Hope you don't mind, I feel like writing terrible poetry today. How about this one:
Dear John
My love
your absence pickles my heart
I lie there
on the shelf
waiting for you to throw stones
and smash my clear glass shell.
Your letter comes.
The pregnant sausage of my mind
sizzles in pain.
I squeak out my suffering
but you continue to fry.
I'm laughing as I type.Originally Posted by Silas Thorne
Extra points for 'the pregnant sausage of my mind'. [more laughter]
I felt the pen in my hand,
slowly unwrapped the thoughts~
a vowel, a consonant lies naked
as an adjective sky
full of brights and gleamings
glitters and falling
nouns
"Don't matter who they are, anybody sets foot in this house, they are company and don't let me catch you remarking on their ways like you were so high and mighty."
woke up
head stuck
in a grapefruit
went there
no one there
woke up
head caught
in an apricot
looked around
around town
woke up
head place
in a grape
I have some oranges on the sofa
I am boiling some water
soon I'll make coffee
the oranges are blood oranges
I have a slight ache in my middle back
on my right side
perhaps I slept in a strange position
I am typing (I can touch type. I'm quite
fast).
Seriously some of these poems are so BAD, i had no idea that one can create something so dreadful.. u must have spent so much time putting these up! but still you have my respect, I had much fun...
Stop asking where is God and keep asking where the hell is human!
Join in! Anyone can do it.
Poppa popped me one.
Forearms like Popeye
he twisted one eye to a bead,
swinging hamfisted havoc.
Kapow!
the card castle that I am
oyles away like olive to the ground.
A dag-rattling battler
from water-trough scarpers
they're coming with clippers
for three bags full.
Oh neigh no I say
Oh neigh no.
I much like those pastures
a long way away.
This genuinely has something.
Or I will go away on other legs
foregoing Childish dumb fancies to learn
the ways of the cricked neck, sore head and dry eyes.
I will not go away on legs at all. I will not use the legs.
I will not go, I will not walk, I will not move, be glass.
I’m walking nevertheless, stopping, walking and stopping walking.
Running is something I do less.
Stop coming after me. Leave me alone. If you cannot come with me
without jerking me back, don’t come where I go, go away, stop it, stop
running in other directions with me roped to your sleeve, it’s
making me sick.
I don’t need to be hurt for running and walking. If you don’t like it, speak,
don’t run. Stop taking me into the domain of shock, making me run when I don’t want to,
making me stop when I do. Stop pummelling me with your senseless hurry. Slow down.
Let go of my arm. It hurts.
there is no waiting door,
nor near you (where
my breathing starts),
love begins:
never only,
only is
Sam, get a plan
you are supposed to be the man
and yet you every day dispose yourself
to be a little bit of ham
Your most egregious remarks have been recorded to be used against you later
I know you’re comfortable with this, masochistically speaking, but consider
nevertheless, the position of your family, they who never so much as cocked
their hats at a pander, what of them, fickle, feckless dandy of the demi-monde?
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