross-eyed,
at the end of your smelly, but illusory nose.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by crazefest456

I wrote this for my english class, a few months ago: (I have some arabic references, I'll translate in the bottom)

Decaffeinated Coffee

she lies.


Tomorrow I will tread along
the cracks that form the horizon
of yesterday. My every step sparks
in ballistics gel—Ah! It's sign
SQUARED ex, not negative co—
La, Na'am, Laysa...Bala!*
WHAT...now is, time
which shouldn't be. We dwell,
and I
am the fiber of the leaf on the dried-out
neem tree of what was, un—
Real-ity is the clapper under the cobwebs
tightly wound inside the body
of the bell that when she strikes, roars!
inside the parchment soul that's freed.
She is the box that holds the cat who's
dead or alive or dead and alive—well,
you see that there is authentic thai furniture
inside the 15 bdrm, 5.75 bath with, of course,
a brand new jacuzzi! Let's go inside—
her heart, her mind, her yellow facade that
melts on her forehead, not in her spine.


and she lives.


* La= no
Na'am= yes
Laysa= there does not; not existing; not to be
Bala= yes (a reply to a question like "Did you not go to school?")

Yeah, my whole class was cracking up when my teacher was reading it (no one knew who wrote it)...People guessed it was me after a while...

---

This is so good.

And so is yours, sleepy, but I won't quote it all again.

My late Uncle Edward
was sick
he ran febrile fingers over furry fabric
for kicks.

Your spies have been tailing me
across innumerable city squares
finding shadows in open land
to hide themselves
and their black objectives

your face itself keeps changing
likewise your voice, sex, body, taste
and wardrobe
which runs by itself on a changing selection
of trouser legs and stockings
in a bleak terrain that savages your shoes

We are already in Hell, which is why we can do so little
for one another, why
when we might be luxuriating in the soft gazes of
a thousand newborn horses
we find ourselves instead
lost, wandering separately
in the maze of hallways
in whatever government building
we use to observe one another's time
wasting

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by blp

We are already in Hell, which is why we can do so little
for one another, why
when we might be luxuriating in the soft gazes of
a thousand newborn horses

---

hey this is really weird. I like these lines best :) I've got a thing for horses (not real ones, but those that got misused by philosophers to illustrate some point that has nothing to do with horses at all :D)

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by SleepyWitch

hey this is really weird.

---

Yeah that was the idea!

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by SleepyWitch

I like these lines best :) I've got a thing for horses (not real ones, but those that got misused by philosophers to illustrate some point that has nothing to do with horses at all :D)

---

I don't know about these horses of which you speak, but, yes, I agree, I like those lines best.

Weirdly, as I was writing this, someone just walked by my desk with a dog on a leash. Not really that relevant, but somehow, it was quite weird.

The Bible-thumper was adamant
in trying to convince me
that Satan actually existed.
I turned to a man
who had walked up almost unoticed.
"Can you believe this guy?
He's ready for the funny farm, he is?"
"What's the problem with him?" He asked.
"He thinks the devil and hell are real."
The guy's eyes became pits of fire.
"Oh, that. I do. It does. Anything else?"

Pendragon

We have tried for so long with this
separation of our corticle axes
but achieved
only a plate of brains on a plate,
turning grey in the diffuse light
of Cordoba's main square.

Let us try your ritual again
not in some arcadian meadow outside Strasbourg
where we already know death is too
but here
where it is most needed, Herr Man,
on my desk in this office
where the grey carpet tiles, clean as they are,
may yet benefit from purification
by the slaughter and bleeding of a goat.

This is dark, but I like it.

Yet as I read it again, I strangely feel lighter. Maybe that's the power of ambiguity where you can come up with your own interpretation that helps in particular, as the mind creates what it seeks.

Yet as I read it again, I strangely feel lighter. Maybe that's the power of ambiguity where you can come up with your own interpretation that helps in particular, as the mind creates what it seeks.

Sorry, duplicate, but the connection barrier caused that.

Wonderful feelings I have being with you
Everywhere we go is so totally new
I know that this is just a generated view
Realised by pixels and computer graphics
Doesn't make it less real than molecules and matter

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by white camellia

Yet as I read it again, I strangely feel lighter. Maybe that's the power of ambiguity where you can come up with your own interpretation that helps in particular, as the mind creates what it seeks.

---

I know it's my own, but I find it makes me laugh.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by blp

Let us try your ritual again
not in some arcadian meadow outside Strasbourg
where we already know death is too
but here
where it is most needed, Herr Man,
on my desk in this office
where the grey carpet tiles, clean as they are,
may yet benefit from purification
by the slaughter and bleeding of a goat.

---

I love this stanza :)

Pen and blp's poems are far too easy to connect ;)

Another Monday
The manager clocks us late
Waiting at the door;
After lunch we will send him -
And his watch - to lazy gods

Spring is early as it never was,
we must decide perceptually,
Lucanus cervus, your antlers are stuck
in the bark. Don't you see your nimble legs
aren't dancing at all, you're flailing,
it's 2: 0 for the tree.
Lovingly and with awareness,
stag beetle, where's your wife now?
Why don't you go home?
All hope reduced to showering bums,
because it's fun and you're so frisky,
so ggnaaaaaaaaaahh,
unworthy,
too good.......
don't touch, don't, don't tell me I'm beautiful,
I'll pay this time and next time you won't, either,
so we're square,
selective reading of drying hair,
all those years you peeked at her collarbones,
come on, hurry up
Tongue attached to palate,
channel of divine blessing,
no this slope isn't going down,
it's a slip of the eye,
like when you drive on the
highway at 1. a.m., red lights ahead,

on

off

on

off

airstrip, aliens, goddamit!
All stations, this is the brain:
prepare for cardiac arrest!

