text:
I think you'll be the sameBut I have no ideaSitting here waiting for you to fall or cry or...Feel anything at allYou're still the sameButEverything else has changedCry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war
i...like...your poem.i thought it was a bird, but it was just a paper bag ...
and...I...love it to pieces Biased towards odd/pale/creepy/dead/fictional guys.
This is a clear proof how marijuana can harm your mind."Learning to cope with feelings aroused in me My hands in the soil, buried inside of myself My love wears forbidden colours My life believes in you once again..."
This is good. Real good. Would you mind if I made you my next featured poet on my little site at:Distant Discohttp://www.distant-disco.freeservers.comI need to change it soon and I think it would be fun to use your poem!"All the world is made of faith,And trust,And pixie dust."-Jonatha Brooke Save the everyday fan: BOYCOTT BOWIENET!
You need to work on your imagery/power words
I...heart...youlittle brotherhysterical and useless
It's all insaneIt's all the sameIt's all we thinkIt's all we wereIt's all we felt insideIt's all I hadIt's all I've lostIt's all I ever dreamed It's all you knowIt's all you hateIt's all you wish was deadIt's all meIt's always meIt's all that's on my mindIt's all you left behindIt's all the sameIt's all insaneI'm a people person... who drinks
Edited by Remade/Remodeled on 03/26/03 08:30 PM (server time).
Ooo wowie. That is very good. Methinks it needs an extra something at the end to make the rhythm work properly, though. That Vulcan thing where you grab someone's pants - Lon Suder
Better?I'm a people person... who drinks
Very muchly so! Gosh, I could never have thought of such a simple solution. Shows how much I yet have to learn. That Vulcan thing where you grab someone's pants - Lon Suder
You're tired of tryingto keep the dead aliveI'm tired of one way conversationsand lonely nights You have my reasonsI have your liesOne by one I'll stand them upand one by one you'll watch them fallBecause one by one I'll build them upand one by one you'll break them allI'm tired of fightingto keep your dreams aliveWhen I'm really only waitinguntil right timeYou have my reasonsand I have your liesOne by one you stand them upand everytime I watch them fallBecause one by one you build them upBut they were never there at allI'm a people person... who drinks
To thinkyou never sawwhile I cherished your looksas if they were diamondsand your smilemade me shakeTo thinkyou never told;wine soaked confidences wastedbecause you couldn't see...or didn't want to.To thinkyou never lovedwell, probably for the bestI'm a people person... who drinks
Your prose is brilliant in it's conciseness, and you're clearly a romantic at heart.
I wish it would rainand turn this dust to mudand turn the mud to clayand turn the clay to lifeand turn life to something worthwhileI wish it would rainand make this pool a lakeand make the lake a seaand make the sea everythingand make everything worthwhileI wish it would rainand change my mindand change my mindand change my mindI know that I must do what's rightSure as Kilimanjaro rises like an EverestAbove the Serengeti
Justified in thinkingthat this wasn't quite timeMatyred for taking what was known to be falseReasonable in judgmentAdvantageous in positioningNo one needs to knowfuckerI know that I must do what's rightSure as Kilimanjaro rises like an EverestAbove the Serengeti
he's idle, palersitting there in the cornermoth lands over his namei disregard the formerwords are always soothingi can feel it getting warmergone for weeks/months on endhe returnsonly to find himidle in the corneri learned the truth from lenny bruce
and i thought that all i wanted to do was just reach out there and grab it. well, shit. i came so close and for nothing. my stomach is twisting into a knot but not for the same reasons. at least i think so. i'm getting anxious, but i'm not sure for which situation. there's a million things up there. no dust, though. i think too much for that.i'm not sure why i think it'd make me feel better. but it would, i know it would. because then nothing else would matter.i'm no drinker, but i could make an exception. or maybe i wouldn't need to. how long does it take anyway? if i had the money i would've. screw the rules, i'd have come. i wish i could be realistic. maybe things would be easier then. maybe i wouldn't be taken advantage of.it's bad grammar to end sentences in prepositions. jesus, i am losing it....so what did you say is your drink of choice?i learned the truth from lenny bruce
Small seductive smile flickered as their eyes metHe shut his eyes it's not supposed to happen like thisOpen again but she's still there smile remainseyebrow raised... Oh god, but she needs somebody to hold ontoand apparently I'll do, so "My drink of choice is absinthe, but I'll drink anything with you".God, it wasn't supposed to happen like this.Stutters his way through the small talk (it's not supposed to happen like this) but somehow she's still there...Make her smileMake her laughIf it has to happen like this, make the mostasShe needs somebody to hold ontoand of them all she picked youso "I'm really fond of absinthe, but anything will do"And a few more, a few more smiles and at least he's talking freely nowRefrained from shaking and even looks her in the eyeAnd he knows what's going onalthough it wasn't supposed to be this wayso she says "It's up to you,""Well, I live only blocks away,but I'll go anywhere with you."She needed someone to hold ontobut we all knew she'd end up with youI know that I must do what's rightSure as Kilimanjaro rises like an EverestAbove the Serengeti
Yesterday I saw you by the water's edge,sitting in the shadowsYou cried "It took so longand now it's donewhat more is there to do?"And you turned away from the waters edgeand said"Come back tomorrow."I watched you by the water's edgeand you stepped into the shallowsyou moaned "Not longnot long awaybut what can I do now?"Then you turned away from the waters edgeand said"Maybe tomorrow"I sat there by the waters edge as you waded into the mire.You turned and said"It's been so longand he's been so longand I don't know what to do."And I turned away from the waters edgeand said"I'll be back tomorrow."I returned today to the waters edgeand I spat into the shallows"You took so longand now he's gone.What the fuck can you possibly do now?"and we turned away from the waters edgeOnly to return tomorrowI know that I must do what's rightSure as Kilimanjaro rises like an EverestAbove the Serengeti
There's something quite resonant in her smile, he decidesIt could make the sun blackIt could make the night whiteThere's something quite resonant in her smile, he decidesWhich means he thinks it's fineThere's something quite sonorous in her voice, he decidesIt could make the birds flatIt could make the symphony triteThere's something quite sonorous in her voice, he decidesWhich means he thinks it's fineThere's something quite invigorating in her manner, he decidesIt could make the dull sharpIt could make the stones tryThere's something quite invigorating in her manner, he decidesWhich means he thinks it's fineThere's something quite loathsome in his person, she decidesHe could make the milk curdleHe could make the children cryThere's something quite loathsome in his person, she decidesOf course she doesn't think it's fineI know that I must do what's rightSure as Kilimanjaro rises like an EverestAbove the Serengeti
Cracks of white appeared in the grey'Perhaps this will be better'But in the end it's still the sameBecause the white, it pervadesAnd the white is just another shade of greyAnd in the end, we're still the sameWe're still waiting, Shards of light appear through the haze'Perhaps our hope has come'But in the end, nothing has changedBecause the light, it pervadesAnd the light is just another kind of hazeAnd in the end, nothing's changedWe're still wanting,And the white fades to greyAnd the light becomes hazeIn the end it's the sameIn the end,nothing's changedI know that I must do what's rightSure as Kilimanjaro rises like an EverestAbove the Serengeti
A monthA weekA dayAn hourA minuteA secondbut never a moment at all.But seriously folks...
I like the last one !T.ReX☼BowiE"Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane.." Thank you very much. We love you. Bye Bye.
Times like thiswhen the rain comes hardand I'm locked in my roomthere's nothing much to doexcept try to work outwhen I fell in love with youwait...I'm in love with you?Times like thesewhen life slows downand I'm stuck in the same placesalways seeing the same facesI stop and think thatI'm in love with youwait...I'm in love with you?Times like thenWhen everything seemsso much betterand everyone smiles all the timeIt's hard to imagineI wasn't in love with youwait...I'm in love with you?But seriously folks...
ll0ll0lllll0l0lll0ll0llllll0ll0l0lll0ll0ll0lllll0l0lll0l0lll0ll0l0llll000lllll0l0l0ll0l00l0l0l0lll0lll0lll0llll0ll0l0lllll0lll0lllll0l0lllllll0lll0ll0l2Bet you didn't see that comingBut seriously folks...
���v�]v1/4}ZUY�<THORN>*Y��y�mjim nabors is way cool
I had to look at that for a few minutes to actually get it, yeah I'm slow .T.ReX☼BowiE Well if it's hers, then it must be mine. It's a ripoff...
he said anything would do.so she took his hand and they walked and walked until they came to a lake hidden by trees and vines and leaves. it was sparkling. the moon sparkled and the fireflies sparkled and it was surreal.they drank the water out of the flowers that had been rained on. he said anything would do.she smiled. she always smiled when she talked to him. when she thought of him. and she was happy, and she hoped that he was happy, because it made her even more so.it wasn't really awkward, as they expected it would be. they swam in the lake until it got too cold, not really talking much, but both smiling largely to themselves.and she thought, it could happen.jim nabors is way cool
I never knew you wrote such great stuff.I should spend more time in Artiste Forum, you can find a lot of great stuff in here.If my opinion means something to you, then I'd like to say I like over half of your poems very muchIt's a way of dealing with all the feelingKeep believeing in dreams...these are the dreams of an impossible princess...
I'd like to be the oneto say what you wantedneededlonged to hearand then say it againto prove it was rightto make you smileto make you mineI'd like to be the oneto take you outaround the worldspin you roundupside downand make you shaketo take a chanceto make a choiceto make you mineI'd like to be the oneto tie you downwith a picket fence2.3 kidscrippling mortgageand a desire for moreto take you downto make you cryand curse being mineBut seriously folks...
i am superficialinsignificantawkwardsarcastic.i am slighteddiscontinuedseepingdiscontent.i am recovering from realization.i'm not the onenor the only.i am uglyand jealous.he dangles that carrot in front of my horse.don't touch me, your hands feel like salad tongs
Would it not be great to get something for nothing?oh! but, life is not that way at all!people expect a return for their efforts,be it,love,passion,play,work,or, a knock at the door,reciprocity rules the day.�2004 AtonalFreakThe Atonal Express left the tonal world behind...Atonalexpress
It's fever, it's a break in your neckIt's never the selected track,that was playing on your stereoWhat goes on the outside messed up my feelingsSteered on the inside out, I need a landrover.. that bringsmy honest weeping, but now i'm stuckOh... that was crap... ah well.. tried it..Andy I'm late, Andy please help me. I never get the silverscreen. I'm not exactly your galleryteen
plungedeep into my swimming poolmy nature lake hot lagooncount bugs in the sticky air(blinking airplane disappointment)lick flowers and sip each otherbut you like absinthe and i only hopeyou can be satisifed heredon't touch me, your hands feel like salad tongs
sucking on cigarette lipsfeeding me lines to nourish insecuritiesyour haughty mannerismswon't allow me in good conscious torun around nakedshit in the woodscallous my feetget dirty.needing your approvalplucks the fruit from my treeleaving my branches bareand i shiver with bitternessonly because it's not so easy for me.and there you sitfeigning righteousnesscoolnessbeautiful free unwantingnessbut you can't even remember my nameand you won't even useboth sides of the paper.don't touch me, your hands feel like salad tongs
Man, why is beatled's poetry always so good?Next time somebody calls you a name, say, "That's not what your dad says," or simply, "I had sex with your dad." At first it might seem weird, and your friends may be horrified, but they'll grow to see the humor in it.--Glitterbot
you hot burning tan freckled constellation skincurling swirl tufts of blond ambitious flowlean against so smooth pressing earthy fabricsmyriad texture amazing sexy nonchalantnessdripping with a smile bearingwhite teeth and a fine contrasting deep black gapme sinuous small compacted boatswimming pool splashing timid small talklean also againt that brown gold buttery fiberpale moony and reticently unacquaintedof that spongy hot pink vastness of yourlizard-climb-high peachy intellectwe standing liquid cool blue greensteamy planty jungle fluidity from lips into matterpouring out of deep penetratinf orificessoaking into wet cerebral combat fromscreaming amber secretions ofthick and puncturing coconut milk.don't touch me, your hands feel like salad tongs
why are you so screwed up? you just smash my impeccable timing to pieces and i look like a fool, and yes, i may be that one that doth know he is. or perhaps not, because of that strange bee-fruit flying down from that cool green weeping tree. it cries and i hug it so it will feel better. and then you cry and i can't hug you because i'm not sure that i can make anything better for you. you with the summer water hot bliss attitude, "everything is okay, don't touch me or my pride will shatter like i ruined your timing." and so i stay away distancing myself so far as i can go and eventually run into warm tan pleasantly squishing squeezing liberalness that bites into apples as if they truly were faces and he's afraid of hurting them. so we melt in and out and on top of one another oozing with that digustingly beautiful wet happiness, like the kind that makes you want to just die and live forever swimming in the moist dirt with the earthworms and the shiny black and red beetle crawling around in the soft brownness and it's at that point that you realize you have nothing to complain about, and if there is, it doen't matter, it's so insignificant, you just can't because everything, you now know, is really alright and the drowning glittering earth is nothing but a bunch of black and red beetles shining and crawing in some vast deep pile of earth packed tightly and securely and immensly into a ball, and you creep with those earthworms and lick the salty crispness of the brown, happy and just alright.don't touch me, your hands feel like salad tongs
There's...My...Face...What are you doing with that hammer?Why can't you be a nice elephant?There are peopleWho don't know youIt's betterYou know it's better that way. I'm a DUMBASS!
WellHe never said it was easyHe never said it was goodHe never said it was anythingAnything to me, at leastWellShe never said she was happyShe never said she was fineShe never said she was anythingAnything to me, at leastWellThey never said it was gentleThey never said it was sereneThey never said it was anythingAnything to me, at leastWellYou never said you loved meYou never said you caredYou never said you were anythingAnything to me, at leastWellBut seriously, folks...
