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I like,Walking on beaches and writing my name,Dancing to songs when I don't know the words,Racing down hill with my hands off the handles,Snuggling in bed when the rain hits the windows,Grinning at someone for no reason at all,Finding lost objects deep in my pocket,Drinking Earl Grey when I'm feeling hungover,Hearing tall tales told in the pub,Writing a letter that looks like a mess,Adoring a girl and wishing she'd notice,Being the butt of the occasional joke,Smelling the world after its rained,Seeing a kitten chasing a string,Touching things that are centuries old,Climbing up trees and getting stuck,Just being me and that's enough. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man, when the copper fades away."
[more contemporary version]I like,Walking on words and writing my songsDancing down beaches with my hands off the rainGrinning at someone deep in my pocketDrinking tall tales lost in the bedAdoring a girl that looks like a messSmelling the butt of the occasional kittenTouching the string and getting stuckJust being me and that's Earl Grey.~Heaven is a place whereNothing ever happens
Haha, both versions were wonderful. Capturing little poetic bits of life can never be awful. Keep it up! "Maybe you are jealous because your face will still look like an anus no matter what you do." ~Vanessa
The words are clumsy, hard to writeSome seem wrong and others right,The words that made me sob and weep,Are those I murmur in my sleepThe words they sting, and often bite,They haunt my mind and steal my sight,Some words I wish I'd never said,My soul is heavy, my heart is dead.Those words that I did say to you,Those foolish heavy truths.They were not how I wished you'd hear,The true verse in my head. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
The curseI don't care what fate decrees,To love her is enough,She fills my heart with longing,I'll gladly bear this curse,Each day I'd rise to lonely greyMy life was filled with dust,My soul was blackened emptinessI had no hope, no loveThen from the shores of misery,She rose from 'neath the depths,Into my life rose joy and hope,Into my heart she crept,The curse that I now do bear,Is not that I do love,It's that I do not know her heart,I do not have her trust.So to the corners of the heavens,To the depths of every sea,I'll bear this curse with happy grace,For her love did set me free. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
Scratch the third part and it's something right out of Dead Poets Society..~Heaven is a place whereNothing ever happens
Wait, so is the point to post your most awful poetry? Because I could get in on that.
She burnt me like a candle,And I can't take this pain,This scolding writhing agony,This empty souless shame.Now I'm burned and ruined,Consumed by hungry flame,My heart is turned to ashes,My life is not the same.I know I cannot fight this fire,That never was my aim,But I'd rather burn forever,Then never hear her name. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
3 verses and no chorus?Sex between a man and a woman can be absolutely wonderful, provided you get between the right man and the right woman.
In reply to:3 verses and no chorus?
3 verses and no chorus?
Feel free to insert your own.Here's another bloody awful poem for you...Tired is as tired does,Today I felt that jaded buzz,People whispering in my ear,Garbled nonsense, tension, fear.With aching mind and empty eyes,I tried to penetrate your lies,Those feeble truths I held so dear,Have filled me with a nameless fear.But tired is as tired does,End this day I've had enough. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
Love came slowly, made me blind,It grew within my darkened mind,Till of her dreamt I all the time.A fateful chance a deadly sign.I played an empty lonely game,Of stolen glances, secret painTill on that day my heart was shamed,And tears fell from my eyes like rain.She'll never know how long I dreamt,Her skin, her hair, her lips, her scentBut now my hope is gone and spent,These words shall be my sad lament. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
Now we got a number one:She burnt me like a candle,And I can't take this pain,This scolding writhing agony,This empty souless shame.I just wanna feelReal love feel the home that I live inCos I got too much lifeRunning through my veinsGoing to wasteNow I'm burned and ruined,Consumed by hungry flame,My heart is turned to ashes,My life is not the same.I just wanna feelReal love feel the home that I live inCos I got too much lifeRunning through my veinsGoing to wasteI know I cannot fight this fire,That never was my aim,But I'd rather burn forever,Then never hear her name.I just wanna feelReal love feel the home that I live inCos I got too much lifeRunning through my veinsGoing to wasteSex between a man and a woman can be absolutely wonderful, provided you get between the right man and the right woman.
Oh why won't you love me?Just why can't you see?I know I'm not perfect,But please set me free.If only you'd love me,I'd give you the key,To my oldest of secrets,My darkest of dreams.If only you'd see me,I'd stare deep in your eyes,I could fall in your beauty,For miles upon miles.So I'd love you to tell me,Won't you make up your mind?Won't you say if you love me?Won't you give me a sign? "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
But most importantly, does she have big tits?Salad Insane V2
Sunday (The completely non-Bowie related version)Sunday.Is like waiting at a bus stop,In a cheap blue raincoat,Wanting to be somewhere else.Sunday.Is like an empty pint glass,When you stare through the gloopy remnant,And realise that it's finished.SundayIs constant cups of tea,Ink stained fingersAnd tired eyes.Sunday,Is worrying about tomorrow,Not living for today,And wishing for something different. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
Rather nice, thanks Persilot.Do you like this one by... Poetry of Wallace StevensSunday Morning I Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre. II Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself:Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul. III Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind. He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star. Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise? And shall the earth Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue. IV She says, "I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?" There is not any haunt of prophesy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings. V She says, "But in contentment I still feel The need of some imperishable bliss." Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her, Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams And our desires. Although she strews the leaves Of sure obliteration on our paths, The path sick sorrow took, the many paths Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love Whispered a little out of tenderness, She makes the willow shiver in the sun For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet. She causes boys to pile new plums and pears On disregarded plate. The maidens taste And stray impassioned in the littering leaves. VI Is there no change of death in paradise? Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs Hang always heavy in that perfect sky, Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth, With rivers like our own that seek for seas They never find, the same receding shores That never touch with inarticulate pang? Why set the pear upon those river banks Or spice the shores with odors of the plum? Alas, that they should wear our colors there, The silken weavings of our afternoons, And pick the strings of our insipid lutes! Death is the mother of beauty, mystical, Within whose burning bosom we devise Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly. VII Supple and turbulent, a ring of men Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn Their boisterous devotion to the sun, Not as a god, but as a god might be, Naked among them, like a savage source. Their chant shall be a chant of paradise, Out of their blood, returning to the sky; And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice, The windy lake wherein their lord delights, The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills, That choir among themselves long afterward. They shall know well the heavenly fellowship Of men that perish and of summer morn. And whence they came and whither they shall go The dew upon their feet shall manifest. VIII She hears, upon that water without sound, A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine Is not the porch of spirits lingering. It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay." We live in an old chaos of the sun, Or old dependency of day and night, Or island solitude, unsponsored, free, Of that wide water, inescapable. Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail Whistle about us their spontaneous cries; Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness; And, in the isolation of the sky, At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make Ambiguous undulations as they sink, Downward to darkness, on extended wings. London Bye Ta-Ta...
I heard the lonely crash of bitter waves,On empty moonlit shores,They ground the cruelly jagged rocks,And mourned the passage of the days.I saw the empty rotten timbers,Rising riblike from the wistful dunes,Defiant to the shattered end,A slimey wreck, a pale moon.I smelt the tears of love forgotten,The salty brine of sorrow,I wept for all the times now lost,A longing empty helplessness.I turned away from darkened shore,The echo of the ghostly wind,Yet still it haunts me in my dreams,That shadowed coast of bleak despair. "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
I liked that one.It's mostly all in the void,everything that you are,everything that you say,everything that you think.It's mostly all been told,everything that you believe,everything that you heard,everything that you considered.You don�t know who you are,therefore, you can�t tell someonewhat to believe,what to think, orwhat to say.You don�t know where you�ve been,therefore, you can�t give directions on,how to save one�s soul,how to live one�s life, orhow to communicate one�s mistakes.Be nothing in the void.�2006 JACMySpace
"I feel the bleak despair of empty hours,The ticking of this broken clock,Will someone please come restart my heart,And save me from this blackened rot?""You're the one who makes me live,For you I'll rise above it all,Only you can understand,The secret workings of my heart.""I sink into the murky mire,Without your love I'm doomed,I'll not forget your joy filled eyes,Farewell my love that never was." "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
This one sucked so bad I had to put a hidden Bowie lyric in it. It's probably the only part I like, too.I am waiting in a sea of blackDip your toe in, watch the shadows attackLet your feet anchor into the sand, let it engulf, as you reach out your handFind my cool fingertips through the darkDon't be afraid, though the water is starkSwim out to me in the rippling waves, though the undertoe may provide us our gravesHold my hand as we drift out to seaIn pendulous uncertainty, get lost with meThe whispers of warning on the misty air, will pull and pry and try to dispairWhen the sea does churn and night sky flash with lightning bolts and thunder crash -I will not let go nor swim to shore, for I love you forevermore "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
I just found this on my hard drive. Wrote it in high school for a "Poetry Slam." I slammed, alright.Cover that blemishCover that moleCover each blightNow, cover your soulCover those scars, girlCover that bruiseCover your faceWith attractive huesCover that tear stainCover those bluesWith white powder, red glossMascara and rougeCover those roots, girlAnd change your nameWant to make it in lights?Then cover your shameCover your colorsLighten the darkCover your motherSick white, like a sharkCover that mouth, girlNow, you're on TVUncover that bodyThat's all they will seeCover it up!The critics will shoutWhatever you coverYou're always cast outPull up the coverAnd hide from the nightCry in the dark, girlDon't cry in the light "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
Y'know, I quite like the conceit, and like... half... well, maybe half... of the verses. Not necessarily in the word order given, but still. It seems like if you chucked half of this and reworked the rest, it could be a decent poem.
Who was it who uttered the words "Only a human can create and judge great poetry?"Fuck, I honestly thought the Praying Mantis might be in with a shout.
I think it looks very dull when seeing it on paper while when read loud or being sung in an interesting way there would be some potential. There is too much concept to make it really bloody awful.Liest das denn keiner au�er mir?
Inspired by a nightmare I had recently...The Crawling DarkWhen winter comes a blowing, with it's cold and frosty breeze,The Crawling Dark comes creeping like a horrible disease.He gobbles up the greener grass and gloops on all the trees,He leaves his slimey blackness with it's sticky slug like sheen.He flows in all the rivers and he slips into your house,And when he's done his crawling there, he'll jump into your mouth! "Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."
In reply to:Inspired by a nightmare I had recently...
Inspired by a nightmare I had recently...
I can honestly say I'm glad I've never had a dream of Dogz ejaculating in my mouth.Culture, alienation, boredom and despair
They say that light spreads far and wide,And that it conquers the darkest tide,But evil lurks when the light shines,Upon the best of times and during work's deadlines,It creeps and crawls and bends and dives,To direct a spotlight upon what thrives,Which is typically called the "sweet deal",Outside closed doors truth remains surreal.� 2006 JACMySpace
A TW horror story for the Halloween season.It was another gloomy storm racked night,Outside the wind did howl.When on my screen I saw a flash,That made me frown and scowl.I clicked the icon, heart in mouth,And gasped in awful pain,The message came from Diamond Dogz,I knew it'd be inane."Dear Percy how I love your Poetry"The wizened fiend did crow,"Perhaps you'll come away with me,and live with me in Turkey?""Not I" I cried in mortal fear,Perhaps the beast was nigh,Observing through a telescope,Just waiting for his time.And then I saw a horrid face,Observing through the glass.The manic grin of partner Dave,He laughed and laughed and laughed..He smashed the glass and grabbed my arm,And dragged me to my doom,And now I write this warning,From a tiny empty room.So if you get a message,On a dark and stormy night,Please dear friends don't open it,Or you'll share my doom. "Don't see what I do not want to see,you don't hear what I don't say.Won't be what I don't want to be,I continue in my way."