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

It's only a windfarm after all,
speak after me in the silence.
Return.
Now.

here's another very weird and pointless one:





What use is der Mensch,
so elegant and pure,
applicable to all,
except himself,
you're not the first to get married,
and not the last to die,
the bigger the horse,
the longer its legs.
Only yesterday you were eagerly confessing
until death do us part,
you hereby named this ship
a new beginning,
new fragrance, redolent, happy,
custom made sails as clean and white as these
must surely reach the shore,
no captains need apply.
But quite by accident the twittering lark
had strangled the nightingale in its nest
under a blue sky when days were bright
and birds went unwatched
for lack of unlucky omens.
and all things considered
IN CAPITAL LETTERS,
night is just retrospect inverted,
head talking to itself.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by mir

Pen and blp's poems are far too easy to connect ;)

---

It's a red herring!

I'm walking on a hillside
with the light behind it.

Rabbits that live on this hill
stay hidden in their holes.

Another thinks on the hill
and stays apart from it.

I also think on the hill,
but I don't think of it.

Why didn't I think of it?
It is so obvious.

Nothing is convincing,
not even the implausible way you move through life
like a kitten being born in an exploding spaghetti factory.

This idea of yours
is like some kind of irritating disease you've come down with,
or a nervous disorder, a mental form of diaper rash as it were.

Worse is the obscenity,
of your enthusiasm for patterns left behind on used dinner plates,
which any dignified person would be embarrassed to admit to.

piano keys in my head
wonderfully saddening
painfully artistic
arthritic movements of the soul
aging and deteriorating with every moment
the moments are practiced, alone in the dark
to find perfection we isolate our selfs
the world is a distraction it seems
perhaps we better rid ourself of such a thing, if we are to be perfect
"it`s not me it`s the world with the problem"
piano keys inside my mind
are wearing out with the passage of time
the electricity of the modern world, is killing classical
note by note the guillotine creeps
slowly downward until the final verse
one last sorrow filled note to end existence

these are a whole lot of fun to read


The past is like a drying refrigerator magnet,
not the soiled one, but the one fondly growing
as the birds begin robustly against the window.

Items are the wavering of encroachment
fashioned through a mold, the key
is flicked aside by more mighty imaginings
than those yellow slippers resting like arms
of a fur covered chair, not sleeping
but in cold anticipation, shuddering without
weeping as the kitchen plasters itself to the floor.



and to write :)

As he would sit and contemplate
About the vices that were stopping fate
He failed to see the monster's face
Stuck, spiraling throughout his conscious state
The very same which daunts escape

The walls swirled as the whole world turned inward
The numbness would circumvent learned sin words
In spite, this light resembled burned vinyards
A waste the taste of which was heard in verse
Like Sandoz ripped your hands off. Earn; get yours!

As the boat rolled on and night of cold turned dawn
The host made toasts of moonshine with twin deuce signs
Yes, the note holds charms; fact's that the joke rose arms
The egg yolks that AIDs broke left children supine
Actions caused no harm, but made the cards alarmed

As they became perturbed by 4 As and a jester
The fleeting rain disturbed and made bleating pain deserved
The heating feigned perverse thoughts of reading, brains, and work
Conquer the order, brought by the former, chained and hurt
Life is like a box of chocholates, then you're shamed in dirt

It's become lighter in the garden.
I'm sorry, what did you say?

I said it's lighter now outside
Maybe I'll go out and work on the sculpture of the Vantage Point.

He stepped out, taking her pink sunglasses.
And seemed to be followed by a trail of lizardly ineffable irritations.

Real insects approached the honey jar militarily.
She wrote a note, appended with an obscene sketch.

If you get a rude message in the mail,
Please put it in your darkest place. Consider it to be from me.

Dear Members,
Nick Adams win hands down here according to me.Any imgery that is zig zag will fit in perhaps.Runaway thoughts are weird perhaps.Here is one from me not to be counted out.
A crazy game this.
------------------
Out goes the finger and the replay shows him a little doubtful,

What game is this?Is this Cricket?

That creature that tweeks at nights'creek,creek',

How does the name came to be a sport?

Cricketing fraternity will ask the cricket,

That tweeks at night and you might know,

Round and round I talk about the Cricket but it is a game you know!

Out ,the forum will tell me now and I will doubt the replay.

Weird,I tell you this cricket,the creature and the game too.

You're so right to give belated kudos to Nick Adams, VJ. I meant to mention it myself, in fact, thought I had.

Stupor colours lids
sludge coloured

Mad dog behind door
of eyes

Affect me not
Forget-me-not

In this chair in
this room is old with it

Touch off
Touch out

Ode to a table

Oh table! Oh table!
Your four legs sublime
I have but two
How I wish you were mine!

Oh table! Oh table!
I am but a chair
Oh superior furniture
How can I compare?!

Oh table! Oh table!
Covered with cloth
I can but admire
And oh, how far off!

Oh table! Oh table!
Your four legs sublime
I have but two
How I wish you were mine!

Here is one of mine. Is it weird? What's weird?

Code:

---

hear the dogs barking
in the undergrowth

fenris

watch the dogs playing
with their sense of self

fenris

watch the shadows cast
doglike in the cave

fenris

and all at once, see

fenris

---

Enjoy.