Got up at sixlistened to the rainthey say it's only aprilbut it's been raining just the sameKissed you twiceWent though the motionssaid I enjoyed it just the sameand waited for the walkdown montrealand nothing else will changeFew words shared over breakfastdon't ask, don't tell, don't careI guess I don't know what to say to youI guess it doesn't matter in the endThe tears were cried weeks agoIt's all the same now by the hourwhen we walk down montreal,and talk like it's the samepretend that nothing's changedDown montreal,they know the factsbut take up all your timeTrudging through the rainBehind schedule for somethingThat really has no end;but we'll damn the consequencestalk like nothing's differentAnecdotes and statisticsand who cares anyway?Knowing it'll all be different;because when we get to montreal...nothing is the sameThe woman at the desk,efficient, she does it 20 times a daywe joke about people we know,girls from school, your sister's friendsanything to keep the mind at easedown montreal,you know what I mean,Sterile, unsympathetic,Clinical, serene.Down montreal,they see them all,we're just more of the sameThrough the corridors,the mens, the girlscoffee, water, light reliefmagazines with johnandyokostories we already knewbut there's not that much to do;on montrealsmacked up tight,everything's funny to youOn montreal,you're number 43of a year not 4 months oldBut they get them done in record timeand leave the rest of us with the painLeaving when the rain has gone,I won't pause to say goodbyeI said it in the bedI said it at the time;when you mistook apathy for empathyAnd I took neediness as genuineSo I'll leave you here,down montreal,to deal with what you've doneDown montreal,they've seen our typeno compassion remainsDown montreal,they've seen it allyou're just a teardrop in the rain,a story to relate at dinnerYou're conscience the only stain.And everything stays the same.But seriously, folks...
Wow. That's fucking amazing.Dream on...
Cracks in the surfaceCracks in the pathfilth on the pavementdaggers in your heartragged little play-thingpneumatic little whoredisgraceregretpurgeforgetBut seriously, folks...
A poem about me, R/R? I'm honoured.
Did you ever get the feelingthat you're older than you thinkWake up in the afternoonAnd it feels like you've been goneWell, for a while beforeBut did you ever get the feelingyou'd been gone for sometimean empty shella burnt out huskNo empathy even for yourselfSo, do you sometimes get the feelingThat you're nothing at allBlink and I'll disappearSleep and we'll all be goneYeah, but would you recogniseYourself in a few years time?Blink and you'll miss itSleep and you'll be goneBut seriously, folks...
And a crowded roomand a half of grantssuddenly aware of all the people you don't knowsuddenly aware of the way you mangle your vowelsso just back awayback to your roomand say"oh it's just a bad dayin a good monthof an average year"and can't it be better than this?and now, much older than you feeland so much has happened unaccounted for suddenly, painfully aware ofhow and why the years went byand left you alone and coldso you just back awayinto your past and say"oh, it's just a bad yearin a good threeof an average life"and can't it be better than this?suddenly hit with the fact thatyou've spent this timewaiting for life to beginsaving your hand for the high stakeson the horizonhoping that gamblers always wina bit late for that, innit?But seriously, folks...
She's standing in the bathroomAs the rain falls on the roofYou're standing in the hallwayDoing your best to look aloofYeah, they like it when you don't make eye contactAnd they love it when you sneerAnd they swoon when you criticiseeverything they hold dearYeah, she's sitting in the loungetrying to watch the evening newsand you're collapsed on the stairstrying to make sense of it allBecause they dig it when you're incapacitatedand they'll falter when you fallYeah, they love it when you're drunkand claim not to care at allAnd she's leaving through the corridorbags packed and lessons learnedWhile you're standing naked in your roomsins absolved, bridges burnedBecause they're all infatuated with bitternessand salivate when you're cruelYeah, they love it when you're patheticand really no friend at allBut seriously, folks...
Wowzers, man. That's pretty far out, if you ask me... W e i r d R o c k e r N o O n e K n o w s
I�m sure I may never know what is to become out of your earthy free bird Elvis-like element. I cannot fathom anything so unbroken like that unadulterated shard of glass sparkling so vehemently in a mouse with false teeth. Your voice, so mellifluous and immaculate I yearn to comprehend that�s such an opposite to the inchoate monkeying degradation of a trailer park beauty queen. You could sit there on cold hard tiles of a dirty inconvenience store seductively counting eggs, oh no they are not broken, this is a good dozen here. A fractal mind fuck you are, never-endingly enticing and going home to watch black birds play in the cornfields. There is a metropolitan climate about your tropical brain that leaks some mustard, some botanical regality, and I immediately become enraptured by such easy fluviation, wake me up wake me up wake me up. Oh no, please don�t, I just want to lie here a little while and bask in the chlorophyll.don't touch me, your hands feel like salad tongs
Murky shadows creep over grim, pock-marked pavementAs the bloated sun sinks below the crooked mountain lineAnd people in their houses become incresaingly aware that something is not where it should beLights come onChildren stareThe chill in your heart says:'Time to go home'If that's not irony then I don't know what is
Sing it up, asshole--------------BlackTropic84Ahhh! There's A Dick In My Eye!The Sun Is Up, The World Is FlatDamn Good Address For A Rat
Nice!!! I love your second poem! Reminds me a lot of Pink Floyd's "Eclipse," which goes...All that you touchAll that you seeAll that you tasteAll you feel.All that you loveAll that you hateAll you distrustAll you save.All that you giveAll that you dealAll that you buy,beg, borrow or steal.All you createAll you destroyAll that you doAll that you say.All that you eateveryone you meetAll that you slighteveryone you fight.All that is nowAll that is goneAll that's to comeand everything under the sun is in tunebut the sun is eclipsed by the moon.I'LL eat the sparkly bird poop cookies!!!
See, when we joked we'd never leave hereIt wasn't quite a lieBecause where ever else I've beenPart of me has stayed behind;Belittled by the wider worldRunning from upper middle class rootsConsciously avoiding meaningHigher than the sunKnowing we'd amount to nothingToo scared to even smileHuddled together for comfortClinging to each other for strengthYet each of us,in our own wayAlone.If that's not irony then I don't know what is
No one comes to me in dreamsand no one whispers my name at nightno one tells me where to goand no one does me any goodno one ever told me whyand no one ever says goodbyeI think I like it better this way.If that's not irony then I don't know what is
Hey! Turns out you DON'T know what irony is!Bananas! Bananas! Bananas? BANANAS!
In reply to:Hey! Turns out you DON'T know what irony is!
Hey! Turns out you DON'T know what irony is!
Well, that was implied, but...If that's not irony then I don't know what is
I ran into you on the street the other dayYour eye was better, my lip was fineWe didn't have much to sayI couldn't ask what I had toWhat I needed to knowBecause I've paid my pound of flesh for what I've doneBut whatever happened to you?Yeah well,Free wine always comes at such a priceAnd ours was a high as anyBut we took it thenand we'll take it againBut, you see,I took my 13 silver peices for my partWhat was the price you were paid?If that's not irony then I don't know what is
You had the misfortune to approach melost in a vodka hazewhen I thought it would be a good ideato do somethingmore foolish than usualWhat can I say?I didn't think I'd live to regret itbut, unfortunately,the intervention of an ambulanceset me back on my feetFuckers,a few drinks and they're all over youlike fliesto the steaming pile of shitthat you probably think I amBut, I'm not all to blameI mean,you were warned from the start.Yeah, you got a bad dealbut that's your own fucking faultYou should blame yourselfBeing slavishly devotedto the idea that you can moulda whisper of a human beinginto something worth whileYou have bad taste in men, sweetheartIf that's not irony then I don't know what is
You don't know what you're getting intobut you can't claim I never triedto say I was something I wasn'tBut you just shut me upAnd I kind of like thatBut, haven't you known me too longto start entertaining thoughts like these?Although, I can't be anything but optimisticabout someone who has seen me at my worstbut can still hope for the bestIf that's not irony then I don't know what is
our meeting is imminentcognizant i will indeed falterloosen upyou see i need to loosen upi considerbalmy dreamsof equatorial grovesbutterfliesdeep spidersand monkeys loungeamidst sumptuous vegetationso lushfresh apples in your memoryand cool waterdrinkstep inswayed by vinesleavespolished stonesunderneaththe sunpenetrates the canopyand deliciouslyyour facelittle tiny frecklesearthen skinwhy, this is happinessparadiserealizeyou are always alonewith natureanimalsand have yet to attaininhumannessbutknow where redwoods growyou could climb thembut never to harmnever to harmor you would feelthe mightiest regretas you do nowburdened by a lack of perspectivecomplete attentivenessto such esoteric detaildo you even remember to greet the sum with a smileclouds with a smirkrelish rather than scowlan eternal breathpassionis a dripping bees� nestslightly unspoken paradigmsof nomadic lusciousnessaboundprimal instinctsthe essentia of my birthconsciousnessconnectivityremote and peacefulno need for anotheri simply yearnfor such sublime magicwholly found withinthank youso impossibly muchsomeone to share solitudeis an arbitrary systembut worksno formulaa liquid, fluid feelingchanges like the weatherchanges the weathera kingdom of godis no longerin sightonly free willand the power to questioneven that.you kiss me, baby, in the coffee shopyou make me nervous, you gotta stop
overlooked by those seeking masculinityin all its primal rawnessseemingly understated meek little mouse dark screaming eyes full of wantingthin shell of composure spread overthick, hot blood.it pulsates through your bodyyour heartand your slick fleshy vulva.you kiss me, baby, in the coffee shopyou make me nervous, you gotta stop
This room has never seen this kind of thing beforeyou can tell from the steamon the windowsand the creakingof the bed on the floorBut you still have to askif I'm just using youwhen you see how I shakeand that distant look in my eyesglazed over smileand sweat drenched hairYou should know by nowthat nothing is consciousall is instinct,intuitionand I don't know what it is I sayin the drunken small hourswhich we forget in the morningPerhaps a little too soonDo you thinkif these walls could talkwe'd come in front of a firing squad?If that's not irony then I don't know what is
I was going through old papers the other dayand saw a girl with long dark hairat some kind of protest or anotherher eyes alight with passionand a sense of dignityShe was just like you;Well, just like you might have beenIn a different timeWith a different moralityI was walking the streets yesterdayand saw a kid bumming a cigarette;his eyes were deadI guess he�d seen to muchand didn�t want to see anymoreHe was just like me;Well, just like I might have beenBut for a twist of fateand the grace of GodI was at a bar last nightand saw a couple hand in handthey were happy and freelike we�d all love to beThey were just like us;Well, just like we might have beenIf not for the pull of decadenceAnd mutual animosity.Shane McGowan: I could have been someoneKirsty MacColl: Well, so could anyone...
a moth landed on a pool of sapand slow he sunkto suck the sweet of hidden rootsthe solace of the stillthen satisfied, he yearned for flightand shudderinghis sullen wings, he ripped awayand found he could with easehe leaves his dusted print on memy flying fuckonce fleeting, now is flounderingbeneath a specter's weightand he who comes and sleeps and sloughsaway the crust of former bliss is free of mebut, i collect his lust It's holding the night in its arms If only for a moment I can't see the look in its eyes, But I'm sure it must be laughing
Although I try to forgetthe things you saidthey're always on my mindand come back to mewhen I'm lying in bed at nightBecauseI had this good thing goingand now she's as good as gonebut you always had saidmy life was kinda like a country songWell, meanwhile I've kept on livingdoing whatever it is I dobut sometimes I think about howI haven't seen you in a whilebut it'd be a pleasure toBecauseI had this good thing goingand now she's as good as gonebut you always had saidmy life was kinda like a country songShane McGowan: I could have been someoneKirsty MacColl: Well, so could anyone...