It would've been ten times scarier had you titled it "Get Out Of My Ass! For The Love Of God, GET OUT OF MY ASS!"But, you know, I guess there's something to be said for subtlety.I'm a kidAnd I love CANDY!!!
Bats at night fly lowly through your arches,They would not be there if not for the love of starches,But oral fixations are hard to stop once started,Fragrance sprays are sold to those who frequently farted.So lick your long lollipops and hard English Toffee Bars,While you trick and treat old ladies as they empty candy jars,But remember ugly witches adore fat cats,Who are malodorous and attract black gnats.�2006 JACMySpace
They say that mirrors never lie,But tell the truth we dare not see.Well I stared into the empty depths,And saw a face look back at me.It's brow was racked with troubled thoughts,The eyes were dark and tired.An empty husk devoid of hope,A lost and lonely child.I tried to reach beyond the glass,To give that face a sign,Then all at once I saw the truth,That wretched face was mine. "Don't see what I do not want to see,you don't hear what I don't say.Won't be what I don't want to be,I continue in my way."
Next time you look in the mirror lose that cream jacket.
Look for me,I'm always thereI'm like your conscience, your despairI'm always just a cry awayI'm always just a shoulderI'm out of love,I gave all mineWhile I indulged you, you declinedYou always have yourself in mindIt's always getting olderI have nothing,you have less,save for emergency finesseI'm always lower than you knowYou're always getting colderI can't endorsethe death of meI can't remember feeling freeBut, beauty is lost unto meif you're not the beholder "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
This one is pretty dang bad, but I like it, just the same. Not for the crappy Jack and Jill motif, but the whole, "I'll kick your ass if you cross me" deal.I see it in dreams, We're climbing a hill We speak not a word The silence is shrill I'm wearing a veilof gossamer threadsMy gown, it is torn, my train of black shredsYou lift up my train to help me ascendI lift up my head and watch you pretendCan you see the tears beneath this dark veil? Cold as the water inside of your pail? Wash your sins, dear,with the water and tearsTell me my suspicionsare just empty fearsAs if I don't know,as if I don't see,how you look at her,and how you look at meI've broken your crownupon the blow of a stoneNo longer my king;you have been dethronedI watch you tumble,collecting the mudI sigh at the sight of you trickling with bloodI wash from my handsthe sins I've committed,the life I have spilt,and the hurt I permittedOne thing's for certain,I'll not tumble afterThis silent hill shallring with my laughter "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
The tumbling autumn leaves of gold,Could not disguise my empty soul.The gusty breeze won't stir my heart,This pain that grows when we're apart.Though cloudy fog might hide my sorrow,Or snow may blanket all tomorrows,I ache to find a place that's safe,In ruthless winters cold embrace.Perhaps when comes the pulse of spring,I'll find a song again to sing,But as the ice clogs each new river,For now my heart shall slowly wither. "Don't see what I do not want to see,you don't hear what I don't say.Won't be what I don't want to be,I continue in my way."
This is still not at all bad! Also, it rather reads like Placebo lyrics.Stop posting not-very-bad "bad poetry" or you'll make me all sad. My own bad poetry sucks quite unequivocally.
In reply to: Also, it rather reads like Placebo lyrics.
Also, it rather reads like Placebo lyrics.
That just made my day, as I'm one of the faithful few who still doesn't think Placebo sucks! I think I'll go hit up his Myspace and see if he wants to use my talents for self-pity. "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
I Love Zombies!They turn me on!I Love Zombies!The maggots are SEXY!I Love Zombies!And they love me!I'm taking it up the ass!Up the ass!From a zombie!YEAH!I love prison!Turn me on!I love prison!UP THE ASS!I can take itI'm a manand I love zombiesZombiesI'm a kidAnd I love CANDY!!!
Probably the most beautiful stanza of poetry ever written: I love prison!Turn me on!I love prison!UP THE ASS! "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
Weeping willow, woebegoneWanton twists of wistful wispsWanton woman's lust withdrawnWailing for a lover's kiss "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
What are you still doin here writing this pansy-ass poetry?! i told you to go see Borat! Now go on. Git!meow
I'm gonna bide my time till the iron's nice and hot and then GIT someone else to pay for me. Now here's some more faggy poetry for you!She dashes through the falling leaves;the clouds are rolling inThe midday sun, they seem to sleeve;the forest, growing dimThe shadows cast a web of greyupon her pallid face; gliding with each sprightly strideof dark and frightening graceThe wintry wind is dancing with each ebon, velvet strandthat trails like a bewildered child,gripped by a heedless handThe branches bare reach outin each direction but her ownHer body flashing through the treesHer face as pale as boneShe hears her lonely footfalls poundingo'er those fallen leaves,her gaping lungs devouring coldin deep and desperate heavesThrough the barren trees, she weaves;her destination fadingBut, in the path which lies ahead, she prays that he's still waitingShe comes into a clearing;looks upon the open spaceHer chest becomes a hollowwhen she cannot find his faceShe feels her body yieldingto the rocky, ruthless groundIntentions pinned between the earth and languid limbs, unwound The fallow floor beneath her haltsThe fog enshrouds her sightAs she mourns the efforts spent preventing urge from conquering fright "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
You berated me for forgetting what you said when you walked awaybut maybe I was drunkor maybe it was just another dayI ceased to recall as soon as I fell asleep;That grey city hardly incites lasting memories in anyonebut the most foolish and wise.Though maybe I just chose to forgetthe words you'd sonn regretas you walked away that day in the drizzling rainno I don't remember but I can see it in my mind, perhaps a composite memory of every other timeI watched you walk awayand whispered to myself:'I've lost her I've lost her I've lost her'and reached for the whisky and...well, you knowYou blame me for forgettingwhat you said when you walked awaywell, if it helps thenit's on my mind most of the timeand I'll try to make it up to you...somedayYou hate me for forgettingwhat you said when you walked awaywell, the intention I admire but the words you can keepand say to someone elsewherever you are now.I'm sorry.OK?It's a celebration!
The knifecuts the fleshwhen you bledyou called it theftwhen i clean my knifeit is still dirtynow and foreverall is burningi pull my hairout of despair and angeryou sit and watchglazed eyes of a strangeri turn you aroundand stab againit takes longer to damageand clear the dinit was already brokei was helping you outyou needed a blanketi needed a mouthpuddles of tearsstrings of worrylies and truthsdifferent storieswhen you wake upmy eyes are closedyou kiss my cheekand i see my rose
Sigh... I feel lovesick at the moment...Autumn RainsThe fresh autumn rain has come again,And drenched this grey world in crystal purity.Let it wash away the cloying dirt,And cleanse the lonely streets,Perhaps to bring an echo of spring long lost.Oh how my empty heart aches for her still,More bitter sweet than autumns gentle rains,Fairer to me than all the golden leaves in fallen splendour,More lovely than the setting rays of sunshine.As autumn fades to bitter winter,And cruel and wicked frosts descend,I long to feel her loving warmth,For I fear my heart shall freeze. "Don't see what I do not want to see,you don't hear what I don't say.Won't be what I don't want to be,I continue in my way."
Life is a strange thingIt tends to make people make peculiar noises for no particular reasonSomebody close to me once claimed that they had actually heard a fox fartI didn't believe themStill don't
To paraphrase my own songFoxes at nightgive a dim fartHa ha!~Heaven is a place whereNothing ever happens
Here are two poems I wrote recently, one of them whilst heavily under the influence of alcohol... see if you can guess which one...Poem 1:WANTED. New Life.Must include;A kooky girl who makes me smile,Sunny autumn afternoons,Fondant fancies,The smell of freshly washed sheets,Canned laughter in 70's sitcoms,Telephone calls from long lost friends,Sand stuck between my toes,And less of the bad things.Poem 2:Sometimes I feel like foot mouth,Mixed up, ripped up heart,Playing to your jigsaw motionTrying not to laugh.Sometimes I feel like lipless earFlame fanned lonely seer,Reciting all your speeches,Schisming your fears.Sometimes I feel like finger toe,Trapped in shuttered silk,Searching for an upside exit,Going for the kill. Once I felt like heart mind,Synergetic fate,Hopping through the ether,Searching for your faith. "Don't see what I do not want to see,you don't hear what I don't say.Won't be what I don't want to be,I continue in my way."
Your alcoholic subterfuge couldn't last for long,Now you're drowning in your sorrows, In a world that's going wrong,You've told your truths to liars,Whilst watching sinning saints,You know you're going wrong somewhere,But you're leaving it too late.I know your heart is shattered,This facade is wearing thick,But perhaps you'll find an answer soon,Before you lose your drift. "Don't see what I do not want to see,you don't hear what I don't say.Won't be what I don't want to be,I continue in my way."
Does anyone else find they can never think of appropriate names for their poems? Here's another one with no name, if you can think of a good one let me know.Like a carwreck with no handbrake,Or a shattered pane of glass,Just putting back the pieces,Ain't gonna bring her back.Play host to all your obscene fears,Make light of passing night,But even haunted lust filled days,Won't ever make it right.So curse your gods and demons,Find solace in your faith,For when she left she unmade you,And put me in your place. "Don't see what I do not want to see,you don't hear what I don't say.Won't be what I don't want to be,I continue in my way."
I like the old-fashioned "first line as title" convention. It takes the focus away from the title as the "key" to understanding it and puts all the emphasis on the verses themselves. Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...
Each rung has an orderOn the ladder of my Nostalgic ascencionsThey all, somehow, lead up to you;My psychedelic driftsWhen I lasso, lovingly, up in my armsThese paper-dry leaves,I lift towards the sky,In these shuddering fingers,All my crumbling notionsThey drift through the cracks,And, they land in the pools of slow-swirling iridescenceThat collect in the guttersAnd ghettosOf thoughtSupported, for a moment, by that fluid filmThat delicate skinThat crowns stagnant waterThen, sapped by the oily depositsOf my carelessness and apathyThey're pulled beneath the surfaceTheir fluttering, halted;Those unfortunate birds I'm single. Yes, I know it's difficult to wrap your head around, but if you don't believe me, check my Myspace. Those things never lie.
You shake my handsYou jolt my heart10,000 volts of icy cindersI wonder whenYou'll take the partEnd this streak of blurs and bendersI used to likeThe sun and warmthExperienced outside your presenceNow it's likeMy cup's gone coldLeaving stains of starving crescents I'm single. Yes, I know it's difficult to wrap your head around, but if you don't believe me, check my Myspace. Those things never lie.
Streetlights scratch a path between curtains that won't meetAnd steal the dark from my eyes that would taxi me to sleep,Until the sullen dazzle shakes my mind from its unrestAnd weakness calms my body's need for sating, more or less,But in those minute hours of staring at the paintI long for your call to come, though I know that it's too late...Wraiths drift about as I slip off at lastInto the arms of a dream that I will not remember:Standing in an unfurnished room where we could live.He says the rent is quite low because a tramline runs pastAnd a bell rings aloud as the train passes by,Railing against the sleepers where they lie,And by the house there's a river with a lock and a lever -You can open the sluice and watch time wash away,Dragging the dregs of the past out towards the sea...And a pealing bell from the tracks chimes aloud and wakes us up.Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...
