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.
"Etiquette is etiquette. He kills his mother but he can't wear grey trousers."
-James Joyce
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.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.
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
- John Berryman
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.
I was waiting
for your eight-o-clock
hands; on my thigh,
khaki leg, the flowers
in their paper left
in humid print its mirror,
where, you, no doubt,
watched not time
Something indeed something
returned me here or
hereabouts to where
a thunder slept in a ratty shawl
dreaming of a time after its passing
where it would find
the secret of being less than it was
the secret of not being it.
This is what I want for you too.
These strings I play I harp upon,
these harps that play, they string me on
that finely touched-up face.
You glance to check that it's still there
in a shining gleam of glass,
or in the glance of others, as you pass.
Or, take photos of it with your cellphone.
Last edited by Silas Thorne; 10-19-2009 at 02:38 AM.
Here's one of mine,but i'm only eleven I don't much emotion or enternal power.
I sit alone in the cold,
Feeling sorry for what’d done.
But pity for oneself doesn’t matter,
But pity for everyone.
We all need to be pitied,
Because we all live in fear.
Not everyone’s perfect,
After thinking this one night,
I shed one single tear.
This is my spider Stanley, he and I will rule the world together.
I give up baby was
that many years fly
on the wall-phone
bell tone crank it crank
Lladro figurines mama
made a shelf just a
piece of pine a plank
found almost thrown
out years ago and by
the way just because
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