the sightwreckage surveyorhow misery delightsenough to slow your gravelly rollbut not enough to haltalthough the blood-smeared headlightsspill blood light on the asphalt -for you to wade through, cautiouslyfor you to play in, nauseously It's holding the night in its arms If only for a moment I can't see the look in its eyes, But I'm sure it must be laughing
And once againthe wine is gonewhen you wake up to findyou're here with me againyou make your excusesand leave before sixsmoking another of my cigarettesand once again you're goneand I don't know what to donot that I'm not used to itI guess I just expect more from youand once agin I'll wake upwondering how I ended upat your house lying next to youand get my clothesand shoot off homeand call in a couple of daysor maybe notand again you lie there wonderingif it was something that you saidand questioning my motivesfor taking you to bedbut it's a force of habita cycle we can't breakingrained reactions a couple of drunken whoresstuck in our wayslet's stay togethersometimefor a changeLotto: It's like a stock market for the poor! - The Onion
the killer bee,joseph cornell eating vials of honeythick chalky mudunderneath his fingernailsscratching at the suitcasesonly to discovernine different browns.oskar sends his regards, joseph,and highballs stuffedwith amorphous energy and gin.tack on a stampwith the picture of a popetongue full of glueand daschund hairseating them like you eat your butterflies, your mothsfork and knife cut like buttercut like dripping meatsincisors snap through.gold teeth of love,gypsies raid your insideswith an old newspaperand a copper coinbull tells me all his friends are deadi hand him a feather'go to the horizon and seek peace'his horns hangand knows to bury himself in the sandto survive the night.you kiss me, baby, in the coffee shopyou make me nervous, you gotta stop
And the first one was a memberof my older brothers' friendswho chewed me up and spat me outuntil I stood up and surrenderedand did it over againbecause that's what I thought love waswell that's all it was to mebut now I think I'm getting smarterand won't make that mistake againso I've cast her aside with a wave of my handbut the next one was a sweet girlwho didn't deserve that kind of thingbut man she got it anywayand she got it pretty badbut forgave me all the samethere's a lesson there in thatwhich I suppose I forgot alreadybut that's the way it goeswhen you're young and drunk and laughingat everything that passesbetween you and someone elseSo the third one was much olderand as older ones tend to doshe took me in and taught meall that she once knewbut I knew those things alreadyand politely took my leaveand she went back to where she came froma coastal town across the seadoubtlessly with bad thoughts of our lovebut that's all that we were worthand yet the fourth one was a mixtureof all that came beforeand we'd get drunk and roll aroundand end up on the floorand yeah everything was happybut then everything was saduntil one day she left heresaying 'you're the best I ever hadbut now don't hold this against mecause it's all that I can doto leave with what I haveand let you keep what's left of you'so the last one was a sisterof a certain friend of mineand I took her from her lover and relieved her of her mindbut when we were standing nakedshe could be heard to say'I wish I'd been much wiser nowthan I had been yesterday'but nothing can be perfectand then everything was lostso we went our separate waysand no one thought about the costbecause we are young and prettywell, as pretty as we'll beand though people talk,people talk, it's nothing to do with meand I�m still yet to say I�m sorryfor all the things I might have donebut you can never tell who�s worth itor who's as worthless as yourselfso I�ll go on blindly sighing spittingat anything I seesafe in the knowledge fate will guide mefrom problem A back to point Zcause it�s nobodies fault we�re heedlessto the lessons of the pastcause when you�re young and drunk and mindlessyou want to learn them for yourselfso the next one will be differentas we each say every timeshe'll be sweet and smart and soberwith nothing better for her timeand we could lie together happyplaying records in the darkand there'll be no more need for codeineacid and absintheand no more need of anyone to tell us what we're worthwell hey a boy can dreamand I do so everydaythat someday things could be differentso don't take my dreams away(with apologies to Jeff Mangum)Lotto: It's like a stock market for the poor! - The Onion
It's a funny place to bewhen you're stuck behind the wheelof a car you don't ownon streets you don't knowtowards a destination unforseenbut your destiny is manifestin the dirty puddles beside the roadand the gunmetal skiesand the people that you pass byand while you try the best you canto change what will comeit's still the same as it was beforeseven sacks of shit with a kick in the teethand the people you called friendsare nowhere aroundand everything you lovedis behind you in the dustand the future is the smog on the horizonand the only thing you know iswhat you heard from a guyyou thought you knewyesterday:'these are the best years of your life'Figures.All virgins are liars, honey
It was a song she'd heard beforewith new lyricsthat failed to revealon why they'd even botheredIt was a bar she'd been beforewith dimmed lightsto hide the factthat everybody looked the sameIt was a book she'd read againignoring the knowledgethat it wasn't very goodor worth the paper it was printed onIt was a game like any otherwith winners and losershiding the real issuethat none of it matteredAll virgins are liars, honey
took rides in the candy bar venuesamong dirt and savvy and lawnmower enginesstapled love notes to the bottoms of barscaroused with henry and the whoreswe laughed mighty laughsidled in the grasswith stains and scrapes on our kneespinched lightning bugs with fresh jellyand saluted the navy menwho always feel alonesuspended in hong kong and the philipinestwo day passes in dark rainy alleys of the far east.it rains here and the colors stain your clothesruns of ink down your arms, and your facedeep earth colors of brown or greento neutralize the grey of atmosphere.the seamen know bettershave hastily and throw dice on the wharfrain rolls off their eyelashesdouble sixes splashing mud on the patent leatherand shadows on the cobblestonesat dusk clouds roll outthe sun blurs the heat and reds and oranges smear into oblivionthe sailors are back to imaginary depthswith their uniforms and shipsleave us here with humid lightand desirous hazy heatwe pick up their plastic wrapperspick up their diceand keep them in a pocket(the one without the hole)we still think throwing letters into the ocean is romantic.but the seaglass green really is fiercenext to that sangria sky.you kiss me, baby, in the coffee shopyou make me nervous, you gotta stop
And I saw her againfor the first time in a yearthe old eyes/lock/crowded roomwhile we were watching a band playlike in that fucking Sonic Youth videowe smiled to the sound of a thereminand when they were done I told her'Baby, you're the same as you ever was'affecting the common tone I knew she likedwhile you sat there and snickeredknowing what was on my mindAnd she laughed and blushed and went to the bathroomleaving me to my own thoughts'I want this;this is stupid, I've done it all before!!!!'and I asked you for adviceso you just said:'We all need some relief sometime, Adrianand I think you just found somethinga little more comfortableto slip into'Well, you always have been horrible like that.I left it there, I had no choice, I couldn't think straight at allremembering the last time we were together,which was the same as the time before:at first it goes fantasticthen it goes not at all.'Fuck it!' you cried'You don't want any of that!You just want somebody to hold youthen you home by dawn!'Well, for you shit can be that simplebut I'm still too young for that kind of thing;well, maybe too old now, I just can't do that all the same.And right away I knew something was wrongwhen she started sending me poetryHow someone can carry a metaphorfor dead flowers as lost loveI don't fucking knowBut you just laughed and rubbed your hands and said'You've got her where you want her now;now's the chance to get her backfor all the pain she's done to you''You're a spiteful old fuck' I gently repliedbut you'd always been a bit like thatSo I replied gentlywith nondescript poems about urban angstand existentialist isolationyou know, my standard bread-and-butter autopilot rantand told her about my weekendsof decadence and sinand abruptly she blurted'I got the results of a biopsy,can you come hold me for a while'Well, this was just fucking perfectit was all de ja vu to meback to time in April last yearwhere I braved red paint to be by her sidefor the death of a baby that was not mineand all of a sudden you were quietwhere was your lewd advice nowbut without you leering over my shoulderI had no moral counterpoint to base my decision onand I'm still sitting here choosingtrying to decide which is right and which is wrongbut I fear it's all just shades of greyand I hear you saying'Hey, at least she won't be around very long'You really are a bad fucking person, you know?All virgins are liars, honey
You all make me scared to post any of my poetry. lol. "I don't know what your problem is, but I bet it's hard to pronounce"Vanessa
It can't be any worse than mine!All virgins are liars, honey
well, im in the middle of a bit of writers block..i cant seem to find any inspiration,a nd all of them sound silly, rather than deep. I have a few were..they arnt finished. I have tns of lil bits and peices, with out any real begining or end, does that make sense?one that goes:you were always something specialeyes the colour of a streamwith a smile fit for the deviland a love like heavens dreamand from there......nothing!! "I don't know what your problem is, but I bet it's hard to pronounce"Vanessa
I can't believe you can beso ignorant to what is happeningall around youand within you is this inner peacecan't you understand?this is not a gathering storm,clouds on the horizon and eerie calm;the hun is at the fucking barricades!and we can either prepare to repelor bunker downand I think I know which you would preferBut it is not that simple for meI'm caught in between fight and flightI want to run but there's nowhere to goI want to resist but I've never known howbut you can't hide behind words your whole lifeand they say that there's more to life than the books you've readbut how much more?and when it all comes downI'm still frozen in my placeand the enemy is at the gatesand the wolf is at the doorand all manner of cliches mount their attacksbut I'm still standing dead-eyeddoing things I could do some other timeBut, nevertheless, feel all important now.Do some work, AdrianAll virgins are liars, honey
At this time of the morningI could believe anything was true;I could think anything of meand I could ask everything from youbut we're still just sitting herewaiting for something to happendo you know what has passed between us?did it mean anything to you?At this time of night I could never get to sleep...You know, there's room over here for two.How many times beforeCould you tell I didn't care?When you reached out in your sleepAnd you knew I wasn't there - New Order
Successis having climbed a hillonly to start againSuccessis having done it alland been left wantingSuccessis knowing that there's a part of your life that's goneand you will never get it backSuccess is a hollow feelingof having done more than enough to surviveat the expense of your soulSuccessI thought I'd never tasteWould anyone like to trade?How many times beforeCould you tell I didn't care?When you reached out in your sleepAnd you knew I wasn't there - New Order
I think I saw him sniffing around early last year some time;a mongrel dog with a taste for your thighsBut, obviously, I didn't take much notice as that was beforewell, before everything that happened in the past twelve months,before we were anything more than Alex's cousin and some guy from school;Just a couple of drunks with a taste for VU and red wine...But then what happened happenedand I take as much blame as youbut when we left it at thatit wasn't quite done,and we're left doing this wary dance:the ex-lover limbo, where you can't just fuckand forgetas we're both wont to doAnd now when I see him around,and I know you don't want my advice(as useless as it is)but, baby, a man like that is like an acid flashback:all bright colours and no sense of releaseand you'll lie there trembling looking for some way back;but you're so fucking sure that I'll still be hereto clean up after you, to sort out your mistakesto still care no matter what happens between you and him, or another ex-boyfriendyou forget that just because I'm alone doesn't mean that I'm lonelyor in need of anything from youAnd, did it ever occur to youI might have better things to dothan waiting around for you to come backwith a few dozen beers and a carton of ciggarettesto tell me how you went wrong and howyou need some stability in your life whenyou forget that I'm only stable in comparisonto your raging Vesuvius of vitriol and regretthreatening to destroy whichever Pompeii you can findwhere I'm sort of like a quamire of bitterness and lamentationeverything sucked in never comes outbut festers and swells, bloated and ripe with decayI don't know, baby, it's not that I don't love youIt's just wish you'd stay away this time.How many times beforeCould you tell I didn't care?When you reached out in your sleepAnd you knew I wasn't there - New Order
Hello, it's strangeto be here after so much timestopping and staring at everythingthat changes when you are arounda little bit of memeets a little bit of youfuck it, sometimes,there's nothing else to doand you say you'll save a memoryand I'll say it's for good this timehello again it's always a pleasureto say goodbye to youHow many times beforeCould you tell I didn't care?When you reached out in your sleepAnd you knew I wasn't there - New Order
I am having terrible writers block...so whatever..ill give it a lil shot, I mean it may suck but what the hell._________________________She had the body of a goddessAnd the eyes of an innocent childThere was something so sweet about herYet something was fierce and wildYou didn't know quite what to do with herYou didnt know how her mind workedSo you wept and you prayedYou worked and you slavedAnd you still ended up looking the jerk. "I don't know what your problem is, but I bet it's hard to pronounce"Vanessa
In reply to:my first time...ha ha
my first time...ha ha
ha ha indeed. ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha.Oh shit, I'm doing it again.
and if you press a littleand if you try a little and if you sweat a littleyou might get through to a taste of what's withinbut don't hold your breathebut talklike you mean itbut then again you always dotry to say something that mattersto anyone other than youbreatheand keep on tryingjust forget the fact thatmany of us just pray for you to stopHow many times beforeCould you tell I didn't care?When you reached out in your sleepAnd you knew I wasn't there - New Order
in the beginning, there i was, wrapped in muslin, soaked in myrrhsalt-licked, sweet taste, sugar lift and onion skinsnecessary entomology; the flies in your ears sweep lightlythe cloth has been stitched just soeach cotton loop hugged the twill as it passedrendering me cocoon and safe in burdock and sinewthe bees stuck in the resin, useless as powder and gloss on a hot afternoonnever had i felt so misunderstood.rationality ate through me worse than hot acid through my plates.the rats came floating up, dead at the surface of the bathand the bees cried, the flies sobbedthe fat tears of communication dampening my paper, running all my inkbut the birth was not so beautiful.ordinary, sterilemy body rancid with formaldehyde and moldeven the orange peels curled up, insulted.the cellos in the back mournedvictory and eternal gratitude are lost in battlethe ships sink in violin and upright bassbrass sonnets, metallophone, golden eggshellsthings always come and go, they come and they go.turtle shies away from rocky shoresbull continues his lonely travel across plain and emptinessi mesh with its curves, pulse along the back of its ridgeopening to earth and gravel, whiskey in my woundsimmortality has such extravagant disadvantageit becomes lucid at jazz heartbeat, at bodily groove, at uneaten fleshthe rhythms cease;silence follows terror, warmth is soon to replace an icy exchangethe rats awaken and slip out unaffectedour tests show no harm has been committed.i am not satiated, my hunger rests on sleeping possumthat is not quite as alivelay your had on whale oil atrophy, nest and riptidebeatitude and degenerate hypothesis emulate divinityyou will sleep on the bottom of the ocean with me and sigh and heavethe current carries everything away, recycles our bodiesour decay will go on, we fester and rot, to continue.you kiss me, baby, in the coffee shopyou make me nervous, you gotta stop
Like a ghost inside she creptand slipt into the broken bedand lay with me there until the morning'Get me out of here'she cried,'I know I've sinned, I know I've lied;but these people follow with their eyestheir cheeks flushed with providencetheir faces hollow evidenceof families who haven't smiled since the end of World War Two;or at least since Hiroshima'So she sook absolution in my arms,thinking I could wash her clean like I wasJohn the Baptist;I replied as best I could,'I know your sins, they are my ownbut you'll need to go to someone elsefor the conclusions;'which she didn't like to hear me sayand left me there to start the dayalone again but with a heavy conscienceHow many times beforeCould you tell I didn't care?When you reached out in your sleepAnd you knew I wasn't there - New Order
The little asianturned slowly onto her sideand fell asleep while i cogitated furiously
Never againI think I saidbut it could have beem a dreambut it was cold in the park and the mist hung lowand the grass was wet, freezingand never againI thought I'd saidbut again and againit comes back innever againI think I'd saidbut I can't remeber whenas the sun hung low on the hillsand I slunk my way back homerestless now with imminent urgessoon to be releasednever againI thought I'd saidbut I'll be back againI've done a lot of things I'm not proud of and what I am proud of is disgusting - Moe Syzlak
You, stealing into mefaster than the swinging doorbetween the rules of love and warbecomes unhinged and free of weight.I know where it does gravitate.You, peeling into me,again, just like you did before,again, the squealing rib cage door.So, hide my heart inside my skull,then throw my brain against the wall.You, slipping into mefaster than the aural scurfyou left behind inside a shirtyou left behind inside my room is fading to a smell of doom.You, ripping into mefaster than a name and fleshslips through the fingers of a death. Like bone dust breathing into flight.Devoured by the endless night.Bring me stories, bring me out, bring me Hell and hellish doubt.Bring me nothing, bring a smile, bring me somewhere cold and vile.String me on, string me up, string me out on smirks and smut.Things get strange, things won't change, in this indistinct exchange. Stop, drop, shut 'em down open up shop! Oh, no! That's how Ruff Ryders roll!