Some really nice poetry appearing here, despite the deception of the title thread. Here's another I wrote this afternoon. This one does have a title. It's called Embers.EmbersThe embers in the fireplace,Have burned themselves to ruin.Consumed like last years bitter love,A hateful seed still growing.The embers in the fireplace,Lie still and turn to ash.I sit and dream of happy times,And weep for what has passed.The embers in the fireplace,Will warm my heart no more.I've left that fire far behind,My past, my love, my soul. When you've racked up so much time on an internet message board why hide the truth anymore? Persilots Myspace.
Take a gun and fire a shot to start the gameThis race I run � fools� mates of girls,Bemusements and bored gamesWith dealers, cheats and jokers playing roundDrinking vodka, lying downUpon a chequered flagstone in my chest�_______________________Waves are rising by the second � Sirens wail and walls are crumblingIt�s been raining for three weeksI think I need a hand to help me landA map to find some solid ground.Just a rock or rubber ring to cling to will suffice for now�________________________Raking through the leaves on autumn�s carpet floorA windfall�s to be had.The harvest has been good this year,We�ve grown a chart of everything We think, we hope, we feel, we might.Transcriptions of an evolution mapped out in relief�
In reply to:Now it's likeMy cup's gone coldLeaving stains of starving crescents
Now it's likeMy cup's gone coldLeaving stains of starving crescents
I love this image, it's great. Though you might find a better word than starving.Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...
Sweetest Pain.It cuts me like a carving knife,It burns me like a noose,There's nothing really left for us,Just trashy, twisted, truth.Where it's at I'm just not sure,I know I'm losing ground.I'm staring in your green eyes,I'm slowly turning round.Hit me up for wisdom,Knock me down for six,Bend my arm behind my back,You can't afford the risk.Yeah it hurts me like a paper cut,It maims me like a knife,Every day is sweetest pain,Since you came into my life... When you've racked up so much time on an internet message board why hide the truth anymore? Persilots Myspace.
Yeah, I wasn't too happy with that word, but I honestly couldn't think of anything to replace it. Just got frustrated and settled. Anyway, the input is always appreciated. I like your writing very much. Especially Sleepers. Here's something of a slightly sordid nature... The kind of poem that'd normally never leave the confines of my journal, (okay I don't actually keep one but if I did this is the kinda thing that'd be in it), so whatever.. I'm feeling particularly candid today.his back bows with narrowed intention of propelling his splintering arrowthe solder that's sintering sinewthat quicksilver stitch spun within youthat breaches your cervixharpooning your cortexlobotomizing into blissful submissionhis hot, rushing currenthis pulsating torrentthat's splitting you clean like an apple in fissionrejuvenate jigsaw of pain and diseaseto see-saw the tree off in two atrophiesyou rock in your sickroomhe jangles the keyshe's built quite a monsterthat stops at the kneeshe asks, like it matters, "you giggling or crying?"you tell him it's equal, not sure if you're lyingconvulsing, ecstastic, this spasming schismtill shudders subside into phantasmic rhythm I'm single. Yes, I know it's difficult to wrap your head around, but if you don't believe me, check my Myspace. Those things never lie.
There's a nice urgency about that last one. Somehow appropriate...I haven't actually written poetry in a long while, having made a decision to concentrate my efforts elsewhere. This is from about six years ago:High up in the big valleyA child was awoken cold"Be near me when he passes,"Was her father's requestAnd it shocked her outright.The old place was overgrown,Her grandfather's body lay in ruins,And she felt suddenly old."Don't go up there anymore,So that you're my daughter now."But she could not face her father againFor it was he who had broken the news.Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...
In reply to: And she felt suddenly old.
And she felt suddenly old.
I like this line a lot. It creates an image in my mind's eye of someone aging quite rapidly, which wouldn't be the case if you'd placed "suddenly" one word back.Here's my emo ode to unrequited love and the animals who knowingly, desperately perpetrate it.You seem to care that no one dares to read the threats my passage bears You want to seem to care to see this sable ink unfold from me But, if you spied my plunging frown I do not think you would swoop down to snatch me from the brink, between your talons, black, and eyes, citrine - that claw my face with moonlight, where my skull drapes backwards on the chair; a dewy rose of numbing white, that cranes itself to shake the night I wait within your empty nest to feel the warmth inside your breast For, charity and arid scratching, were egging on my backwards hatching I am your helpless cub, instead; a lanquid rainbow, colors bled; leaked through the punctures from your fangs to briefly slake your hunger pangs Then, drug into your dusky cave I'm hit with such a rancid wave It's stinking with the spoil of the victims of your nature, love; your satiated hate for love;your snarling mouth, agape for love "What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz
AddictionSeeing her again,I thought my heart might stop.These hungry feelings deep inside,I need her love so much.I thought I'd gotten over it,My heart was finally free.She came into my life again,Now love is burning me.It's stronger than addiction,Weaker than my faith,Without her there is nothing,Just memories of her face.EDIT: Changed Grace to face in the last line. What the hell was I thinking? When you've racked up so much time on an internet message board why hide the truth anymore? Persilots Myspace.
Edited by Persilot on 12/19/06 01:20 PM (server time).
Here's a little Christmas cheer for you all.When I was littleI thought blood was blueAnd, when it touched airIt took on a new hueNow, I'm not littleI know blood is redBut, blue are my thoughtsTill they�leak from my head------------------------"Questions And Answers I Ask Myself On Nights That End In S"Why do you get so angry when I'm neglectful?I only hate myselfWhy are you so jealous when I get what I want?I don't get what I wantWhy do you get so frustrated when I don't get it right?I'm apparently trying my hardestWhy don't you just go on and leave me, to die?I love you and all this too muchWhy do you get so scattered, sometimes?I don't knowWhy are you asking me?------------------------"Pumpkin Head"I'd rather go to sleepThan to finish out this dayThan to be another flickerThrough a crudely-carved smileIn the cold and dusk of time, does my skull turn to a cave?Or, is it too late for decay inside this excavated crest,Behind this empty, frozen face?With a checkerboard smileI'd rather boast a scarecrow on my sleeve to guard my heartThan to ward off evil spirits with a jagged smile, in vainI'd rather have night weighing on the roof that I lay underThan to feel the open air and open hands that lick my flameWhen I finally succumbWhen I stain your ceiling purpleYou'll stare up, in stupid fearWhile I spread, as thoughI'm smilingSinister and spitingNow,In such a useless formI'm smiling in vermilion flame that was, but is not warmI'll sputter like a deathly mobileTrickling echoed refrains To keep you far from sleepBeside my true skeleton smileI'll scorch a pale green ghost inside your eyelidsWhen you shut them tightBut, surely, it will dimmen...As you fade into the night "What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz
Merry Meatmas:Santa didn't read my listNow he's gonna meet my fistNow he's gonna feel the wrathOf a very merry meatmasCome on Santa, eat thisCome on Santa, all night longSing me a merry meatmas songYou've been a very naughty boyYou won't give a single toyUntil you get down on your kneesAnd please me with your Christmas joys"If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX
I really like the boxing reference.~Heaven is a place whereNothing ever happens
My, my, how very ho-ho-homoerotic of you. Is it Christmas time for MEN again? "What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz
It's always Christmas time for men. Just ask Claude."If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX
I can never sleep firstIn a room with a stranger Who is also aloneFor, I can't stop thinkingOf bringing him something Foreign And neededThe bright of white skinIn the dimWhich we've both grown adjusted toNo having it construed As anything but self loveNo me trying to createHis own thoughts and conventionsI want my caress to be the hand that shapes himTo a precise re-production of self-gratificationAnd I want him to love himself back, so intenselyThat the radiance lingers Till he's only in dreamsI wish these things Came as natural for meAs the urge comes in stillnessTo do as to wantSo my warmth could be realizedNot squandered each minuteSo my worth could be realizedThe best way I've found "What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz
Edited by JarethsGirl on 12/30/06 03:37 AM (server time).
I like funny guys, because they make me feel normal.I like red-heads, because they glitter in the sun, like golden strands of slug trail.I like tall men, because being looked down on is a turn on for me.I fancy Brits and guys who grew up poor. I like crooked smiles.French guys, I like, for their cool.Spaniards, I like, for their hot.Italians, I like, for they're open.Prussians, I don't, for they're not.Aussies, I like, for they're bad.Germans I like for their brat.But, I like Irish men more than anything, as they tend to value the very same things I hold in such high regard: Women, wit, and liquor.And lanky, bizarre men with art on their bodies...They're all fucking rock stars who don't care if they do it for me.I even like dorks who like comics and Star Wars.I do not like dweebs. They take it too far...I like any guy who digs girls wearing glasses.I like guys with mop tops and hair to their asses.I like tribal men; Make themselves understood.I do not like cave men, but I like when more advanced creatures play at it and laugh.I really like gay men, because they don't like me back. I like a good challenge.I like trouble in doses.I like classic cars. I like aquiline noses.I like getting gifts; don't care what they are.I like weathered men, with such callous and scar and scary look in their eyeWhen I ask lots of questions.I like playing daughter.I like being trusted.I'd like me a Sensei.Like angular faces. Men of all races. To be stronger or weaker. I can not stand for stasis.Like conflict and drama and broodiness, too.I like to be liked; Worship me and I'm throughLiking you.But, love is much more complicated... "What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz
The DancerMy hands are black and stained with ink,My heart is blackened too,I laughed at death, I laughed at life,But could not laugh at you.So I'll dance upon the stony ground,I'll dance upon your blade,I'll jig until my feet are red,I shall not be dismayed.My eyes are dark and full of loss,My mind is darkened too,I faced my doubt,I faced my fear,But I could not face the truth.So I'll dance upon the stony ground,I'll dance upon your blade,I'll jig until my feet are red,I shall not be dismayed.My memories are fading now, My thoughts have faded too,I danced for him,I danced for her,But most I danced for you,And I danced upon the stoney ground,I danced upon your blade,I jigged until my feet were red,And I never was dismayed. PORK SCRATCHINGS!!! Art thou insane? Myspace.
This one is a cautionary tale as well as a bit of lighthearted fun...The Saucy MaidLong ago there lived a maid,Whose dreams were lewd in thought, She'd smile and wink at all the men,She'd tease, but not be caught.For the saucy maid had other plans,She'd land a husband rich,And when she'd taken all he had,She'd leave him in a ditch.Now it chanced that in that very town,There lived an aging fool,A man whose gold surpassed the stars,But stubborn as a mule.The saucy maid did plot and plan,And slowly bide her time,"For once he's had a taste of me,What's his shall all be mine!"She slipped into her finest dress,She pulled her neckline low,For once the old fool looked within,He'd surely sell his soul.She swayed upto the old fools house,Her lips were full and ripe,Her skin was soft as buttermilk,Her hair was blonde and bright.She knocked upon his door three times,And struck her sausiest pose,She smiled until her teeth shone white,She flashed her legs and hose.But when the door did open,She screamed and yelled in fright,For all her cunning she'd not seen this,The fool did have a wife.With a roar of bestial rage,The wife did heft her broom,Her arms were large as slabs of beef,Her face was like a bulls.The maiden shrieked and turned and fled,The wife did swing her broom,She yelped as bristles stung her head,She ran but she was doomed.The wife tore at her flimsy dress,It ripped across it's length,And naked now did the run the maid,And run with all her strength.How the men did cheer to see,The maiden running wild,They laughed to see a sight so strange,A maid chased by a wife.And so my friends our story ends,As all good stories do,The maid had learned her lesson well,Her wicked days were through.From that day forth she changed her ways,A saucy maid no more,For the wife soon had her well in hand,And set to scrubbing floors. PORK SCRATCHINGS!!! Art thou insane? Myspace.
For some reason, I want to sing this poem to the tune of "Found a Job" by the Talking Heads. meow
"Love is like a cup of tea."Love is like a cup of tea,That helps to warm your heart,It's hot and strong and fills you up,And aches when you're apart.But don't be fooled by what you taste,For love can have a bite,A too hot cup can burn your mouth,And turn your love to spite.But though I have been hurt before,I know you won't burn me.So come and laugh and hold my hand,Lets share a cup of tea... PORK SCRATCHINGS!!! Art thou insane? Myspace.
I love The Dancer, Percy. The rhyme scheme sounds great, very consistent, and it flows really nicely. Besides that, you've worked it so that the most impactful line falls last in each alternating stanza (before the "chorus," if you will), to great effect.This one is kind of personal, as poetry often is, but especially so, in this case. I'm kind of embarrassed to post something like this, but I feel it's one of my better pieces, so what the hey...KeysSomeone once gave meA black and white rowOf doorways to melodyChairs to the soulThe keys, with no mapNothing to choose to ignoreI used it, back thenIn spite of my wantingSomething much greaterThe things you can't holdThe chords you can't strike With a thousand small fingersFor her, all I wish was a thing he could giveWith a pure, unselfish, and thoughtful motiveThat protects much more than a nameAnd obliges connections that aren't just in veinI still use the giftThat was handed to meOn the day after ChristmasA black and white summons To courtWhere his honor won't cast any judgements Won't throw down a stone or a gem from his mind Where he's seated on highMore a child, than IWhere I'm held in contempt I'm mired in silenceSilence, still beingThe one thing he ordersFor, he gave me the gift to make beautiful musicThen, died on the first beat my heart was infused with I still use his giftIn spite of now wantingTo show him the evils I've deeded his nameTo return every momentOf lonely self-doubtThe gift of regretAnd of longing and shameTo use his gift against himI no longer want To hold on to this thingBut, it's part of me, nowHis music is mineAnd, I only know this From what's been left behindFrom a time I'm too young to remember "What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz
AvalancheTime is like an avalanche,That sweeps away our lives,Each fresh new flake, a persons fate,Bound by truth and hope and lies.And when the snowmelt starts to slip,The mountain's echo roars,We cling together in the rush,And feel our spirits soar.Perchance the slide will cease to flow,And give us peace at last,For all those flakes have lives to lead,A future and a past... You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
Persilot, this just goes to show that times of happiness can also bear very bright poetic fruits. Well done...Here's something I wrote in the last five minutes.My dog is like a piece of furnitureShe picks up all the smells around herThis is comfortingStrangeLike meYour cat is like a cold, black crowPerched upon the backs of couchesThis is alarmingStrangeLike you "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
I just recorded a cover of Cohen's Hallelujah (so sue me, Buckley) with lyrics of my own:Be A Lady (Hallelujah)Us two were known as slightly odd it took a breakup to find outthat you've been like a bookmark to my storyI thought the sex could use a boostBut other girls have lacked your museAnd I just hoped that you'd become a ladyBe a ladyBe a lady for meOur lonely hearts dwell in old booksyou've read them all and I gave you looksthere's a difference between Plato and his studentsWell I may not be as bright as himbut he's not real and I'm all whimWhy can't you grow up for me and be a ladyBe a ladyBe a lady for meI took a bus and rode to Spainto see if my hopes were all in veinI found you like a pilgrim finds his faithCamino franc�s twist & bendAnd I'm all but an innocentIn my dreams I have seen you as a ladyBe a ladyBe a lady for meNow caught up in my barren loveI see them stars glide up aboveI recall the night we went down to get some romanceThe Romans when they built that bridgeDid they imagine us on its ridgeThat night I saw that you could be my ladyBe a ladyBe a lady for me/and I desperately need help with that first verse where I can't find anything that rhymes with out and has the meaning "odd" or "strange". Help, anyone?~Heaven is a place whereNothing ever happens
I can't think of a word for "odd," but since you talk of faith and whimsy throughout the song, methinks the word "doubt" might be somehow fitting? Although, if and exactly how it is - that's for you to decide. I normally wouldn't be too keen on the idea of changing the lyrics to a song as sanctifiable as "Hallelujah," but I really like what you've done. When I think about it, I can't relate to the original lyrics very much on a personal level, but these are something everyone can wrap their arms around, I think...This poem was actually somewhat inspired by the travesty I posted in Monekyboy's poetry forum. You'd think it would be the other way around, but not in this warped ol' noggin... I'm tearing out each life lineI'm drowning down each dripI'm tossing back each lifesaverI thought Held me adriftI'll kick at palm-warmed emeraldsI'll kick, to sink or swimI'm quick to slink below the wavesAnd, see allThat's hiddenThe water kept me starkly numbThe water had been bobbingWith fingers, blue, clinging to you;With dead And foreign bodies I've made it through to morningThough, I bottled every messageThat I submerged, then, with alcoholTo softly easeTheir passageBut, now the sun bleeds flameAnd, spills a flicker on each wordSo, now I lift the weapon And, I free itLike a birdYour ship is in the bottle, nowThe wind foresakes your sailsIt's burning to the ocean floorWhere it will growMore scales "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
I'll probably stick with "odd" and fake the rhyming with accent. I hope Leonard doesn't mind but I needed to vent out this stuff and Hallelujah seemed like a perfect choice.And right back at ya, this is brilliant:Your ship is in the bottle, nowThe wind foresakes your sailsIt's burning to the ocean floorWhere it will growMore scalesPretty evocative.~Heaven is a place whereNothing ever happens
Politics.Inside everyone... is a dictator waiting to get out.Watching the mistakes others make, and screaming silently.They scan the newspapers and whisper in our minds,Approving their disapproval of the world outside.Sometimes war erupts,Two tyrant clash, flinging out their armies of words. Ideas that blitzkrieg like tanks in icy climes.And strike at heart and mind.And though we fight the despots call,To cease that strident voice,In the end we're occupied,By thoughts of strife and war. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
I didn�t see the dawn rise,As I swung free from my noose,So I fell into the shattered shards,Of bleeding naked truth.And I didn't see the midday sun,As I dodged the headsmans blade,So I sank into the wet cement,Of loneliness and pain.But then I saw the sunset,As I stood upon the shore,So I leapt into the dappled sea,And heard the ocean roar. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
Thank you kindly, Sam. I was rather happy with the "scales" line, which happened to echo the "bird" line in the previous verse quite by accident. (By the way, if I were to ever read that poem aloud somewhere, I would raise my fist in the air at "weapon" and give the middle finger at the "bird" word, and throughout the rest of the poem.)P.S. I don't think Cohen would mind. He'd probably take it as the greatest of compliments (secretly.. and then sue you for every sweet sheckel you are worth! Hahaha ::sigh:: ..Jews.) "Roulette Weal" Tonight seems like the perfect night To quit while I'm ahead But, I'm not ready Though, I wouldn't say I'm winning; I'm on fire If I thought I could I'd stop the globe from spinning; Dive my finger in that shallow, Muted blue If, but, to prove I'm not on fire Under pressure It won't budge To split this glacier I'll need warmth There was no sun to melt the plastic Only artificial light Only the pallor of my face They make it out to be a game As if you're choosing where to land Without having to make a choice But, when you're losing It is still your fault And, everyone just drifts away; Dissappointed Uninvested In their own desires, tumbling From your palm To fall in all the wrong pockets They ought to paint the continents All red The lifeless sea All black And, God is green The one color we cannot see Nothing could make more sense than that I wouldn't play this game If everything Were blurs of faint, grey hues And, getting used Were not my main intention Is it making sense, yet? There's a light In every shade For, red does cast a roseate, bright sheen upon my face But, black does then reflect my visage Deep within the void Caliginous And, underjoyed When the glow of luck has simply Lost my touch And, I can see the loss, as such If guns are made for shooting, then skulls are made to crack. You�ve never seen a better Faig than with a bullet in his back.
The dreamYesterday time stopped for a bit,So I watched the pigeons flying backwards,Whilst hopping on two feet.I queued at the bus stop,But three came at once,So I lay in the road and counted the clouds,Till the sleeping policeman woke me up.Down the cobbled lanes,Old women flashed their legs coyly.Whilst passers by stopped to wave,And made calls on their mobile cameras.So I played by the gutter with a piece of rope,But it won every game except one.I didn't like losing so I went back to sleep. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
You flunked a History degree for this? You joined up to die - and we'll send you where you can. - Foreign Legion Maxim
Quentin, do you know what's more important than History? Not getting stabbed in the face. Know who deserves to get stabbed in the face? You. Know who'd do it? Me.I'm glad we had this little talk, Quentin. I hope we've reached some sort of understanding."If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX
I really pity mard-ass cyber-bullies who abuse people to boost their inferiority complexes. You joined up to die - and we'll send you where you can. - Foreign Legion Maxim
Mard-ass? What the fuck is mard-ass supposed to mean? Is it like some hybrid of "smart-ass" and "lard-ass" you invented that we lowly plebes have yet to incorporate into our vocabulary?Or maybe it's an insult specific to me. In that case, I'm not quite sure what you're getting at. I don't know what or who mard is, or why it would be such an important part of my life (or more specifically, my ass) that it would be such an insult when referenced. Could you care to elaborate, chumpy?And I know it's probably not a typo because you're like, so over that. [UNNECESSARY EMOTICON][/UNNECESSARY EMOTICON]"If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX
There's something absurd going on in my brain,When I sleep I see flip flops,And donkeys from Spain,Carrying portable phones,Which are made out of stone,(But you can't have a phone which is made out of stone,)Absurd.But when I wake up and my heads full of talk,I see dodgy old women taking cats for a walk,Or people in hoodies who are talking in tongues,And I think that I'm dreaming or the worlds going wrong,But they tell me it's real and I need to get on,Just shut up, stop thinking and keep your head down,Absurd.So now I don't know know where I'd rather be,Cos your world is grimmer and it feels like a dream,So I'll keep my head high and take a look round,And watch all the flip flops that are poncing around,I know you don't like it, but don't make a sound,It's all just absurd. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
I wish I had dreams like that, Percy. The last dream I can remember clearly involved Mama Fratelli from The Goonies. It was terrifying...The imagery makes me think of a cool Radiohead music video or something. Very vivid. I like it. I have a couple of fag women I go hunting with. - Altoid
In reply to:The imagery makes me think of a cool Radiohead music video or something.
The imagery makes me think of a cool Radiohead music video or something.