you tightena plugpleading to be dislodged from a drain that drains frenzy into watery selfdistributes it evenly among every cellyour warm tributariesthey merrily swellas you warily spell some four letter wordin a blurred non-language that cannot be heardin a shiver that wagsawaiting a nameyou swaggering braggart of shagging and shameyou staggering Bogart, now drunken and lameyou're a dame in a lonely placestill, smoky frameshelled in a lightand darkand tameand lit by a spark, the dame takes a drag inhaling a worryand starting to gagthen starting to choke and joke and joke...until "come hither" flashes lightningin my strokeoh, bright and frighteningin my stroketo penetrate your flimsy yolk to venerate your clumsy cloakto sin with prideto touch your sideuselessly baroqueinside my stroke The end of semester is like the vaginal harvest. Capitalizing on all of that sexual tension is like a tribal ritual for me. I put on green paint, buy a 10 pack of Rough Riders and go to town. - Kev
And if I'm gonna keep posting this kinda stuff, I'll require a more angsty theme. I can't take myself seriously with that Rough Riders thing, and how I yearn to take myself seriously. People are fragile things, you should know by nowBe careful what you put them through
Ah, please post as much as you want. I am currently in something of a fallow period and also dead busy as I am leaving the country in 24 hours. Expect much navel gazing, talk of alienation and poems titled Doesn't Anybody Here Speak English (I Thought We Won the War, Dammit!)? once I arrive in Japan I've done a lot of things I'm not proud of and what I am proud of is disgusting - Moe Syzlak
Let's be a yeah whore grinning,on.The ropes to the ceiling and hangsher fleshbag is color of human skingas mark distress insignia A trouble key, and Her hemoglobin insect army Like Antonio Torso feast show(it is a thing you watch on television)Bright flash retina scab sky of room And in.And she thinking touch itis red going to coos handTo climbing a reptile blush and Give me money,She thinks she is going to touch it.A festival tiny mouthssewn bakery among afternoonsliquid perishable, nine month moonOpen queen and stockedEyeing spider fourth murtain(it is like a curtain but mortal)To bulb and ash splendor, wisefalse calendar eruption on in sailorAlright, can come, dig.My smile is eight inches big.
Inspired by my crappy haiku. GP, I hope you don't mind, but I'm biting off your technique. (I think you know what I mean.)To answer your question:The tree makes a noiseIt's a shriek no one hearsIt's the curdling poiseof an august Sequoya that's rotting inside, absorbed by a pillow like sand drinks the tideLapping away, now and screaming with blights,teaming with mites,and beaming with lights(The lights help me deal)But, they bounced off your eyes, because they weren't realTo answer your question:There's no healing balmNowhere in Gilead,and not in a PsalmA kiss of the palms is all holy and chasteBut, it honors a myth and it seems such a wasteto be wasting away, now and bleary with need,weary of creed,and teary with seed(The proof helps me feel)But, it washes away, because it's not realTo answer your question:It's hard to be truewhen you ask me a questionthat answers to youI wish I could know what to say when you're sadI wish I could be the only to be hadCrumbling away, now and ashen like ruin,scratching and chewinga patch of undoing(The truth is revealed)And, it means not a thing, being true, being real Many girls want to be carnal with me... because I am such a premium dancer!
little plastic set of toolschocolate chip and vericose veinswe came home laughing, to be abatedby shards of ceramic skull surrounding your rosy faceare you dead? are you a ghost? are you even here, at all...your back, peeling like the color on your commemorative Desert Storm T-shirtvermilion tan, blue blood, and a perpetually white mindprojecting blankness on a moving screenthat's swirling with time and feelingyou don't comprehend, you fucking mutantthat this is all there isfor that, i hate myself Many girls want to be carnal with me... because I am such a premium dancer!
Took the slow route to get here and Im still waiting to arrivespent hours in a town where they all knew my namebut chose not to use itnot that it mattersI am a different person I suppose-gave myself a new namebut feel just the samemaybe more alonemaybe like my shadows casting mehere in a place where even the rubbish truck plays a tuneunrecognisably�CI admit.I guess what I am trying to say is I miss you
Subter meat eyes. I candle to your candroid,A posited question (read: redundant)And tricks for swelling ankle shocks.Simulacharm beeb in a John Cage phony,We listen off cognition and ployA mate beat allegory; or is there allegory?Is an allegory beat comes the beat itself?Is an allegory thinking the thing itself?Is an allegory unitrinsic and the beat bought itselfOr chance:I was watching the number spinning like millionaire andIt a question; brought about; brought aboutBroad allegory (stuck) to cognitionWhich is itself a cognition and glory method recursion cunnilinguistic phonemenonLexical distorgence simultaneity of meaning and coincidence.I beatbox the alligatorical until it bites the coq off my colloquialism.It is playful butter inheritive to the somehowand pertaining the formal surgeon (it itselfs referencefaux semantically and semioltaneotically while I reference nothing but the language is an authorprotative cognatogist?)Or truth I want to refereme of sexioticsFor dinner tonaght fountain that spat phallicIt was like a cock which was its own continuous ejaculationAnd bite the baby flesh alligorically off the fiercyIt was delicious and there were tomatoes.Do you see where I was coming from?Vote for me: TW's Top Fag!
I remember...how can I remember so many things from previous lifes?I remember when you sent me that German song, it was so funny it made me cry.I cried and cried, you moved me.But I can never show my tears to anyone.Until I met you as a 5 yearold.Now I put my big black sun glasses even if it's not sunny.Cause girls don't cry. At least not in public cause it fucks up their make up.My ass belongs on your face.
You know that you have climaxed when the poetry ceases and the walls become a room again.I was once on the beach and the moon had wings, there was a certain tribal logic to itThe arrangement of bodiesWho speaks to whom and when, it has a geometryThere are flowers and there are rocks and there are cloudsIf you are not a flower or a rock or a cloud I don't think I know what to do with youMaybe that's why I treat you like you're not existing.When I was younger I had certain traintrack fascinationsI could contemplate the possible arrangements of pieces on a chessboard and what language could be used to describe themIt was only many years later that I realized that chess was a language, and that there wasn't much you could do with that.In the end all I was ever really doing was walking home.Are you the prettiest one here?Are you sure that you are or are not the prettiest one here?I have always struggled with the prettiest one here, they are a difficult concept.I don't have a lot of ugly friends because I'm very superficialI don't think that any of my friends have noticed this, because I don't have many friends with big self esteemsWhat does a big self esteem need friendship for? They have a big self esteemMost of my friends are broken down bottom-trawlers with pretty faces and bad memoriesI am good for them because I don't favor their scarred wrists or eye shuddersThey are good for me because they look good to meI guess this is okay.Vote for me: TW's Top Fag!
In reply to:I guess this is okay.
I guess this is okay.
I am extremely superficial but they never let me be the superficial freak that I wanted to be because there were too many superficial freaks that did too many awful things in this world.Mother Theresa, Hitler...they were all human beings. But they weren't and I knew that because They killed My dog.And they made me 50 years older because they said I was pretty and smart but they also called Him pretty and stupid for wanting to live his life. And when I saw pictures of him in his childhood, I saw pictures of me. And then I started talking to strangers and hitch hiked and wanted to take pictures of myself with all of the dangerous people I met and how they all treated me like a human being for some reason and never objectified me by saying that I sound like his mother or her mother. Fuck your mother! And fuck you too!There I said it. So what if I sound like my mother? Fuck my mother, she's a menstruating bitch like all of us. But the phone never rang and I'll cry myself to sleep on the couch before He wakes up. Because he is a He and the Mother is hurting for him as well.My ass belongs on your face.
I enjoy to intercourse your language. It makes me foul the rotten things, and that is probably for the best.When you write, are you thinking of virgin? When you write I see manifesto, which is like being written but I think there is something between your muscle and bone. Have you had an empty cavity? Do you know the mix?I can't see your problem but that is the charming foreign I think. Is it really matter that I am talking to myself? Have I alcohol or is it wonder.I think you look fine in your winter jacket. You know?Vote for me: TW's Top Fag!
That's why I sent it to you. I can't talk English like that anymore.I still don't understand it but then I don't understand any other human language either. I'm lost.Did you find me already or are we gonna meet in 50 years again?My ass belongs on your face.
I just poured over3 years of my memoriesand within all the lustlove desire failure sintrumped emotions and abandoned dreamsI saw nothing of mebut saw in every awkward elegyin every failed allegoryan uncomfortable pressing of my sex against your thighsmooth and softyet coldto everything I tried to hidejust to try to get inside your legsand feel what was withinknowing it would disappointbut expecting a miraclesomething to save mesave me from myselfbut alone I wrote these memoriesso alone they will go onalone I wrote these memoriesof a self that is now gone
Like ossein splinters disturbing my frame in bursts of red light, even greenPeculiar bites emblazon my face - you will see them and might understandSofter than words and harder than blows from a mouth, a manus, a mother, all threeUgly like violence and fire like hate, unruly, the way it advanced unto meMakes me feel fine, like fur on an infantMakes me feel anxious, the prospect of "Victim"Makes me feel fried, my insides are bakingMy entrails are rising like sweet bread, and smoking,foresaking my body and cruelly provoking my heart to jump ship through a forgiving rip from the plank of my lung to the tongue's crimson tipThe organ conveniently finding your lap You're sniggering, shuddering, standing to clap Now that you finally comprehend the joke that I played on myself Many girls want to be carnal with me... because I am such a premium dancer!
Now that's a horse of a different color!
A horse is a horse, Of course, of course!When you bury your spurs, do you not feel remorse?As the protons and neutrons in his color forcesuffer a sudden and painful divorce,do you see glue? Or the low intercourseof gluons? Or is he a fair, Flying horse,wild and vapor on the shores of Corse?Of course, of course, a horse is a horse.(I'm just seeing how much gratuitous rhyming it will take before someone calls me out on this.) Many girls want to be carnal with me... because I am such a premium dancer!
When you ask my whyI don't think I could saybut you know the guy,he's the one I cut down to sizebut not so you can noticeI wouldn't say I was lonely,just exploring different avenuesmost of which have been cul de sacs,I admitBut BryanI think his name was Bryanwith the red-wine stain birthmark and prematurely greying faceWell,I showed him.Didn't I?A plan so cunning you could pin a tail on it and call it a weasel...
This is a song. I've directed it to Love. You can apply to anyone you'd like.You respect me less for being your pawnSo do I, and it's burning my brainYou made it rainEveryday this weekEveryday you failed to call this week, and..Love, love, love, love, loveYou're never, ever funI never, ever winI always lose someone in the endSay anything to make me feel okayI can see nothing after todayYou make me cryEveryday of my lifeEveryday you fail to save my life, and..To love, I kneelPlease make me realI cannot stealyour rolling thunderBut, when you goI'll always wonderwhere you wentand who is underYou, are cruelYou're cruel, but shinyI would give to youmy moneyI have the patienceof a motherDon't you smile upon anotherYou don't cry, you don't laugh, you don't seeNo, you hurt indiscriminately You make me oldEveryday you pullEveryday you pull my chance to hold you..Love, love, love, love, loveYou're never, ever funI never, ever winI always lose someone in the end Yeah, time's the great destroyerLeaves every child a bastardBut when it finally takes us overI hope we float away together
Sweat whiskey through shallow poresin the strange July heatthe sun melts the cloudsand they say the rain will go awaybut I'm just looking for a place to stayI think you know I'll be okThe women outside restaurants will shout their griefbut look them in the eyes and they look awaythe rats in the vending machine won't chase the 2 inch wasps anywayI think you know I'll be okthe trains at the station won't go both waysthe girls in the short skirts dare you to try your luckI'd like to try but I've never had muchat least not enough to lead me astray I think you know I'll be okWhiskey flows down unwashed jawsthe chou-hai vending machines ignore your flawsthe direlects in the park in their cardboard box fortsdon't give a fuck if the sky is greyto them it's always just another daybut I think you know I'll be okIf a pistol appears in a story, eventually it's got to be fired - Anton Chekhov
I hope, some day, all she'll be is second thoughtsA grey mountain dying on the pomegranate skyWith beauty all around, but not within your narrowed eyeBrandy-colored bruises where your stony thighs were cuppedThe Bitch, a bitch, and finally, some bitch that messed you upAnd, it's hardly a surprise that she's the one you wrangled upCos you never angled upI hope, some day, all you'll be is weightless sporesI'll taste you here and there, but you'll never test my kneesThough, I'll always toil over how you blindly cut the keysWhen you hadn't the schematics, and I didn't show you howDo you realize that you've made it so no one can enter, now?So, who is there to blame for the way that I've been swindled?And, I've been kindledI hope, some day, all I'll be is everythingNot a florid lip print on an ever-empty canNot the faded smell of paper money in your handNot the harried hubcap, still, spinning, like a topYou never had the time to see me dwindle down and stopAnd, it's not worth going back the way you came with ruffled browIt's not worth a thing, now I hope you're happy, I hope you're happy with your glass half emptyEven though you got your share
It's been far too longsince I whistled in the windand heard it come backmidnight chancers and cold war dancestake me back to when I used to take what I could hold and choke it backwhen we were young we could do anything;but for a half an ounce and an old typewriter impossible to realign.Nostalgic for a time I never enjoyed, just enduredand wanted for moreBut I think what I wantis to forget for nowthe warm stares and cold embrace of homeand it's hollowed out husk of what I wasthat I cannot remenberbut everyone knew and some loved.I'll be straight: just fuck my mind away.Deny your culture of consumption;this is a culture of destruction
I like this one:And once againthe wine is gonewhen you wake up to findyou're here with me againyou make your excusesand leave before sixsmoking another of my cigarettesand once again you're goneand I don't know what to donot that I'm not used to itI guess I just expect more from youand once agin I'll wake upwondering how I ended upat your houselying next to youand get my clothesand shoot off homeand call in a couple of daysor maybe notand again you lie there wonderingif it was something that you saidand questioning my motivesfor taking you to bedbut it's a force of habita cycle we can't breakingrained reactionsa couple of drunken whoresstuck in our wayslet's stay togethersometimefor a changeand I can easily relate to it. Do you still like it?Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.