That's probably the greatest thing anyone's ever said about one of my poems. I love you for that comment. Here's another slightly disturbing one...Albert Alders doesn't sleep,He's dreaming, drowning, falling deepThere's muddy footprints on his soul,Broken bodies, blackened holes.He wanders through the crowded streets,Shaking hands, caressing feet,No touch can wake his deadened eyes,His head is wrapped in smoke and lies.He waits for you to play your part,You still the beating of your heart,But now he's near, the world seems stillYou're only waiting for the kill.Now Albert Alders follows you,He sees your mind, he knows your truth,Hide and seek may be your game,But Albert Alders never plays.Albert Alders never sleeps,He never drinks or ever eats,Wait and see he'll find you soon,And then you'll hear his deadly tune. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
The Jigsaw man craves only peace,He wants completion; he seeks release,There's something missing from his face,Perhaps you missed it in your haste?The Jigsaw man is corner wise,You form the outlines of his eyes,But man is made from many parts,And Jigsaw man has lost his heart. Jigsaw man is in a box,It seems that something pure is lost,Perhaps you'll have to start again, Or wait until a wet weekend.Jigsaw man has gone to pieces... You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
I hope this doesn't sound like anything but a compliment, but your writing seems to be improving so much, Percy. I'm very impressed. Not that I'm the one to impress around here, but you get what I mean...Anyway, here's something that's incredibly dark and creepy. And, I would hope so, as my main inspiration for writing this (though there were many) was a carnival-type dark ride we used to have at our local amusement park, until it got torn down about ten years ago. Here's some info on it, if anyone cares. (This is the second page of info because it addresses the incarnation of the ride that I actually remember, but the first page is pretty interesting, too.)This poem is basically an eerily-executed warning about fearing time and hanging onto the past so much that you fail to live in the moment. Also, it's about the "price" of the overcompensation - living with abandon, being thoughtless, because one feels they have no higher power to answer to and that life is just one big joyride.(Don't mind the gratuitous elipses. I did that because TW doesn't seem to recognize indentations.) I heard time chattering inside my closet.............TitteringAt the expense of my own stunted laughter.............Stunned The runt amongst the litter Of dry bonesThat shriek, like flutesLike hollow bamboo shootsThey still chime in The illusion Of oxygenThe thought that made me pant with panic.............Hah, hah, hahTime was gnawing on my toys and shrunken gownsAt once, I thought, Because, they taste of me .............Tick, tick, tick And, soon he'll have a thirst for meThat can't be satiatedIn a scentHe'll crave and come for my own fleshHe'll lap the salt from my own skinAs if.............Lovingness Had overcome him So, I upheld the pretense; The living dead can danceI'm free as free can beSpinning in the darkWith me and me I did not noticeHow I waltzed.............Creak, creak, creakOnly but a whisper hovering over the parquetFeeling cold as clay To the bottom of my solesWith my toes Pressed so crisply into hisHe dipped me into the abyssInto dismayInto decayWhere all is nudeWithin the design Of his dark decrepitude And, there I sensed his silhouetteWhich never leftIt mastered every movementEvery languid motionOf my porcelainMarionette;Clamoring and cacklingTime is cachinatingIn his cold and calculating MachinationConvulsing In repulsionThe everlasting echoOf my maturationRendered hopelessBy means of its late achievement.............The tragic fault in my living bereavementThe laughter in the dark Was meFor, when I breathedMy seething fearsInto the nightThey seized me tightStrangling me inside the grasping fingers of my ribs;I could not sense his delicate, skeletal grip Which rested on my hip,Until I felt his pointed finger pressed Into my lipsI am his twinI have no choice, nowBut, to grin, forTime is grinningAs I'm spinningInto Le CachotWith nowhere left to go.............Click, click, click I have a couple of fag women I go hunting with. - Altoid
Thanks Kate, wish I could manage to write some longer pieces like some of your excellent poems. Anyway here's another shorty.Weary CityI stumble down streets I no longer remember,Heart lost in this city of fallen pretenders,Indifferent currents slowly sweep me along,Whilst sirens scream songs that were lost long ago.What man could make these concrete hells?Of towering greys and cheap rotting smells,Where wide eyed urchins pant their glee,Disturbing the angels dreaming of sleep.Can weary blue eyes ever find peace?Maybe the city will grant it's release,Where rich soils lie and tall trees grow,There you shall find me at peace with my soul. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
Here's something shorter, just to prove to myself I can do it.I hear the Mourning Dove's twirling, tottery sirenShe hints that there's light to look forward toPerhaps, she will rebuild the nest in my window sill That I poked at with a bloodless ball pointSending seasons of the amassed twigs, And shit, And one rotting dud egg From her former Spring's quiver,Crumbling open to the bricks Below, where it bloomed In a cloud of grey dust And short, downy plumeageI clench my eyes tight as I teeter on sleepHer wings, then, Rebound off the glass, As she rattles a wail of indignance and shudders to flightBut, I can't yet illuminate A warm, yolky scape For her beauty to mingle withSo, I imagine her flying away, And gradually merging Into a black void I have a couple of fag women I go hunting with. - Altoid
I like it... more crap from me though I'm afraid!StreetsI'm lost down the streets that remember no name,Skipping past cobbles that bear me no blame,I'm scowling at shadows and paying no heed,Whilst dancing in time to the hate of your screams.These dark city street lamps reflect what is sane,Such oceans of darkness where light laid no claim,Not even the vilest can dare not to dream,When you're trapped in the horror of what you have seen.The night has descended from where it has lain,Remember the faces of those it has slain,Awaken and shake off the dastardly sleep,Too late you forget that you sow what you reap... You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
This poem is sort of gritty and noir, I like.. And, rhyming scheme is great. I've been trying to loosen up a bit on my structure and rhyme, but I find it hard because I really like the symmetry of it. Anyway, here's something a little more free-flowing I did when I found out about this Kurt and Courtney biopic that Love is apparently putting together. I'm almost embarrassed to share this one because of the first two lines... Almost. There's a gallery under his clothesOf fresh wounds to fuckEach gash he makes opens an eye But, each blink is now grand with tormentHe's no longer the right to be dressed;To be seenHis face caked with seven, strange colorsThe dry, rigid layers are cracked By his every expressionHe sits by a mirror and he peels one away Each day, Revealing another inventionSoon, he has pried at his own fleshy filmHe takes off his mask and he smiles He hangs his own face up to dryThey clamor to buyWhat they proudly must don As a trophy To their sensitivityNow, they all standAt the feet of his handiworkClutching and tapping their chins, Like hot microphonesThe painter; Listening, laughing and jerking,As they strain to detect Every vague undertoneQuickly, He runs out of paintIn wells, they collect all the trickling acrylicTo dip their dull wicks in his own crimson inkTo transcribe his journalsTo make him a soft drinkHis body's still wet,Incarnate;They sop his imprint With a long sheet of canvasAnd, harvest his bone as a toolTo slash, milk and swellThe price on the tagThat's been, Callously, Strung to his toe It's time for you to come out of Weed Heaven and Potville for a second and give me a little informationi! - Captain Lunatic
S'il est un musicien dont j'admire les d�fis,C'est bien le grand, le beau, l'unique David Bowie ;Sa musique me prend et elle me stup�fiePlus efficacement qu'un coup dans les glaouis.Mon Espace
What a pair... You and Bowie, I mean. Whoa momma! I like them apples! I'd buy that for a dollar! - 96dbFreak on chronic
Here's a Yank who knows her French slang .Mon Espace
Oh SylvianJ��aime penser c'est �� toi que Pulp a d��di��"Oh Sylvia"Tes cheveux, si longs et douxTes mamelons, si mous et rouxSimon Napier-Bell te croyait belleP'tet tu l'as servi pour amuse-gueuleOh SylvianNous tous savons qu'il te monta comme un Sybian.All right, so it's not a quatrain. Tant pis!"why, instead of semen, couldn't men ejaculate strawberry jam or something?"--jareth's tights"I have had contact with a vagina." --strangeDivine
You get taint piss, too? God, I hate it. Whoa momma! I like them apples! I'd buy that for a dollar! - 96dbFreak on chronic
Ha ha! That was funny, although "gueule" and "belle" don't exactly rhyme and the funky characters got all messy.Oh SylvianJ'aime penser que c'est � toi que Pulp a d�di�"Oh Sylvia"Tes cheveux, si longs et douxTes mamelons, si mous et rouxSimon Napier-Bell te croyait belleP't�t' que tu lui as servi d'amuse-gueuleOh SylvianNous savons tous qu'il te monta comme un Sybian.Mon Espace
Yeah, that's why when I attempt French in PMs, I omit the accents. My browser seems not to handle them too well.I will have to practice my French rhyming by watching a lot more Mika interviews, I am afraid, before I can avoid mistakes like the belle/guele one. Thanks for fixing the "lui" part though--"lui" has always mixed me up! I know, I know, direct object vs. indirect, but I keep forgetting until someone calls my attention to it.But of course we all know (nous savons tous, merci encore) that the real point of this poem was the couplet:Tes cheveux, si longs et douxTes mamelons, si mous et rouxand I am glad that did not require any corrections. P.S. By the way, I left out the "que"s after "p'tet" and "penser" on purpose to make the meter smoother--are you not allowed to omit "que"s at all, even counting poetic license?"why, instead of semen, couldn't men ejaculate strawberry jam or something?"--jareth's tights"I have had contact with a vagina." --strangeDivine
Yes, I noticed that your French was flawless only in the lascivious part . Does that tell us something?You can't remove the "que" after "penser" ; you may remove it after "p't�t", but then it would sound really strange, because you'd have to say "p't�t lui as-tu servi..." and "p't�t" is colloquial and "as-tu" sounds very formal. The correct formal sentence would be "Peut-�tre lui as-tu servi d'amuse-gueule ?" but then it becomes quite long.Congratulations on your attempt anyway, it was quite decent for someone who's out of practice. I'm sure one day you'll manage amazing things with my tongue .Mon Espace
J'enfile mon blouson, c'est un beau cuir OakwoodEt je mets une chanson, qui s'appelle "It's no good" ;J'aime bien m'appr�ter, �tre frais, � la mode,Et pouvoir �couter, sans arr�t, Depeche Mode.Mon Espace
Yellow Black Boy buzzes fast,Swoops beyond me, falling past,Jerking to a hidden groove,Swirling stinger, slowly moves. Bouncing headways hits the glass,Crawling, searching, moves at last,Buzzing, take off, bounce again,Lying, waiting, is it dead? Yellow Black Boy on the floor,Couldn't hold out anymore.Flower honey, furry beast,I hope you've found your sweet release. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
J'aime les chansons de Bryan Ferry ;Ses orchestrations sont des f�eriesEt ses m�lodies sont de vrais d�lices,Surtout Grey Lagoons, aussi More than this.Mon Espace
David BowieDavid SylvianDepeche ModeBryan FerryMon Espace
Your piano work is very good, Frogs. My kind of style with that Satie vibe going on with "The Future". More people should go to your site.
My grasp of the French language is embarrasingly crappy, luckily I have a friend who was able to translate for me... very good. Anyway here's another one I came up with this morning.Old Hugh's lamentOnce into the tavern, there walked a lone youth,With flute, harp and smile telling tales of false truths,He sang songs of malice, of love, hope and trustOf high deeds and low deeds and deeds of black lust.Rising up from the table, came lonely old Hugh,Wrinkled and crinkled with eyes gummed with glue,But yearning arose in him to hear with old ears,The tales of his youth and his faraway years.�Hum me a tune of yesteryears days,Of blind broken promises and old empty graves,Of heroes and heroines, so swift and so strong,For those are the tales for which I do long.�And sing did the youth, with his voice high and true,His hymn filled the soul and it silenced the room,And men sat and gazed in wonder and awe,Whilst old Hugh did weep and sink to the floor.And from that day forward no more would Hugh speak,For the wondrous song had left his life bleak,And so my dear readers my warning is near,That some songs are dangerous for those that would hear. You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!
Thanks a lot, dude! "The future" is my latest composition and it's very much in the spirit of Chopin too. At first I wanted to write something funky, but I guess I failed...Mon Espace
In reply to:That some songs are dangerous for those that would hear.
That some songs are dangerous for those that would hear.
Mon Espace
Is there a thread for drunken poetry? Well, there should beHe says he had a dreamI got ran over by a carHe woke and screamed Or spoke my nameThis makes me never want to cross a street, againThe streets will be Unresponsive To my deathJust as they do not mind my feet Briefly traipsing over themWho knows, in all the years after I'm gone,If I will be beneath the streetsIf people will disturb my grave As part of their daily routinesIf people will bleed over meBreathing, bleating, who shall roam?Among them, who will wake and wonder if I ever made it home? "we went to pizza hut after school and lived the rockstar life for the first time that day." - 13athroom
Bravo, mon petit grenouille! You make my silly poem sound so grave and suave.So this isn't poetry, exactly, but I suppose you could consider it really, really awful "poetry," to the point that it's prose. In any case, I thought you might enjoy it, Monsieur Froggy. Somebody requested a romance story about Mika, and so I attempted to oblige. The catch being that, as I do not want to publically speculate on his sexuality, I had to keep it gender-ambiguous, which was much harder than I originally anticipated, and made for pretty clunky sentences, too.Oh, and it might help to be aware of these lyrics if you don't know them already.BreatheThe show had just ended, the confetti barely settling over the forest of applause-reddened hands and breathless grins. Jem snuck out the back door before the first few paper flakes could make their way past the audience's sweat-dampened hair and onto the floor. Crowds always made Jem feel suffocated, and a little bit like disappearing, though with Jem's height and startling cloud of auburn hair, disappearing in a crowd could hardly have been possible. Jem had never heard of Mika prior to that night. Going to the concert was Susan's idea. She was covering the show for a small local zine, and had a spare ticket, and so decided that Jem should accompany her. "You'll love him," she insisted. "You're kind of weird and you like weird music anyway, so this should totally be your thing." Jem considered protesting that statement, but knowing Susan, decided against it. In any case, she turned out to be entirely right. Mika was the most brilliantly bright thing Jem had heard or seen in ages, and despite the claustrophobia, the music made Jem feel as though the whole world were inside one's ribcage, pushing one's lungs open to eternity in a euphoric burst of energy. However, as soon as the music ended, Jem could feel the crowd crushing in again, and this is why, having briefly ditched Susan, Jem was now searching out a few moments' solitary peace.Gasping in fresh air, Jem leaned back against the brick wall, and then almost slid to the floor when a side door slammed open suddenly and nearly caught Jem's nose as it did so."Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," a disarmingly familiar voice said, and Jem was about to brush off the apology and move to a less violent section of wall when recognition kicked in. Mika was staring at the redhead in a bit of flustered concern, equally as sweaty and confetti-drenched and out of breath, but a little less sprawled along wall-plaster."Uh," Jem replied eloquently, tongue catching on dry lips. "I was just trying to... get away, but... so many people, and..."Mika nodded, smiling a little. "Me too. You may want to get away from the stage door though," he suggested. Then seeing how pale Jem remained, he paused. "I didn't hurt you or anything, did I? Do you need to lie down?""No, no, I'm fine," Jem breathed, straightening up and pushing messy red hair out of dark eyes. "You were amazing, by the way. Brilliant show.""Took your breath away, right?" Mika laughed. He fixed his eyes on Jem's. "Look, I have to go, but if you want to stick around..." He didn't finish the sentence, but continued smiling for a while, and then turned to go inside.Jem thought of Susan and her teasing, and what she'd say if she were to be there now. Of the crush of fans exciting the theatre, of the long ride home, and Susan's chatter about how "weird" they were. Of the fact that Mika, in addition to putting on the best show Jem had seen that year, was disconcertingly gorgeous in person. Of what Susan would say about THAT.Jem stuck around.Mika didn't come back out.Jem left.It was only to be expected, Jem thought walking to the car. It was silly to wait. Plus for what? An autograph? Not like a scribble on some paper was really worth anything. "Not anything," Jem said out loud to the pavement, studying its cracks with great concentration, and promptly smacked into someone. "Sorry!"Jem looked up to see the now-familiar haze of curly hair and lanky frame, and blushed. "We're making this a habit, I think," Mika said. He crinkled his nose. "I'm really sorry for not coming back out. I meant to, I promise. I got... things happened." Jem noticed he looked tired, and seemed upset. Jem also noticed that he was, again, entirely alone. Surely that was a little strange. "Are you feeling better? Do you want me to sign anything?" Mika asked."Not anything," Jem repeated, without thinking. They looked at each other again. "Do you need to go back?" Jem said at last, awkwardly."Yes," Mika said. He didn't move. Another pause. "Do you ever..." Mika began.Stopped."What do you do when you need to breathe?"Jem looked at him, and suddenly felt entirely at ease. "Sometimes, I go for a car ride. To see a secret. The most beautiful place that no-one ever thinks of.""Show me," Mika said simply.Jem nodded. They got into Jem's car, and Jem set out for the highway. Everything was a bit surreal, but then Jem thought that the highway was always surreal. They were both quiet for a while, mutely following the silk stretch of road ahead into the pale horizon. The sun had set a while ago, and the sky was turning a deepening violet. There was no moon and no stars; the night floated like a smooth purple tapestry above the warm road. Jem finally broke the silence. "You're not scared?"Mika turned to look at Jem. "Scared? Of what? Of you?""Maybe. You don't think this is weird? That I'm weird?"A shy smile flitted over Mika's lips and softened into his eyes. "No. I don't know; I was always weird. I don't think I know what weird is. I think normal is weird." He looked back towards the road. "What do you think I am?""Beautiful."Jem breathed in quickly, and felt a flutter of panic as the word slipped out and hung in the air between them. But Mika only kept smiling, slightly wider now, with a child's open grace.They passed under a bridge, and a grey mass rose before them, set in a field of glittering white lights, as though a duchess' diamonds had been scattered all over. Slender towers and spiraling peaks rose from it into the sky, looking like some fantastic foreign castle. As the car rushed closer, the castle acquired more details, delicate stairs winding round it like laces, and lights sparkling over its silhouette. A shadowy plume of violet smoke rose from one of the soaring towers: the breath of a dragon encircling the castle's parapets."There," Jem said. "This is it. It's a factory, you know, and no one thinks of factories as beautiful. But at night, spotted with twinkling lights as though wreathed in garlands of fireflies, it's like... a cybernetic fairytale. It feels like a whole other world, like something between realities. Even in the midst of all its pollution, all the other cars, I feel like I am separated from everything, and all that exists is the beauty and the speed, and I can breathe the whole night in, and--""Pull over," Mika interrupted softly.Jem turned to him in surprise. "Now? Why?""I can't kiss you while you're driving."Jem did as Mika asked.It was funny how well they understood each other's breathing then, underneath that violet sky and its cloak of purple smoke, smoke and breath mixing together, red hair tangling with brown as though the curls were made of heavy air.It was dawn when they made their way back to the city, a lazy, rose-colored, yawning dawn. The statue of liberty rose faintly out of the mist that gathered over the water. "I always wonder what she's thinking," Jem confided to Mika as they passed her by. "When I go driving like this, I feel like she can breathe, and I am the one made of stone sometimes. She seems so lonely then, I wonder if she shares everybody's loneliness.""Nobody," Mika replied thoughtfully, "is ever the only lonely one."Their hands were intertwined, fingers pressed together. They didn't look at each other, but they breathed in unison.Jem stopped the car outside Mika's hotel. "Thank you," Mika said. Jem nodded. Mika was going to say something else, but Jem only smiled, and both knew that nothing more was needed then."There are always too many people," Jem told him, a little sadly.They parted after that.When Mika's next single came out, Susan brought over a copy for Jem. She was surprised to find Jem had a copy already in the car, but even more surprised that Jem refused to listen to its b-side track with her. "Why do you have it then?" she asked."I do listen to it," Jem said. "Just by myself, when I need to get away. It reminds me how to breathe.""I swear, you're so weird," Susan said.Jem let her keep it at that.The End.So yeah... it's kinda crap. And honestly, not particularly romantic, because I couldn't really connect to "Jem" at all. But crap is the point, isn't it?"why, instead of semen, couldn't men ejaculate strawberry jam or something?"--jareth's tights"I have had contact with a vagina." --strangeDivine
ha, if only all fanfics were that good... in an excruciating i-can't-believe-she-just-wrote-that way. ;) re-exposing you.
I think you should post that on Mika's Myspace profile... Me? Like you? Like that?!?
Haha... post a crap story that isn't even characterized well that I wrote in one sitting? I suppose I might as well, since he wouldn't read it even if I did. I would be much more likely to do it though if I felt the "Mika" in the story acted at all like Mika is actually likely to do in real life.But then again, I sent around silly photoshopped pictures of Mika being lovey-dovey with a fellow British singer as a joke, so we'll see, I might do that yet.jareth's tights: I suppose the color must have been inspired by PW, but really I just wanted something that wasn't blond that would contrast well with brown."why, instead of semen, couldn't men ejaculate strawberry jam or something?"--jareth's tights"I have had contact with a vagina." --strangeDivine
That was good but I don't believe for a second that you couldn't really connect to Jem . Because that would mean you're not into girlish boys anymore. The only thing I didn't like was the duchess' diamonds part, but that could just be me being too old to enjoy simple analogies.I'm not sure about posting that on Mika's page, wouldn't that scare him? On the other hand, that would be something to talk about on the 15th : "Hi Mika, I'm the weird poet who posted on your page a while ago and your curly hair and songwriting talent don't make me horny at all!" Or something like that...Mon Espace
Thanks, Frogman!Well, I can fancy Mika without emotionally connecting to every single character who fancies him, couldn't I? Jem was entirely a plot device, and a bit annoying: I think I overdid it with the claustrophobia and such. I kept worrying that he/she was coming across as too much the swooning maiden. Unless you mean you consider Jem to be a girlish boy, and think that I fancy him, which... not really, nah.If you can suggest something else other than the duchess' diamonds, I'd be glad to change it.If I were to meet Mika and I wanted to be discomfortingly weird about it, I'd have plenty to talk about it as it is! Such as those photoshopped pics I mentioned. Right now though, I think if I were to meet him I would yell at him to take a break. He's been really ridiculous: he's been touring non-stop, with a show or tv appearance everyday, and every day in a different city since May, and he's been looking exhausted lately and his voice has sounded strained at the last two shows, and he recently had an ear infection. But he's continuing with this crazy schedule all through the summer, and he just announced he'll be launching into another UK/European tour through the fall and winter. I am almost angry at him and think he really needs to stay home or take a month-long holiday.I'd make a good Jewish mother."why, instead of semen, couldn't men ejaculate strawberry jam or something?"--jareth's tights"I have had contact with a vagina." --strangeDivine
In reply to: A shy smile flitted over Mika's lips and softened into his eyes.
A shy smile flitted over Mika's lips and softened into his eyes.