In reply to:Do you still like it?
Do you still like it?
Well, yeah, I do. I can't objectively view it as a piece of art but I can say that that is an honest snapshot of the situation I was in and my emotional reaction to it, as most of my poetry is.This is one that, reading it now, I am very happy with because it is not over-embellished or melodramatic; it just is.From memory (I'm too drunk and liable to get over-emotional to review it all right now) On Montreal and The history of them all (barring the last verse) are my absolute favourites.And if you fancy doing anything with any of these then help yourself; all they do otherwise is sit here.My rule thus far with the two songs I have written that have been released is that no-one owes me anything till my share of the song-writing profits equals 1 000 000nz dollars!Deny your culture of consumption;This is a culture of destruction
In reply to:the two songs I have written that have been released
the two songs I have written that have been released
So what was your stage name? And did you write the music?Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.
In reply to:So what was your stage name? And did you write the music?
So what was your stage name? And did you write the music?
No stage names, the name is Adrian D. Kirby.And, no, I did not write the music. On one of the songs I was the sole lyric writer and on another it was collabatory.If you would like to hear the songs then email me at my ESH address and I will hook you up Deny your culture of consumption;This is a culture of destruction
Over to soon to be truly impressedor happy regarding bullets dodgedside-stepping cliches at a mile-a-minute;I drink to forget but I remember everythingYou know, I'd sell my soul tonightif the price you gave was rightYou know, I'd turn it around tonightif the price you gave was rightAnd as I tried to rememberthe first timeI try to recall the last;is it any surprise that I can't? You know, I'd sell my soul tonightif the price you gave was rightYou know, I'd turn it around tonightif the price you gave was rightAt this time of the yearyou watch the leaves changeand try not to laughat the laughing stock you have become:too old to justify your lifestyleand too young to forget whatyou worked so long to find outYou know, I'd sell my soul tonightif the price you gave was rightYou know, I'd turn it around tonightif the price you gave was rightDeny your culture of consumption;This is a culture of destruction
Liquid snake of memoriesinvades my sinking skullA sadness swiftly vines my chest,and still, I cannot waketo witness every pixel of my life come disengaged,as you softly breathe my hair goodbye and promptly lose my nameAs you think to touch me one more time, then, balking at that shining bank; your hand, a flexing mare, a beast so burdened by delayed restraintDreaming, now, I funnel familiar through holes in time,discover blinding white on shelves I cannot reach in waking lifeRelive every warmer bed, whispers of lurid fabric;the zip of calloused hands over a ghostly, virgin huskEvery hushed, sweet song that broke like thunder, parting ribs and sunny hairs, clearing dust from epitaphs,revealing holy, hollow stairs,on acrid notes of fear that helped you hear ethereal sonnets,too timid to be manifest, too bare to be dishonestFeeling, now,the arctic artifice that burned in secret, the hopeless, swelling melody that's only dumb in dreaming "Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy
You tell me your bother then go to him;that's fine with meI'll drink whiskyI call you again then fall asleep;that's fine with me:I work earlyBut you know meI'm not fantasticI'm not Jesus;I can solve problems a 1000 miles away,I'm Lenny C.I'm not Louis D.But you're with him, you're not with me;it doesn't bother me but when you cry yourself to sleepyou're hurting me, you're hurting meI just wish that you could see yourself like we see youYou're wonderful, you're fantastic, amazing...so it doesn't matter how I feelas long as youare happyI love it when you smile;so please, for me...feel happyfeel happy?Deny your culture of consumption;This is a culture of destruction
They tell me I'm wrong but I'll continue to stumble alongand forget my name; it was never important to begin withI think it was more for them than for me and I am tired of a lifebending over backwards to accomodate what youfelt you need and wanted and were dying to find outBut remained unimpressed when you discovered that what I hadwas not an answer per se but just a vortex in which you could immerse yourself and come out none the wiser3 days laterwith disheveled hair and a renewed desire to never returnthough to him or me you couldn't recallI didn't love you but I never said I did and though I heard you say somany times I forgave you because you were in a tight spot and I was half there as a friend as much as anything else. Some friend, yes.And I'm bored of continually writing about the same thingsas if it was all I thought aboutwhen there are a million desires I feel on a daily basis more important and, indeed, poetic than how I feel about you and Ithough I struggle to put those into words and, over the years,I think I am working towards developing a single unified statement regarding the whole mess;I guess you will concur that those about you are better than those about her, no?Oh but I guess hers were written in a time when I was more innocent with my emotions...but, you must remember that I was also much more self conscious thenand I think I was struggling with a lot of things that I preferred not to address and instead stuck with the'I have loved and I have lost' approach to explain everythingwhen in reality I don't think it was love and in the long run the lost was for the best;she was kind enough to give herself to me absolutely but she had not that much going on that did not relate solely to her and she could justify any of her actions based on her claim that I hated myselfwhich was not 100% true but, needless to say, I had the last laugh...do you mind that my thoughts about you become eulogies to her?But anyway I hope this finds you well and remember thatI never mean anything I do or say and I am equally confusedby whatever comes out of my mouth and wipe the sweat from your forehead and forget I ever called because you're staying thereand I will be here and everything will remain static until February I think, though they've closed down my favourite barand I assume Thursday nights aren't as funStop sobbing. You've lost me. Your story is fractured and self-contradictory. I think your hair is beautiful. Yes it was me but I was working as part of a team. No one was hurt. It's on my wall, though you can see the guilt in my eyes in the photograph. Goodbye.Disclaimer: All opinions stated and allegations made in the preceeding do not represent the view of Evan Torrie, the Moderators or the TW Message Board as a whole
Based on these, I think I write a lot better when I'm either in love or have something recent to cry about.So, if any of you ladies want to come and seduce me then leave without saying goodbye then, please, go ahead.Also, reading these, I really miss beatled.It's a celebration!
If I showed you my lips as a faltering fist,Would that hit you harder than words?Divide from me; merciful, swift; don't persist To section me off into thirdsI've known one astride of misguided perceptionsYou've thrown one aside for your grindI've grown one inside of the murky conceptionsYou've sewn out in your own designWill I suckle, eternal, vermiculate minds?How'd derangement become such a charmer?You may think you've pulled off some immaculate crimeBut, I see through the chinks in your armorI love you, but there's such a lot not to loveIt gets hard not to treat you like familyWhen, I've lost my innocence; you, your kid glovesYou removed them to better examine me Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in bootsAnd ruined your black-tie affair
I was going through my old stuff and I found this one piece of garbage that I fancied as a fair piece of prose five months ago. So, I took the parts I liked (like, three words) and tried to make something better.When darkness replaces Your glittering traces With faces, so hollow in malcontent When I sleep in the sun Where there's room for just one Where the cold and the space aren't so prominent It's easy to spite the once startling sight Of an aubergine hand pinned in buttery white To forget that there ever was warm, Summer light Cast upon life and limb Even, cast upon night Emblazoning footfalls of angels on cheeks Drawing out lines to get lost in for weeks We met in a most perfect phase of dichotomy We sought for to mutually raise dulcet harmony With alien glow, you were haloed in sweat And, ossein splinters rose from your silhouette As they merged into mine, I'm quite sure that I wept For a sweet, fleeting oneness that couldn't be kept Blame it all on my roots, I showed up in bootsAnd ruined your black-tie affair
This is the first time I've decided to take on this subject matter. The task seemed somewhat daunting, but I felt I owed it to myself to put my muddled insights through the creative crucible and see which thoughts stuck. I'll still pause for a vestige of my ancient faithChurch bells on dark mornings, with damp cigarettesAs my Brothers and Sisters smoke, dry, with their WraithsWhere the sun burns as red as their steel bayonetsWhile false Gods gorge themselves in their rivers of soma,And, lulling, they purr their nepenthe-laiden anthems,We hear planes, We hear trains, over, under this comaAnd, We wake, soaked in fears, knowing no one could man themTo deny We're still good, fall so far from Our graces,Is a crime against You; those We strive to rememberBut, We can't see two inches in front of Our facesPast the smoke and the noise and the snow in SeptemberChoking life, the smoke spreads, but won't get any lighter,Over all of god's Children; too tired to fussIn our bootless pursuit of a great, ruthless leaderWe forgot that the only great leader is Us edit: I'd really appreciate some feedback on this. I changed it a bit. I like the concept behind the capitalization and lack thereof, but I'm not sure if it's overkill, because, well, I can't gauge how effectively my own thoughts are coming across. Any response is appreciated. Climb into my arms.. With blood on your clothes.. You've got a glow...
Edited by JarethsGirl on 11/21/06 06:36 AM (server time).
and I wept then:at first for him and then for meat everything he had lost and that I myself would never possess;it is difficult to realize that you are alonebut the poor bastard never had todeal with his own repulsion day to daybut it was over in an instant and I covered my facein shame and to hurry the repression of what had come to passand though tonight I should be laughing,you've caught me sobbing on my ownand while the weather should be warm now,we're waiting on the first snowand let it clear away the impuritiesthat I try to keep from viewand let it sanctify the pathsthat my footsteps have defiledand let it absolve the consciencesof anyone that puts themselves to taskfor the melancholic reveriesbrought about through machinations of my ownand though tonight I should be laughing,you've caught me sobbing on my ownand while the weather should be warm now,we're waiting for the first snowIf a candle has burned brilliantly but now stands alone in the dark with its flame extinguished, it need no longer fear that its substance will disolve into hot wax
Half lightfor half the nightwith curtains that won't closeand blinds left aloneand the stars that trace your spinethrough the cloudy skyand the rain on your facereminds me of someone,almost forgotten now;from a time when the future lay infinitely just out of reachfor the best because it would eventually be squandered just like the pastand the streets lined with treesas opposed to these gunmetal skiesbut I digressas sleep becomes lifeas today becomes wholeI've forgotten myself and what I wanted, unimportant no doubt, though my dreams are still taken by yesterdaywhich scares me more than tomorrowbut there was a comfort there thenthat I've only seen now:a blanket wrappet tightly as a shroud to seal off all thoughtand seed spilled needlessly on the groundwhat am I saying?half lightfor half the nightthe moon in your hairwith the clouds in your eyesit hurts me everytimebut you'll be gone when I wake upIf a candle has burned brilliantly but now stands alone in the dark with its flame extinguished, it need no longer fear that its substance will disolve into hot wax
Affected less nowin the dull light of the daybut restless austeritiesperformed, of course, in vainensure that sleep will not come tonightand another young man possessed by passionhis world betrayedtears himself apart for the approval of dawnrisen early to observe her sonthis time never having known what his predecessor lost... except for in his dreams where he knows he will see you againand what of me this time? again the observer though now to experiences of which I cannot comparewhereas time was I cried, now there is resignationand the knowledge that I will be here again in 5 years timeand, comaratively, tonight;70 years ago;2001;Thailand;Tennoji;St. Albans.All are one:like runaway horseswith nowhere left to runIf a candle has burned brilliantly but now stands alone in the dark with its flame extinguished, it need no longer fear that its substance will disolve into hot wax
Sorry about the late reply but I only just saw your edit.Forget the capitals, rely on your words; it certainly works as it is but without the capitalisation it lets the reader chose the ultimate theme as to what is applicable to them.If a candle has burned brilliantly but now stands alone in the dark with its flame extinguished, it need no longer fear that its substance will disolve into hot wax
As he saidwe met againin foreign landsin persuit but leisurelyfor the time has passed for the passions and sacrifice;those hallmarks of a young man's game.His knees damp with dew from the long blades of glasswatching silently the released rapture and celebration of youthhe is prostrate, as ever, before the Temple of Dawndiscovered and destroyed, all in an instantor behind the books where at once was revealed what he had looked for againI observed the voyeur and found that he was watching me for here too there lies the Temple of Dawnborn and decayed and rebirthed once moreAnd, despite the conflagaration of the flames, his quest completeonly for her to be reclaimed, unlike those before her, in seeming accidentwithout warning of when or wherethe cycle will be completenevertheless, he prepares to go to battle again, then into eternityand I too will leave, for nowthese golden spiresfully aware that time will again have me brought,broken once moreat the Temple of Dawn:created, scented, forgotten by the secondjust to begin againWhether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
Once more the peninsular bears witnessto our final meetingwithered now, cruel and cold:the voyeur dessimated and soon to be exposedhe takes the boy as his own to prove his life was not in vain.But, you know,I can see the flowers wiltingand the sweat run freeI have seen your clothes dishevelled, the light leave your body and mind;I swear, I have seen the decay of the angelright in front of mewhen proved wrong(and both were blinded now)he sought out the girl we wept fordays and years agoonly to findshe did not know us anymoreand although the garden was sacredand the moon was faint and waxedwe could see the angel decayedright in front of me.See you in 5 years.Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
I don't like it but I guess I'm learningI never saw you but I'm sure I heard it though I don't rememberof courseI don't rememberthe lurch of the trainwho we saw and whentaking a dive and thinking about it on the way downwhen did you decide to take me home? Swinging punchesnever meant to landyou know, I'm violent by designbut I'm working without a planwe said - I'd have her, her and herbut I don't fancy yours much, lovewhen did you decide to take me home?Thieves in the nightappear without warningthough they saw me coming a mile awayflanked by gommen till you were horse I was only having funso leave me hereI won't rememberof courseI won't rememberwhen did you decide to take me home?Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
Glove slaps and hand claps,you turn your face from methough in my mind your picture doesn't change;the dates stay the sameuntil you come back aroundpink frost and rings lost,you've started to forget my namebut it'll come to you againlike a word you've never heard,echoing in your mindand though I don't say so often,it's not your fault at all;and, while my dreams may think different,I don't miss you anymore.Earthquakes and dull aches;bruises that won't healI'm on the outside of things but I've found away in:it's been tested but found insecure;haven't we all?January's cold but that Easter was bold,though it's hard to remember how young we were then;cavorting and crying in houses now comdemned,though they'll always stand in my head and though I don't say so often,it's not your fault at alland, while my dreams think different, I don't miss you any moreRed rain and forgotten pain,people move on...and someday I'll be oneWhether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
Que faire quand on ne sait plus vivre ?Se noyer dans les livres ?Ou faut-il qu'on s'enivre ?Vite ! Que le vin nous d�livre !"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Time is a traitor and a thiefA cruel beast that leaves us no reliefUnder its rule our pleasures seem so briefBut endless seem our many griefs!"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
I spent an embarrassing (and fruitless) period of time trying to translate that into English at work today before I found the other version underneath.Still, it beat paying attention to the task at hand.And, yeah, my thoughts exactly old chum.Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
These are two completely different poems, actually ."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Wow, that 48 percent in School Cert French I achieved in 2000 was really worthless, wasn't it?Could you translate the former then?Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
I'll try. I may have to resort to easy rhymes, though."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
If I use easy rhymes to alter the meaning as little as possible, that would be something like this:What are we to do when we're tired of living?In books should we be drowning?Or should we drink and drink and drink?Quick! Let the wine do the healing!"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Ahh... simple yet universal.Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
Thanks chum.It's much better in French though, 'cause it uses almost all words ending in -ivre (a rare ending) and is very consistent nonetheless."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Edited by Froggy Starlust on 01/13/07 10:57 AM (server time).
if you're employing couplets, then the last word should be "healink."meow
...but I like the poem about Time very much.Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...
Nice one, Frogger. I recently wrote a Time poem, as well..Time Will quickly drain Down the upturned corners Of smiling mouths When And because They are smiling Though, By far, the more savage Destroyer Of youth Is a constant and lovely Expression Of nothing In parallel worlds Over slants of Time Deep grooves, it will beat Where the brine has remembered The warm cuts, formed In the stone of cold feeling By designless flashes; Brief, wonderful light The days Seem to wash Over creamy, blank banks Of the frictionless faces With compassion and grace But, Time is much harder To bear when you're older And, baring the map Of each heart-beaten path Is pointless... As, most of those roads have been closed "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
Thanks. Too bad I ran out of rhymes in "ief" after four lines ."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Had some (much appreciated) help on this one. See if you can guess who it was!!For so long, I've needed a word To describe all the colors that come When we turn out the lightsNeon rippling afghan patternsKaleidoscope crystal amoebasThat float to corners of your visionThe moment you hone in on themD�j� vuThere must be a wordI only haven't grasped it, yetIt smells like Grandma's blanketIt tastes like being mutedFeels like being paralyzed Confined to useless thoughtThat's ushered to its death, by slumberSmothered in my pillow scentD�j� vu�j� vuj� vu� vuVuInvisibles Ils sont si beauxJe ne sais pas du tout � quoi ils ressemblentIl doit y avoir un motUn mot que nul ne peut comprendre "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
In reply to:See if you can guess who it was!!
See if you can guess who it was!!
Either that's terrible spelling and it was The Banned One, or it's French and your helper was well-known French chef Marc Mardeau, aka Strawhomme.Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...
I must fly away from this townAnd its injurious waves of sinThey crawl under my skinAnd make me feel so downFar away on that French islandI hear people are all friendlyLife is slow and easyAnd summers have no endSo I'm fleeing that babylonI'm yearning for a brand new lifeWith my words and my wifeSouthern seas, here I come!"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
O please put me to sleepSo I won't think and weepAnd please save me from my angerAgainst this race so mediocre:The humans and their petty waysTheir selfish minds and their decayThey leave me in dismayAnd complete disarrayO please put me to sleepSo I won't fume and weepPlease save me from my hateO take me through Death's Gate!"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
I'm not as steady as you thinkI drown my wounds in inkBut I'm still on the brinkBetween gentle desperationAnd utter destructionAnd everything is said and doneThe bullet's in the gunThe pen's on the tableAnd I'm so unstableYearning for oblivionIn a deathly fashionNowThe words have driedThe bullet takes a rideInside my barren brainThen makes a big red stainBut others feel the pain:They know this life was vain"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
PS: I've been slightly depressed this week."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
A lecherous bilingual thing for a change:I must confessQue j'aime tes fesses ;Je les caresse :Oh! Such softness!Now please undress,Sois ma ma�tresse ;D�noue tes tresses,O Shy Goddess!(I must possessLa p�cheresseJusqu'� l'ivresse ;I won't digress!)Here comes success!Candeur, jeunesse,D�licatesse,And joy endless!(Did I transgress?Quelle �troitesse !)"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
And a reading of Kate's poem Invisibles: http://www.4shared.com/file/9146107/3a61afd9/Invisibles.html"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Paranoia sets inwhen your friends describe someone as looking like Pete Doherty,and you say he's 'sweeter';is that me?I know they've seen me on your screenbut you don't know what they've seen:the nights where I've stumbled aroundtrying to find myselfin the bottom of a scotch glassthat they never let me emptynot that I'd want to.though, I do like you very muchwhich is why I'm worried:has my reputation preceeded meor has it just let me down?Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
Frenchie, I suspect your desire to make things rhyme detracts from the heartfeltness of the overall piece (feel free to correct me if I'm wrong), but I'd still fancy a translation of the sifty bilingual piece.Also, I need some courting advice if you or anyone else who understands women is free.Ohro?Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
I don't know, I still like the bilingual thing two days after writing it, so I guess it's not too awful... But I bought this book yesterday and I'm loving it, so I guess you're going to see fewer and fewer rhymes here anyway :"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
This is a possible translation (many rhymes are lost, sadly):I must confessI like you thighs;I caress them:Oh! Such softness!Now please undress,Be my mistress;Untie your braids,O Shy Goddess!(I must possessThe sinner tillI'm elated;I won't digress!)Here comes success!Candour, youngness,Sensitiveness,And joy endless!(Did I transgress?Oh! Such tightness!)and a recording of the original version: I must confess"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Slightly depressed has got to be better than completely warped...This is a poem about a pair of star-crossed junkies, one of which has contracted AIDS, while the other is forced to sit back and watch the life drain from him until it's gone, entirely. In the end, she dooms herself by making love with him and presumably contracting the virus, then O.D.ing.Yeah, I don't know where this shit comes from, but I have quite an effed up imagination."Fixed" I see your phallus as a boilI see your seed as parasites I see your lust as an infectionI see your fever; seething frightI see you lancing your pain bubbleHuddled in the corner, thereI feel me draining to a puddleBlood and milk, And, liquid fleshBut, still I try, To try my best...I used to see you as AdonisClever, clear, and crystal honestOf all the men, you were the strongestOf all the ladies; I, the wrongestBlood and cuts, we smeared with grimeLiquid flesh and liquid timeCrystal mesh on shielded morningsNeeding to white wash the warningsNeedles, thorns of red, adorningCrests of cars that we called homeCars that didn't tend to roamBabes we washed in burning foamOf all your dreams, I was the longest Of all my dreams, you were the fondestI feel the cold, black swan upon usHere, to preen the pristine whiteA kiss, For every feather, light;Adrift, but stuck, Rooted, And, tight...I feel you trembling;Feel disgustI feel the white and red combustI taste exhaust;Your seeping pusOut of this ugly life, containedQuarantined And, preordainedNothing ventured, nothing gained...I feel your death inside my veinsIts portwine stain ferments in meI feel the sickness spread in meI feel the sickness set me freeI'm pregnant with the lives we've slainYour side is where they find me lainIn dreams from which we can't reviveThe cars we knew not how to drive I think the influence of TW is alienating me from general society. - to_dizzy
You sick weirdo!"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
As a child I sometimes hadWhat I would call"Fits of unreality"I would be in the school playgroundPlaying footballAlways a few yards in front of the goalAlways playing defenseAnd I was very good at thatOr it would be Wednesday noonI'd be having lunchWith my grandmaAnd she'd be cooking vealWith these small noodles I lovedThat looked like tori cut in halvesOf course I didn't know that wordThenThey looked likeSmall empty shellsAnd my grandma always cooked them twiceUntil they got really crunchyBecause I liked themCrunchyOr I'd be at homeSitting at the kitchen tableListening to my parents talkAbout people who buy expensive things with money they don't haveAbout the best brand of mattress for patients with bedsoresOr I'd be in the gardenWatching the dogs playOr I'd be looking at myselfIn the bathroom mirrorAnd suddenlyFor a few secondsThe world would become meaninglessThe playground and the ballWould seem like a jokeMy grandma at her cookerAnd her crunchy noodlesA trick of the mindMy mother and father and petsComplete strangersMy face in the bathroom mirrorThe greatest of unlikelihoodsYesFor a momentI could not believeIn myselfAnd even less in the worldAround meAnd it would have been nice thenTo be allowedTo put little labelsOn thingsLabels that would read"Ball""Noodle""Father""Mirror"One day my mother noticedBecauseFor ten secondsI had been looking at herAs if I was seeing her faceFor the first timeI was terrifiedBut she was coolAnd we decided to call these fitsSomething innocuousFor us"Vertigoes"The doctor had nothing to sayI felt like an alienIn my own homeI could not believe I was someoneIn some townIn western EuropeBut still it had to beOKA few years laterI started reading all I could aboutBuddhaAnd his lifeAnd his beliefsAnd I started thinking that maybeAt the start of a new lifeIt was not unusualTo feel a little unrealAfter allWe all need a little timeTo get used to this world againDon't we?But a few years after thatI started believing in the power of Cautious ReasoningAnd KnowledgeAnd I decided that my vertigoesMust have been the effectsOf some malfunctioning synapsesSomewhere deep in these three poundsOf white throbbing stuffHoweverTodayWhen I look in the bathroom mirrorI still can't believe in myselfI still can't believe that two peopleIn western Europe in 1976Wanted thisMeTheir little boyNow thirty years oldBent mute all day longIn man-machine symbiosisWorking hard on stuffPeople will needIn tomorrow's worldMaybeAnd I can't believeThat this may lastFor another fifty yearsNot that I'm unhappyOr even happyI just wonderI can't see a schemeOr a purposeIn their worldAnd on a day like todayWhen death has seemed so sweetAll dayI just can't believeThat I'm still hereTo not believe"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
I like this poem a great deal. Your other stuff is more universal, but, I can somehow relate more to this poem than anything else you've posted so far, even though I can't say for sure that I've ever experienced the exact thing you are describing, (and describing quite well, I may add.)I'm digging the creepier stuff... Here's something fairly new. I'm not even gonna try to deny it... I was inspired by Beetlejuice on this one, and briefly by John Wayne Gacy.For the warmth that I strive to contain in you;For the mortar I lay in your cracks;You give me the gift of a skeleton key,That's been lathered with smudged fingerprintsYou say it's authenticI wouldn't be sureIt opens all things, save for one stubborn door...The attic Refuses to budge;Hulking portal, In heavy lit frameA towering, nightly, archway of defeatI keep circling through over againLike a bird fastened tight to the rails Skating round all the cogs and the wheels In the tattooing heart of your careful inventionThat screeches and stops in another dimensionI swear there's a wild thing, nightly, you weltIt's wasting and writhing, there; pinned to a belt,Or tucked in the floorboards, like some twisted fagOf old letters - all dried out and drained of their sapSo dry, now, infact, That I'm sure they'd combust If I mentioned I'd stumbled across them, in passing Rummaging, desperate, like I was just guessing;Looking to silence the scratch in the walls I think the influence of TW is alienating me from general society. - to_dizzy
In reply to:like some twisted fag
like some twisted fag
It's too bad Monkeyboy never checks this thread, he'd be glad you mentioned him in one of your poems."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
At least now we'll get to see whether he does searches for his name.Whether in success or failure, sooner or later time must lead to disillusionment...