I agree with Froggy about the duchess' diamonds part, but this line is fantastic, and the rest of the imagery is well done.I can't decide if this poem is crap or not, yet. It needs some work still, but it motivates me when I post my stuff here. Maybe because I don't mind if my stuff sucks when no one else has to read it.He gouges out a portrait in his mind;A rounded arrowhead,Ressurrected from the red clay flesh, Made blunt by learned indifference Foreboding form in window frame His chugging breath contends against grey sky Pulsing dappled fingerprints into hisDeep-set eyes Unseen, He stalks the rumoured silhouettes Against a dull, nickel horizonThey ne'er desist Buffalo relics, withTheir tongueless heads in mistHe swivels at the door in silence;Offers the rough translation of A smileThe void like antiquated, rust-red pattern;Unintended space in tileBetween the bare, buffed slabs of white linoleum;Shiny-smelling of petroleum jellyThe holy drum inside his throat drowns soft To dulcet quietudeFor now, laying to rest the lonesome quest;That which he can't emote to me or you Flush to the surface Of a cold, archaic coinAusterity condemns his soulHandled so much, it's come to beIncomprehensible "we went to pizza hut after school and lived the rockstar life for the first time that day." - 13athroom
I always like your poetry, JG. Here I really like the imagery of a "dull, nickel horizon" and "dappled fingerprints." I also enjoy all the throat/tongue imagery--you use it well and not in the usual way. The only thing I might change is the use of "ne'er," since it doesn't really fit stylistically with the rest of your diction.Thanks for your compliment on the story. ;-) Honestly, I agree with you both on the duchess' diamonds part. It's not really my image, but I gave Jem the fireflies line. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them. Otherwise, are any of these variants better?"as though an elderly heiress' diamonds had been scattered all over""as though a chest-full of diamonds had been scattered all over"I am mostly bothered by the "duchess" part, though I recognize that "diamonds" are cliche.By the way, that factory is real and is indeed that beautiful. I would take Mika or anyone else there in a heartbeat, though it's about a 40-minute drive.My own description of it in my journal went something like this:Cyborgia is when...When the night-road is the same color as the sky, and the Newark airport brings forth its crop of a field ripe with lights, heavy golden bulbs spreading their pollen in the ionic breeze.When the pollution-spewing factories rise up in sharp spiraling magnificence like star-spackled castles wreathed in their purple plumes of smoke.When the slender lines of bridges and wires cut up air and road like lace garottes.Driving home at 2 am in a post-thunderstorm haze, that is Cyborgia.I like this description better, but that's my description and not the story's."why, instead of semen, couldn't men ejaculate strawberry jam or something?"--jareth's tights"I have had contact with a vagina." --strangeDivine
What about "as though a block of frosted semen had been scattered all over"? That would sound fresher.The most beautiful words in the English language are not 'I love you,' but 'It's benign.' | Mon Espace
Yeah, I was iffy on the ne'er, but I tried loads of other words and I just did not like the way anything else sounded. I was thinking the word usage might be justified because I'm talking of archaic things throughout the poem, but it probably just comes off as pretentious. I'll probably change that.Anyway, thank you for the encouragement. It is much appreciated. "as though a chest-full of diamonds had been scattered all over"This certainly sounds better to me. Though, I'm afraid I'm in love with your original description and nothing about the diamonds will please me now. The Cyborgia vignette is incredibly inventive, and there's an elegance in your manner of describing the factory that doesn't seem as forced as Jem's. Then again, this makes sense as you said you can't really identify with the character. Of course, it's not to say the story's description is bad, it works rather nicely.. I just think your personal version is quite clever, in particular. "we went to pizza hut after school and lived the rockstar life for the first time that day." - 13athroom
Everything hazy,World is blurred,Things you've said,Have never been heard.Try to walk straight,Crooked path,Sky is spinning,Drunken wrath.Dirty smells,Noisy chat,Can't take much more,Your endless crap.Wish I wasn't drunk... Me? Like you? Like that?!?
Something to try and make up for that drunken crap I posted...Oh summer days, where have you been,Still burnished from your winter sheen?Do you quickly hide from fat old men,Who shirtless, drink their tepid beers,To sounds of barbecues and cheers?Oh summers lost, where did you go?I knew a person long ago,Who bounced on pogo sticks till late,Then climbed a tree, too tall by farAnd fell and laughed with boyhood aches.Oh summer nights, oh starry fields For you I cannot think, but feel, Those hazy staggers home so late, To bumble clumsy at my gate,Such happy wordless silly groans. Who knows what summer now will yield...? Me? Like you? Like that?!?
The Sun rose;SuperciliousHe bared his golden sneerIt glistened;SanctimoniousThere haloing his sphereUndaunted, Delicate, And, new;The Moon hung to the dayA dry white stampUpon the blueThat still clung to the gray The Sun, Punctilious and proud, Grew weary of her presence;The crescent, Slight, Upon his cloud;His sky host to night's peasantSo, Night by night,He gave twilightTo slake her mighty thirstThen, Crumbs of sunTo gorge upon;Enough that she might burstAnd, Still, she lingered into mornTo drink the honeyed dawnBut,Sun contained his fiery scornTo fuel her embonpoint*A fortnight passed, And, then at lastHis efforts were rewardedHis joy, begot;The Moon stayed notIt seemed she had been thwartedBut,To be sure,He wanted moreEvidence of defeatSo,In the skies,He'd leave his eyes;Most cunning and discreetWhen nightfall cameHe saw the MoonHer face, voluminousHer visage made himSob and swoonSo fair and luminousLamenting All his spitefulnessResenting only he,He figured, "What delightfulness,Repenting for my deeds!"So, Every nightHe leaves her lightUntil she is replete,And, When she's fullAs virgin wool,Allows her to retreat*Dictionary.com Word of the Day. Better than using it in a sentence, I guess... I wish I knew how to quit you...
An old man dribbles down his sleeve,He stinks of piss and rotten leaves.Spoilt children cry cry their fuss, Please someone get me off this bus!The window sill is dripping steam,These seats are damp and wet, unclean,My head is spinning, I feel rough,Get me off this bloody bus!The driver laughs manically,As drunken bastards whoop and scream,I honestly don't give a toss,JUST GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING BUS!!! Me? Like you? Like that?!?
It's good, but it could be great! Come back and work on it once you're pissed. So good to see you back, sir! I may have to start frequenting T-dubs again sooner than I thought.Today, I'm pondering seven waysTo say that I am all aloneMondayCalls me on the phoneHer voice is just a dial toneI can't escape her vile droneMm hmm, mm hmm, mm hmm?TuesdayStalls out on my streetHe wonders how I'm still asleepHow many beeps before he creepsAway, away, away?WednesdayFinds me on the busWhere people stare and people cussI would, but I'm too tired to fussWith you, or you, or youThursdaySits with me at lunchNothing to say, hum drum and hunchedHe hangs on my self-conscious crunchSo long, so long, so longFridayIs a thing of wonderFast and fierce like waves of thunderHe always splits my heart asunderIn time, in time, in timeSaturdayIs soft, like rainShe helps me wallow in my painShe washes all my sinful stainsWith tears, and tears, and tearsBut, SundaySunday cannot restShe kicks inside my hollowed breastShe writhes as though she were possessedWith nothing, nothing, nothing P.S. I wrote this a couple weeks ago. I just thought it was weird we both rhymed bus with fuss. I've been posting at a "proper" poetry site, but I'm getting tired of sifting through all the poems about peoples' pets to find the good stuff. "The darkest of these objects is fecal excrement, which Sade advocates that we consume with relish, (no pun intended.)" - Douglas B. Lynott
Dans ces grottesDes gorgones polyglottesOnt pris nos atomesPour en faire des concerts de rockEt des spectres phosphorescentsSourient et glissent doucementAu dessus de nos sens.Sortons ! Sortons viteDe cette haunted house !Je veux voir Mickey Mouse.I started with two enemas and a moanI was a fartiste
Women are afraid of miceBut, Mickey Mouse is very niceI'm afraid of Donald DuckAnd, every other Disney fuck "The darkest of these objects is fecal excrement, which Sade advocates that we consume with relish, (no pun intended.)" - Douglas B. Lynott
Me, it's Pluto I'd love to devour'cause waterfowl I find too sourThen Ratatouille'll be my dessertO, how I love to feel the rodent juice squirt!(Shirley I am not a pervert?)I started with two enemas and a moanI was a fartiste
There was nothing usual about the setting of a hauntingNo thunderous lightning around an antiquated residence with a wretched pastJust the intermittent pounding at the front doorIt wasn't even darkShe'd overdosed on heroin and I'd put her on the steps before the police arrived
I arrived at the foothill and was instantly disappointedIt bared no resemblance to a foot whatsoeverAnd then my closest friend told me that's where base camp was going to beI asked another friend who was further away "Is this true?"He said "Yes - but don't worry - you can borrow my snow shoe - I would lend you both - but it's not a feethill, you cunt"
Stay with me babyI have your best interests at heartYou're making far too muchOf my covering your head with the duvet when I fart
Mind-blowing.I started with two enemas and a moanI was a fartiste
In reply to:A Shortcut To Meryl Streep's Bush
A Shortcut To Meryl Streep's Bush
That would make a great sequel to Being John Malkovich.God's footballer hears the voices of angelsAbove the choir at Molineux
I really like this one, Mardell. Interesting to see the bluer side of your expression (aside from off-color remarks and morbid humor.)The word choice is very cold and detached, a light in which I find very human. Well done. Many people would cope in this way with a memory as wretched as this.I'm not sure I like the word "antiquated," though. It's almost too quaint and lovely for the atmosphere you've drawn. I'd go with either "dilapidated" or, ideally, "decrepit," as both would add to the already present assonance you've built in the line (and in the previous line, with "setting.")Over all, I find it appropriately terse; it engages the reader cleverly with a sort of reverse psychology.Don't ask me why I'm being so generous to you, you prat. "The darkest of these objects is fecal excrement, which Sade advocates that we consume with relish, (no pun intended.)" - Douglas B. Lynott
In reply to: In reply to:-------------------------------------------------- A Shortcut To Meryl Streep's Bush--------------------------------------------------That would make a great sequel to Being John Malkovich.
In reply to:-------------------------------------------------- A Shortcut To Meryl Streep's Bush--------------------------------------------------That would make a great sequel to Being John Malkovich.
That film's already been made, it's called Adaptation. The shortcut is the orchids and some of it is filmed on the behind the scenes of the actual BJM set!!(spooky!!)my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,that i must above all things love myself
This was a great movie.I started with two enemas and a moanI was a fartiste
It was a great movie. I started a real nasty Orchid Dust habit after watching it.As for Nick Cage's acting abilities, most of the time, I think he's annoying but there are a few of his films that fit his persona well, like "Adaptation". I liked him in "Bringing Out the Dead" and "Lord's of War", also.
Nic Cage is so pricelessly brilliant in Raising Arizona that it took me a full 10 years to realize that it's the only role I really liked him in.That's genious and you're stupid.
Nic Cave was great in his day (Raising Arizona, Wild at Heart) but his day was a long, long time ago and he's made way too many poor movie choices to be taken seriously any longer*. Adaptation was a wonderful - albeit all too brief - return to form for him in a really interesting, entertaining movie.* Can I just say that as much as I loathed Face/Off, I think he and Travolta acted each other beautifully!Now I'll stop hijacking this thread and you lot can get back to your piss poor poetry my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,that i must above all things love myself
In reply to:Nic Cave
Nic Cave
You sure he was in those ones?I liked him in Leaving Las Vegas, which also had those cool jazzy tunes by Gordon Sumner.I started with two enemas and a moanI was a fartiste
LOL. Got Cave on the brain and he won't go away.You know what I mean my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,that i must above all things love myself
Midlife crisis?I started with two enemas and a moanI was a fartiste
I think it's actually a Bowie crisis.... I can't get Nick Cave out of my head. Bowie's just not doing it for me... I even listened to Low, "Heroes" and Lodger in a row yesterday but was yearning for Grinderman.Nic Cage has done some great stuff, another two faves that spring to mind are Rumblefish (jeez I loved that movie, haven't seen it in a long time, very cool cast) and Birdy.my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,that i must above all things love myself
You're not a true fan!I started with two enemas and a moanI was a fartiste
I don't think I'll ever have a Bowie Crisis, but there is so much stuff out there that strikes my interests that I would be covered for life if Bowie would retire or whatever. Albums like Low and Kid A will always be revisited and enjoyed for my listening pleasure but I've got new stuff all of the time to sipher through and love, via the internet and recommendations from my friends. It's all about the mood, I guess. And the mood...She is like an angry sea twisting and turning o'er and o'er through an expanse of millenia of life and death. As the great waters wash to my shores, the sounds crashing against the craggy rocks and smooth, sandy beaches, I stand, just a man, feeling the breezes and sounds as they come. (bad poem for the purpose of this thread)
GadgieTonight I cry a little bit,To only weep once more.For broken wonders found and lost,And startled skeptics laws.If not to learn here how to live,Perhaps to live to learn,And not to breathe forgotten dust,Which falls down through the floor.Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
I really, really like that, sir. It's not often I come across poetry that has both emotion and importance of meaning in equal amounts.Here's another predictably dreary poem from me. You said yesAnd, the word was made fleshAnd, dwelt among usBut, all at once, things seemed to goDown into the dustThat moment splinters my memoryThe crack of the bough like bone through skinThe snowiest blood, unconscious of agony,Where our hearts poured overAnd, filth filed inWe shed disbeliefBraved the gateway of griefAnd, the brambles bareAs the frost clouded our veins andThe rain plowed our hairThat morning pendulates in my mindThe crumble of dirt as the spine of my soul The faintest of light sloping over the pinesAs the dark leaned into usAnd, took its tollDays pressed onAnd, the pain was made oneAnd, knelt upon usAnd, both at once, we seemed to breakDown upon the duskDreaming laughs left bitterly bereftOur deadness permeating pre-dawn�s cloakIn wordless, windless scapes utterly cleftWe freed our fragile howls And, hollowed croaks Hi, this is Grape-A-Don�s Dad. Well, the members of Grand Buffet were right about one thing. Your flesh is burning, and you are going to Hell.
Dreary my arse! I particularly enjoyed the imagery of your last poem... wish I could write so well. Here's some more crap from me.EthicsIf life were a one track mind,Unfettered with curious happenings,Or already broken beneath the yoke of time,Like lonely fragments of dust.Then like some ghastly timer,How each momentous minute,Would sear across my spirit,And smile to see me mock. And so, lay down or lie,Upon uncertain confidence,To soldier on through each dull tock,And watch the graying hairs grow older.Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
Yours & JGirls poetry is good, but I would personally prefer less in the way of noun usage.
I always feel happiest when swanning sideways through the murky miles,And across the heady hills the green smear of land slides swiftly beneath me.Could this vertiginous variance of foliage and fauna,Lost in a creators venomous eyes,Really be home?Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
That reminds very briefly of the four days I spent recently at Mardale Green in Cumbria.The birthplace of my Anglo-Saxon surname no less.
In reply to:That reminds very briefly of the four days I spent recently at Mardale Green in Cumbria.
That reminds very briefly of the four days I spent recently at Mardale Green in Cumbria.
Well it's a small world... I actually wrote that a while ago in a notebook I took with me when I climbed up the Old Man of Coniston! So not far off. Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
Do you ever struggle with loathsome doubts on those cool spring nights,Raging silently whilst the mournful moon makes such dark faces at an unhappy soul?The enchanting destruction repulses me, but I boil to fight back,But I don't care enough to win as the bastards pull me down... Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
Yes.We knelt at the delicate feet of dilection;........Groveled at the cloudy skin of our fateWhen the shapes of the stars were embodied before us........In the precipitancy ........Of divine electricity........They held twinkling vigil in the blackest of hours........As our dreadful hearts ........Were wholly proselytized Humble hands Were unfurled as flowersLike petals in moon ........Grey veinulets ........Wicking up light through our fingersWe knelt ........At the delicate feet of dilection........We wept when our wavering spirits were stilledAs the seraphs of sky broke before us and shimmered ........Through the stratus ........Of somber uncertainty If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
The CrunchThe present past can never last,A future often lingers,You cling to minutes by the hour,Which slip down through your fingers.And when you hear the grinding crunch,Which cuts down to your soul,Take up those bronze illumined gears,And pay the weary toll.Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
I never knew illuminated could be truncated like that. Good to know.The metaphor of the clock gears as the two coins for Charon - brilliant. Unless you meant something more general, but I love the connotation that if you don't ante up, the memories of the time that you so clutch at will be lost forever. This is mercurial and short, but rich, and that's what I tend to like in poetry, so nicely done. This is a new favorite for me. If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
It�s on the edgeNot really thereIt�s like a glanceNot a stareIt�s not quite inBut not quite outNot in the centreIt moves aboutIt is, it isn�tIt could be maybe tho�It agrees, disagreesIt�s very so-soIt comes it goesYou�re never really sureOut the windowThru� the doorPeriphery, periphery � artfully awareIn the shadowsOr in the openTho� never really there.Conversation Piece
I like it Strawie. Good to see you posting here again. This is about the only thing worthwhile I've written since last I was here.Further thanTwo souls can ever beI am in the peaking morning lightAnd, you are in the place no one can seeI�ll imagine it for youThe sun never burns your eyesNo terror permeates the darkNo tears need be criedIn your glory, your freedom Nobody�s going to hurt you anymoreYour traces will be swept up in a zephyrOf mystery and longingSorrow and regretSilent furyBut, the lines of your face will be keptIn the most hallowed memoriesCampfire litPyretic flurryFinally, raised up in flamesYearning palms will well rememberThose hard wood-chopping handsThat buried themselves in burnt sienna furAnd pined to plant themselves in distant landsThe horizon always was your homeSought from early dawn into the nightBroad and bright, I see your easy smileSprawling in the peaking morning light If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
Oh my lovely poetry... I thought you dead and buried,But now I find you here again,Decayed and somewhat smelly.Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
With a clever smileAnd a clean anusYou took me for a rideOn a purple platypusWhile weird lover WildeRode home on a busSatie's Faction
I really don't like doing this "dot dot dot" thing, but this works so much better with the indentations. Thinking of adding another stanza to square things off... A Royal Welcome Have I indulged unseemly................In feasts of blushing terror?................................Apples shining on the cheeks of................Abdicated dignityFor, here in my confinement................There is no sash to tear................................No grappling with the robed fa�ade................Nor powdering of hairA fool, I�ve trebled troubles................For want of trophied shoulders................................Not mantling a violet heart................Nor, violent flowers of fervorBut, damascened refinement................A silent, silken weave................................No burden of simplicity................Upon the sterling sleeveDo diamonds rain from tear ducts?................Do roses reign the core?................................Is Venus deigned the precious pearl................Of adoration�s smile?For, I have never mined them................Nor, boasted their d�cor................................Nor, do they shower upon the shroud................Of death�s unlittered shore Fairy stories in the penny arcade. You bought my love and I paid.
A tad old-fashioned, but very well written. You're pretty articulate for a fatty.When Bowie Meets Satie
Well, ya know, we have to learn twelve different words for each kind of food so we don't seem excessive. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go make a Dagwood. Fairy stories in the penny arcade. You bought my love and I paid.
You mean a sous-marin?When Bowie Meets Satie
Otherwise known as a hero. Fairy stories in the penny arcade. You bought my love and I paid.
When you are far from here,The gears and cogs that make me tick,Whir that bit slower,Grind to a halt and lock,In patterns of behaviour,And modes of thinking,Like a clockwork soldier,That lumbers on,With missing parts,You are my heart.So bring back your key,To wind me tight,I'm more than metal gears,But less than perfect,Without you.Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
(Meadowell is a shitty metro station that I have to wait at each morning as I go to work, it inspired this insipid effort.)MeadowellSmoking woman by the metro rails,Can you even think or feel?Or are you drowning out some pain,That scarred your soul,But left no shame?Your child looks on with curious eyes,As you scream obscenties to the slate grey skies,The platform drips with fallen spit,No seats remain,On which to sit.At night the shrieks and whoops,Of mispent youth will echo,Down the puke strewn tunnel,And yellow railings will hide,Those old familiar lies.I watched detached,Sad at my own contempt,This weary Heaven and stranger HellOn this dreary day,In Meadowell...Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
Good to see you writing again, Percy. The first one is effectively heartbreaking - metaphor is well chosen. I like everything except the "less than perfect" line, because.. well, we are all that normally so there's not as much humanity as if you were to say something along the lines of "less than functional." (Yeah, as you can probably tell, I'm out of practice.)And the Meadowell poem evokes the sort of sharp imagery I expect from you and is not insipid. I really like the last stanza. you're so natural religiously unkind
Is each dull breath a waste of air,When the world around you hardly cares,Who should live and who should die,Amongst these masses by your side?Consumer fed with wretched fears,Another cog, a shift, a gear,So why don't you just end it here,Lost in multitudes of tears?This is modern living, At the best.Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
All I've got left is some stupid picture,Of me pulling a face like a chimpanzee.Not much of a memory.All I've got left is a box,With one or two things at the bottom,That don't quite fit.All I've got left is some pride,Which isn't much to look atBut it's mine.All I've got leftIs me.Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
Well I'm still writing bloody awful poetry..."Saint Valentine was beaten bloody,With Roman rocks and clubs in hand.He fell before the Flaminian Gate,A severed wreck, a bitter study.And so our bloody saint may frown,To see what change the wind has blown,A man who died a martyrs death,Arose to be a red red rose."Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
What does that poem have to do with Valentine's day?Good as ever, Pers. you're so natural religiously unkind
In reply to:What does that poem have to do with Valentine's day?
What does that poem have to do with Valentine's day?
I just like to be oblique.I created my own shit poetry blog... my highest ever viewing day was about 27 people... I'm proud of that statistic!http://terriblepoems.wordpress.com/Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.
Walk through bullets every day,And don't flinch from the sting of their passing.Blood and bone only hurt so long, so walk on.Don't flinch, though the staccato gunfire beats you down relentlessly,Just meet them with a resolute grin and remember the price you paid.That same kid with the wonder of the world tucked in his pocket,Long summer days and kicking through dry yellow grass,Finding your feelings for the first time as you hurt with shivering sobs,Knees tucked up as hoarse breaths racked your adolescent soul, Loves first loss.Remember the ambition and yearning you had?Wide dreams that seemed to spin off the pages of books,Magic in a parents hug and the fluttering moths by the old window pane.Do you regret the compromises you made as the evening set in?Trying on a hundred coats and finding the first one that fit,Was not fitting.You were made in those dreamy days,When each minute seemed to last a day,That sunshine memory is stronger than steel cobwebs,And more fleeting than rain.And when the end comes, that same wide eyed wonder kid,Will laugh one more time as the sun sets,To go kicking through the old field by the lane,Where the kites fly high in the ethereal air.So don't flinch,Walk through the bullets and grin,Just grin...The more things change... the more irritating it gets
By my reflectionI wrote this,So that you may never truly know me.Save by my own assumptions,A cover judged by its book and no other.For just as glass reflects a little light,So we only see a glimpse,,Of that which learns to talk and walk,But deeper currents still darker stalk.Contextualize if you must,This man is worthy, this woman good,Action, deed and thought combine,To tell each story in its time.Are we even honest with ourselves?Then again, who would want to be?Self denial serves no worth,And self deceit is simply living. "And you're not the 'Man who fell to Earth' you're 'The man of La Mancha'.