It will be a good test indeed."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Planet Earth is getting warmerHe saidI saidI guess soSo he askedWhat are you doing about it?And I repliedWell, it's been freezing all week,So I guess I could takeA degree or sixThen he saidDon't be cynicalWhat world do you want for your kids?And I saidWhat kids would want our worldAnyway?I didn't want itMy father didn't want itAnd my father's father before himNo one ever wanted itIt runs in the familySo he saidDon't be selfishI'm sure your kids want to be bornAnd I saidAs much as I'd like to outnumberThe religious nutsThe woman hatersThe football fansAnd most of allThe polar bearsThere's no way I can be a fatherSo he saidIf everyone was like youIt would be the end of mankind!And I saidCry me a river"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
The ideaIs to take every single shitty ideaAnd to turn itIntoArtYou're in bedReading some disturbing poemBy some girl who took her own lifeAnd you think about putting a bullet in your brainThen it becomesArtOr you're at homeSitting on the throneAnd you feel like cryingAnd moving to a sunny island somewhereThen it becomesArtOr you're bored at workThinking about the next time you'll get drunkAnd you have a childhood reminiscenceAbout some mental dysfunction you hadThen it becomesArtOr you're taking a showerWhistling "Well, you needn't" byThelonious MonkAnd you realise how easy it isTo write about just anythingThen it becomesArtDoesn't it?"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
At first I wanted to respect youI assumed the bestLike some naive childBut then you blew it allWith a dry replyAnd a scornful lookI said nothing thenBut you have no ideaHow much I wanted to plant my nails in your shoulderUntil you bledUntil the pain made you cryUntil you realised who it is who pays your wagesAnd what a despicable piece of shit you areYes, I've been too kind againThat's my biggest flawI try but I can'tBe haughtyBe nastyAnd I can't speak loudBut rest assuredYou despicable piece of shitThat next time we meetI will plant my nails in your shoulderUntil you bleedUntil the pain makes you cryAnd I'll break your teethWith the nearest bongo drumAnd I'll crush your ballsWith the shiniest saxophoneAnd I'll bang your headWith the newest EpiphoneUntil you show me respectOr die trying"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
You're fourteen years oldWearing your purple sweatsuitLooking at postcards in a shopIn your home townYou look around and noticeA guyUnkempt hairBeardedThirtyishStanding closeAnd he gives you a weird smileYou smile backBut you're not usedTo peopleSmilingFor nothingLike thatThen you look for your motherBut she went outSo you go out tooBut you can't find herSo you do what's bestGo back to the car and waitBut she's not there eitherSo you look aroundAnd there in the next carIs a manSat at the wheelWhite greasy hairGolden ringsSixtyishAnd he gives you a wide smileAnd he's friendly and talkativeAnd he asks where your mother isWell here she comesYou replyAnd suddenly his smile is goneAnd he's all shy and quietAs you get in your mother's carYou have school tomorrowAnd there life will go onAs usualYou'll keep acting rude toThe one you love (she doesn't know)And some gorgeous girl you'd never noticedWill ask you outAnd you'll say noBecauseHonestlyYou can't see the point in twisting your tongueAround hersAnd you're not even sure what "going out with" meansThen you'll go back homeAnd gaze at the fashion pages in CosmopolitanFor a long long timeUntil the tensionAt lastIs releasedAnd then you'll fall asleepThinking that you and your mother's magazinesHave the healthiest of relationships"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
There I amIn my bed in 2007Wide awakeAgainMentally writing a letterTo the one I lovedIn 1990And it's the perfect letterPacked with well-crafted sentencesAnd skillful suggestionsOnly I should have sent it17 years agoAnd once I am done with itI decide to move onSo I start composing a messageFor my best friendA message that would mend everythingAnd save our friendshipIf only I could send it6 months agoWell from17 yearsDown to6 monthsIs a huge improvementIsn't it?And on that thoughtI am finally ableTo find sleep"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
Post-coitumYou can't find that much loveIn yourselfAnymoreAnd you wonder if loveIs just the need to mateThat comes when you'reENDORPHIN-DEPRIVEDOr is there more?"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
I'm at the back of a frail Italian carReading next week's TV programsAnd suddenly I find myselfOn the roadOn my kneesWith a bump on my foreheadAnd a blood-spatteredLeft handThen a man runs towards me and shoutsI'm an ambulanceman!And suddenly I feel so luckyOnly I don't know yetHe's the one who justCrushed our frail Italian carWith his big DSAnd sent a thousand pieces of glassThrough my still innocentLeft handTodayWhen I look at my scarsI always wonderWhat this left hand would look likeIf it hadn't been crucifiedAt such a young ageSo here's a good exercise for everyoneLook in the mirrorAnd try to figure outWhat you would look likeIf life had passed you byWithout scratching and cutting and burningWithout throwing you to your kneesWithout knocking you outWithout digging its groovesIn youNow I bet you don't want to look that smoothDo you?"This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
When I think of that girl That girl I don't know I wonder if anyone knew her, at all I wonder who cared Before she was taken For, in pictures, her eyes looked glazed, prematurely Her smile looked Cut As crooked as bangs I can't help but wonder what happened, exactly But, that is never my right to know Nevertheless Book deals will be made Monsters are canonized Evil is saved When I think of that girl I feel the ghost of a knot In my stomach A feeling that curls in the womb A faint whisper of what her mom must have felt The moment each part of it died The feelings infused through the telephone line Fed through that spiraling umbilical cord She wanted to, but could not Cut If she tried The feeling when they told her where the body was found The implications of that The same place had been searched days before And, nothing The feeling when they handed remains, wrapped in plastic The ribbons, the knap sack, the bload-soaked jeans The baby, the girl, the woman, The end The feeling of tragic, insensitive fame Bodily swarmed by the buzzing well-wishers With festering crockpots of simmering sympathy When all you would crave is death's favor in you To think that your flavor is sweeter Than that which still clings to the vine And, must be Cut They say she was quiet, Reserved That's the best they can do in her memory She'll never be given a chance to change I'm just guessing she didn't dress for Halloween Is this what boiled the blood in their eyes? Blood brothers, that took her for days at a time Then before they wasted her, threw her like garbage To the rock bed of a creek There, killing all hope Of an unlikely recovery When I think of that girl That girl we won't know Sometimes, I cry out Sometimes, I don't But, always Always I am Cut I think the influence of TW is alienating me from general society. - to_dizzy
Creepy and subtle. I like it."This is very good, but please don't do it again." - Grandma on my roasted camembert recipe
I'm going to stick to the creepy stuff because it seems to be where I'm creating my best poetry. So, here's a poem about "the rape of innocence." Try not to take it too literally...FallIn a parkA playgroundThe wind recalls laughterThen, icy water rings my throatCold wind clinks the chains of the swingsThat linked me, in theoryTo safetyInstantlyThe trees Are so bareThe limbs are too bareThey feel too much airSure, all you can see But, no one Is there To seeJust meI remember Washing the rust off And, cooling the burn From my handsIn a fountain That never stopped churningClear waterThat never stopped runningNow, foggyAnd, frozenAnd, groggy grey morning hung overThe dawnI woke With dry blood in my palmCold wind turns to steamI'm dry, shivering leavesAnd, I'm swung like a childThen, flung to the reedsI want to drift fasterLike FallTo be knocked unconsciousOr, land on my haunches And, runOr hunkerAnd, hideMy wild looks from the sunI want the air plucked from my breast To run my fingers through the grassThen, grasping, to tear out the rootsThe dark clumps of soilAnd, gasping, on bootsThe dirtStill wetIn my palmsRare palmsI washedIn a fountain that runsThough, no one is thereA fountain that coolsBut, replenishesNothingI still feel the blood It's churningAnd, runningThere's no way to hide "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
So you're still half-virgin, eh?"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
Pft!You don't get a gash like that by being half a virgin - 'though she might've been attacked by a mad lumberjack.
Funny little goldfishYou used toWhirl aroundSpiral up and downAnd eat your own crapPlayfullyBut you've changedThe sparkles in your skin are goneAnd you are stuckTo the inner surface of your tiny worldWith slow moving eyesFolded finsAnd it seems you're tryingTo breathe in the airAnd now it's getting worseYou are flat on your backEyes and fins stillAs I open your willThat saysI want to be buried at seaYou can have my shiny pebblesAnd my bowlAnd my memoriesWell thank youFunny little goldfishBut as much as I loved youI think the loo will doUnless I choose to turn youInto a sushi or two"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
Man o' days! Are you still being a little bitch about that time you tried to stick your baby wiener in my strawberry pie and I called you Little Jack Horner and told you to get your thumb out of me?Of course my vagina dwarfs that thing! Criminy... I'd feel bad for a hedgehog with a package that small...Ahhh-let it go... "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
I woke up todayWishingFor some giant starNot too far from hereTo explode andBlow away our atmosphere(and this could actually happen)It was with great delightThat I sawThirteen billion lungsImplodingIn homesIn shopsOn the streetsIn officesAt the stock exchangeI sawOur precious littleAbsurd worldSwiftly andAbsurdlyReduced to nothingI sawEarthRuled by volcanoesAnd meteorsCleansedAt lastFrom all its organic scumAnd then I got upChecked sharesandstocks.comAnd got ready for work"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
Edited by Froggy Starlust on 01/30/07 04:40 PM (server time).
I love this. "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
I think I didI think I mightbut, to be honest,I can't remember what I said that nightbefore those who saw me as a manwhen I was still a boyalwaysBut maybe if we trywe could get it rightand maybe if we worked on itwe might come together tonightbut I'll probably leave it too lateI think that maybe you've got it right:I've got one foot on the aeroplane and when held up to the lightI will fade againin front of you who saw me as a boywhen I wanted to be a manfor onceBut maybe if we trywe could get it rightand maybe if we worked on itwe might come together tonightbut I'll probably leave it too lateI don't think I'll fall in love this timeI don't think I'll be your only onejust a face for your memories,a name without a page.to be honest, I just want to see you cry my namejust onceBut maybe if we trywe could get it rightand maybe if we worked on itwe might come together tonightbut I'll probably leave it too lateI think I was trying to suggest something about the duality of man, sir
Why am I always so attracted toWell-behavedIdealisticSuper-stableGirls?It's starting to look like a curseWhat bothers meIs they regard meAs their messiahWhen deep insideI really feel likeSome random bastardBut what should I do?Break their heartsFor no apparent reasonOr let them dream and dreamTill life do us part?Playing husbandIs a tiresome struggleThat always leavesThe maudlin drunken libertineFeeling guilty but longing for more"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
I'll play the games that you've devised Although, the rules are blurry And, they don't make very much sense See? This doesn't serve the purpose of a game For me I'll soak the bile that you leak; Accept that you can't help yourself But, you will learn When, I remember What you thought, Aloud, All those years From now I'll push you where you want to be Away from me Though, I am tired Tired of it all All my effort going into a small hole And, getting buried Children will get married When There's nothing left to do For, they need someone Watching them In every second - Sharing triumph I'd like to take you in my arms But, you've become embarrassed by me For this, you're disparaged by me As, I'm not sure how to raise you "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
hard fingertips caress my cheek;it feels like being touchedyet, with the back of hands, so sleek,it doesn't feel as suchclose your lips over your wristit feels like growing upthen, cup your palm over your lipsit feels like blowing shutmy hand is like a battered petit flinches when it's graspedit's also like a cigaretteit shivers when it's claspedclose your lips over my wristcontain my heat, like cuffsnow, cup your palm over my lipsi feel like throwing up "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
my hand is like a road workerit lays till it gets paidit's also a desk warriorwhen bored with work, it plays "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
Blimey love, more of that thanks!I think I was trying to suggest something about the duality of man, sir
In reply to:All my effort going into a small hole
All my effort going into a small hole
That's what happens everytime I have too many drinks at my best friend's place."This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
My frustrationsFrustrate youBecause,All my talents are uselessWhen applied to the world I'm living inMy allusionsElude youBecause,All my thoughts are feelingsAnd, you can't feel the point in that "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
(The last line of this makes more sense if I inform you that the person this is about has no feeling in his right hand.)I shouldn't be pouring myself into you But, it feels so good I think it feels good I think it's not causing more harm than good Shaking you from sleep Because, I feel you trembling You aren't beside me But, I think you realize I'm trembling, too And, if I'm shivering down your throat I can't know that I am I do this Because, I cannot make the problems go But, I think I can make them bleed Although, I don't think I'm adrift in my senses I do this So, that we can see the words With doubled vision With more precision I think the bottle's in your hand But, I am numb For, I can't know which one "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
In reply to: That's what happens everytime I have too many drinks at my best friend's place.
That's what happens everytime I have too many drinks at my best friend's place.
I wish I was your friend's thirteen year old daughter... "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
Now now nowWon't you grow up a bit?You're being a pathetic30-year-old bratJust becauseYou're feeling hurtDoesn't meanYou were indeedHurt byMeOr anyoneAnd just becauseYou're insecureDoesn't mean thatIOr anyoneMust endure your absurd doubtsAll the timeAnd just becauseYou make meLaughWith your childish jokes andLustWith those perfect little firm round breastsDoesn't mean thatIWill love you foreverUnderstood?"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
The memory Within my pulsing words Is like a drifting soul That you can't see; You sense its presence, though You question what's not there... You'll be tormented Never knowing what I wanted from you Just stop screaming And, you'll hear my whisper Echoing the answer Deep within your brain You'll always be the same In death, in life, in bed, in cars In arms So tied up in the ghosts of arms... The fizzling scars inside my breast That drizzle acid through my chest Just like a tired battery It sighs To scrape the marrow from your bones Replaces it with acrid burn And, biting wind The jagged sickles from my fingertips That broke off your unyielding skin Your cruel, unfeeling skull The ossein Dull porcelain That looks so pure, to me A smooth, round bowl of milk For me to dip my flaring fingers in A cure for me That isn't death You think I'd learn to love my flesh Much more than this For, when my dripping hands resurface There it is, again: The proof of soured life The blanched, white twigs That, soon, will forget how To sheath themselves Like snow-light boughs That strip, only within the amber glow of Spring That perceived sweetness Skeletal And, buried wings Get frozen in Over again And, over again... "And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis
Little girlWon't you mow downThe jungleAround yourGolden mussel?Down thereIt's quite a struggleWith snakes and spidersI juggleIn the hope that soonYou'll tickleThen gobbleMy avid purpleMuscle"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
In reply to:At least now we'll get to see whether he does searches for his name.
At least now we'll get to see whether he does searches for his name.
Since I've already stated that I do that, you're not breaking any new ground here, rapist.But I wasn't searching for my name - just information for the Rapist Adrian D. Kirby Dossier. The Osaka police will, I'm sure, find it useful when they receive it.Stu3-14-12 Katsuyama-Kita, Ikuno-ku
In reply to:Your prose is brilliant in it's conciseness, and you're clearly a romantic at heart.
Your prose is brilliant in it's conciseness, and you're clearly a romantic at heart.
My first time in I Was An ArtisteI never knew this shit was hereI never realised how gay Strawman wasBut I�d always suspected Adrian was weirdThough I never appreciated the extent of his misogynyUntil I read the chronologicallyIncreasingly violent tone of his God-awful poetryThe prison psychologists will have a field dayDid I mention that Strawman is gay?(Jeez I�m good. I mean, rhyming with �chronologically�. You don�t see that every day.)StuGet Bowie Back Downunder
So as not to alienate the countless hordes of male posters who are surely clinging to my every word, I think I should note that the views expressed in the following piece do not reflect a belief that the nature of all men is predatory and manipulative. This poem merely reflects all the ones I've come in brief physical contact with. Miss Lead's Manifesto of Passive-Aggressive Individualism ManOh, manI love you, reallyListen up, thoughYou can Take me to the moviesBuy me frozen drinksIn the hopes that I will blow youTell me what you normally do/think/say to All the other girlsBut, not in my sweet caseDeny the things that bother you are what I think they areAnd, order me to order much more for myselfIn the confidence that that won't workFuck me as the bacon burnsAnd, pull my hairThen, run awayYou think you've left me soggyWhen, I've charred you to a crispDevoured you like nothingWith no chance for you to noticeTrust meGeorgieOh, my porgieI miss you, reallyBut, I've built immunitiesTo your X-ray glanceWith leaden giants guarding strongholdsFortresses of eyesBullets that aren't aimed to killThey're aim is to plant poison in your mindAnd, make you think I care enough about a win to whineAnd, I'm so fairThat you can't see itTrust meCaptainOh, my captainI am youI, sometimes, wish I got the creditI still boast the mental medalsI know my own monickerYou must think that mine is.. "Conquered!"As you drive your flagInto my sodden landAccept my bountyFeed me liesVows and sighsBut, you will never make me brideI like you, manBut, not enough to want your handClamped tightly on my clammy wristAnd, not enough to bear your name or kidsTrust meBoyOh, boyI thank you, reallyFor your kind pretenseBut, you won'tBeat me At a mind sportWhen that wasn't my intentMy offenseAnd, my defenseI guess it's wrongI guess it's badTo be a shifting shape of bullBut, you're the animalI'm just the wasteI'm more content than you can faceAnd, for this, you're contentLet's let it be, at thatIt's for the bestJust trust meIf someday I should surrenderYou'd not want what you would have 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.
"You took me out to wine dine sixty-nine meBut didn't hear a damn word I said""This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
Now that I'm old but still unwiseAnd all my gods are dead and goneI feel a wave within me riseOf lonelinessAnd fearAnd coldI live among insipid rhymesSilly stories and shaky songsThinking of the ones I admiredBryan, FreddieAnd David JonesAnd all the other DavidsWherever they may beNowYes, life is hard without them!I do the strandI play the gameI scream like a babyI rant and raveI get wild thenI surrenderBut in the endI still suffer!"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
You listen to Alanis Morisette? God, you're such a Fag! I love it, though. This is completely retarded, but it made me laugh.SoCo makes me psychoAnd, bitter, like a limeZima gets me date-rapedWine makes me feel sublimeBud tends to make me giggleIt's fun to lose one's classBut, I do not like the jiggleThat it adds onto my assBacardi makes me swoonCaptain Morgan makes me singJager clouds my judgementTill I cannot see a thingTequilla makes me festiveIt also gets me hotWhen I start to feeling restiveIn the bushes, I will squatVodka knocks my rockerSweet gin unpins the sinnerJack Daniels makes me wrestle withAnd, sorely lose my dinnerBut, when I've had too much to drinkMy business becomes risque And, coffee makes me pleasantIf it's spiked with Irish whiskay 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.
PLUTOSo, is this what death is like?I was gazing at the starsWhen I got hit by a carAnd so I diedOn the spotStupidlyNow I find myselfTied to a funny fluffy fuchsia chairOn PlutoWatching the same music videoOver and over againAll day long(Not that there are actually days and nights here:The sun is hardly bigger than any other star)And here with me is a guy namedFranzWho says he was aCatholicAnd he'd much rather be in Hell nowWaltzing with MephistoThan here enduringIcelandic pop musicAnd here is also a guy namedCharlesWho says he was aBuddhistAnd he'd much rather be back on EarthAlreadySo he could writePoemsAbout the breathtaking beauty ofNordic areolasAnd here is also a guy namedHowardWho says he was very much hoping forAbsolute nothingnessAnd he's extremely disappointedMostly because he can't die ofIntestinal cancerOr anything elseAnymoreAnd me?As long as I can hear somePopular musicsI just don't care at all"This future racing toward us paralyzes the wallet and the brain"
I will not dieNoThe ambitious young manThat I amTodayWill only changeAnd it is an old manWrinkledTiredResignedWho will dieInstead of meIn the endAnd it won't matter muchBecause he will only be good atStirring memoriesOld shames andOld gloriesAnd pictures from the time of his youthThat will give him the impressionOf seeing countless ghostsFor the self is only aPointOn a pathThat is to sayNothingOrAt mostA vague ideaThat fades as soon as we start to grasp itI analyse myselfAnd it makes meBecome someone elseI elude myselfAnd I will elude myselfForeverC'est la vieI will not dieNoThat old manTiredResignedWill die instead of meTo be insulted by these fascists is so degrading
In reply to: So he could writePoemsAbout the breathtaking beauty ofNordic areolas
So he could writePoemsAbout the breathtaking beauty ofNordic areolas
Will you please write a little poem about Nordic nips? Tomb of the Utimately UnknownI have never heard the criesOf a bare and beaten YouthFor, I am far too soft and unprepared,I'm told,To hold that blood capsule of TruthInside the center Of a Virgin palmYet, still I feelHis fuzzy head, thereCradled in my armInviting Him to thieve my warmth from me,In servitude;Entreating Him to suck the light of life within my breast,Which hollows more each second Following the end To gasping breathsIn turn, the blade invading my own chestIn reverent RemembranceBrine, it is the wineI am but the chaliceDread, it is the breadFuzzy, green inside my womb;The maliceAlthough,This feud, this horror, is not tactileI have only viewed the war through futilePink, plastic binocularsWith roseate-tinged lensMagnificent!Their lack of meaningful MagnificationOh, Our damned nation!WitnessesStanding by to each and everyHaunting, Reminiscent coronation We are too magnanimous!I've been thankfulI was not delivered To this rotting earth;A gun sewn into the carnation, Silken lining of my fleshNot rigid, StarkAs flesh is made to be inPassionFruit will never answer from the soilIrrigated with the cardinal waterThe crops dusted with blood of ChildrenGristle of Man Degraded to tallowTheir bristle braided into wickWe light the CandleFan the fire with our palms,The wounds,That, which we cannot lickTheir waxy facesLifted bodiesSallow,Hallowed, StatuesqueBut, in the flamesThey're dispossessedThey deliquesceTo nothingnessA miracle is lifeThe elegy Is not so eloquently lyricalEach pure manifestation;Made to wither or be plucked, at randomPlagued by infestationThe red bells Roll in on themselvesThe toll is for whomeverWe are All The SlavesThe BlindThe EndVirgins can't be saved, forever I have a couple of fag women I go hunting with. - Altoid
I'll think of something, don't worry.To be insulted by these fascists is so degrading
When it was never saidit was for the bestto come off second bestand stand in the corner like a manwho words had already failed twice in an eveningand proceeds to finish his drink and leavehis only wish to be forgotten along with his deeds,both good and bad,and be reborn in another placewith new skin and fresh bonesto make the same mistakes in the years still to comethat had already passed him byspent alonein hindsight, squanderedlike a meandering metaphor straying too far from the original conceptonly to reveal the concern that 25 is now closer than 18I bet people can't wait to read my memoirs
What a shameless way to bump your own thread, young man!NINE YEARSSo you're in love with meAnd you know I don't careBut how could you guessThat in nine years from nowI'll still be your best friendAnd I'll be smoking your Thai cigarettesGulping your Burgundy winesCutting my lips on your stubbleAnd stroking your not-so-sexy paunch(Today you're so thin!)All night we'll be doing these thingsThat our mothers wouldn't approve ofAnd that our girlfriends don't need to know aboutMine will callAnd I will say I'm too drunk to get homeAs I notice how much my jaw hurts alreadyLater onOther parts of me will hurtI will marvel at your velocityYou will marvel at my voracityAnd in the end you will look at meIn that special wayThat says"No girl could ever please me like you just did."And that will make me feel so warm inside(The oxytocin rush, I will think)But todayWe're just two virginsOn some silty beachKnee-deep in the AtlanticFrustratedConfusedUntannedAnd all we do is make each other unhappyWhile others have all the funThe most beautiful words in the English language are not 'I love you,' but 'It's benign.' | Mon Espace
My muse deserves betterthan to see her offerings subjected to the slings and arrows of outrageous Frenchmenyet I don't carebecause he is a queerand his poetry is shitI bet people can't wait to read my memoirs
You just wish you'd been a gay Bukowski instead of a drunken whoreski.The most beautiful words in the English language are not 'I love you,' but 'It's benign.' | Mon Espace
Stay,Copper moonOur grins both agape in recessionAuburn heads tilted sideward in mirrored expressionI am caged in your gilt, amber glowYou seem still, but I know,By and by, you must goGaze,Bloodshot eyeFor the sunlight does threaten the deepsFarther, still, from this night, the pearl crimson moon creepsI shall keep you some desperate wayYou are gone, but I pray,By and by, that you stay "we went to pizza hut after school and lived the rockstar life for the first time that day." - 13athroom
And even now when I'm at my bestwith everyone content with my happinessI know that I've been wrong beforebut only half a dozen times or moreI'm scaredI've thrown it all awayLaughable artistic soul for slow decay Going with you to bands I used to love and seeing them play boring songsI guess I'm a little unsureof places where I've never gone before cause it's too late to hide nowthe disgusting parts of me you've seen intentional or inadvertantlyI bet people can't wait to read my memoirs
Who wants have to sexfight? For sure thing!TW's Top Fag!
Sometimes it takes twoingested between the disapproving masses(on their way to stops you've never wanted to learn about)to make you stop being afraid of what is naturaland take pride in looking at some and saying'That was me then'and others to think'That could be me next'and realise that you are nothing special,that you are not exemptfrom monotony and doldrums and a life less than ordinarybut blessed with occasional flashes of brilliancewhich appear mediocre to everyone elseAnd right now you must switch because she is waiting at Shijo.I bet people can't wait to read my memoirs
Moribund fireball filaments flickeringYour blazing assymetry The foo fighter eyes That now fix on me,Flit On the bruise purple skiesDelivering deathWhile refusing to dieSwarming my crownAre your slight, static fingers Staked on my spineThe diaphanous blue fire lingersFrom the friction of my heavy soul And, yours; freeEven still, Your gravity stays steeped in meSojourner of sublunar starshineYou startling gemYour presence, a holeOn the horizon's hemA spectre of light, A specular vision of life,Which threatens to syphon my soul Through a vaccum of daysAs my blood is diffused with your venomous raysA hollowed-out hull of all hope on the skyDelivering deathWhile refusing to die Texas is the reason that the president's dead.
My latest song lyric...TOOTHPASTE IN MY HAIRThere's milk on my new red bootsThere's toothpaste in my hairAnd I think my baby's gone for goodBut oh to where, where, where ?Oh, it feels lonelyWhen there's toothpaste in my hairYeah, so lonelyIt's more than I can bearThere's Guinness on my grey tightsKilkenny on my shirtAnd I wish my baby'd stayed all nightOh now I fell like dirtOh, it feels lonelyWhen there's toothpaste in my hairYeah, so lonelyIt's more than I can bearMe? The 13th Duke of Wybourne? Here? On teenagewildlife.com? At three o'clock in the morning? With my reputation? What were they thinking of?
Do you really own grey tights? Like.. Jareth grey tights?Again, try and ignore the elipses. No such thing as tabs at TW. My eyes are draped in a pale sheet of dust.....as time is stopped for only me.....No memory..........has succumbed to peace,.....but for this moment, when even the death..........of silence is promisedAnother yellowed thought cracks loose.....and drifts into the mindless .....Winter stream..........For once, I'm not agrieved.....I've not awoken to a forgotten dream .....I've gone to sleep..........and forgotten that I lived Summer makes me drowsy.Autumn makes me sing.Winter's pretty lousy,But I hate Spring.
Well, I'm a Bowie fan! Actually, I forgot to write a music for that one. Thanks for reminding me.Me? The 13th Duke of Wybourne? Here? On teenagewildlife.com? At three o'clock in the morning? With my reputation? What were they thinking of?
You might like this song lyric, by the way:[...]We will lie backOn a pillow of the whitest snowAnd the silence we were promisedWill engulf usLay your head downKeep your head downWhile they're firing lowYou're too young childYou're too young childWe will wake upFrom the dreams that bury usWe will tunnel our way outBy moonlight[...](from Snow Borne Sorrow)Me? The 13th Duke of Wybourne? Here? On teenagewildlife.com? At three o'clock in the morning? With my reputation? What were they thinking of?
Why yes, you're right. I do like those lyrics.I must admit, I'm absolutely not familiar with David Sylvian's work. P.S. I demand that you post a grey tights photo. Tout suite. Summer makes me drowsy.Autumn makes me sing.Winter's pretty lousy,But I hate Spring.
Considering that the only fans of Sylvian around here are Monkeyboy, Claude and me, that's probably for the best.Regarding the grey tights, well, I must confess that they're fictional, but I do own a pair of short black tights (same thing that cyclists wear). However, I'm not wearing them at my office right now...Me? The 13th Duke of Wybourne? Here? On teenagewildlife.com? At three o'clock in the morning? With my reputation? What were they thinking of?
In reply to:Considering that the only fans of Sylvian around here are Monkeyboy, Claude and me, that's probably for the best.
Considering that the only fans of Sylvian around here are Monkeyboy, Claude and me, that's probably for the best.
What are you talking about? I've been a fan for over 20 years. And I'm probably the only person here with an autographed vinyl copy of Secrets Of The Beehive.Trying to navigate TW reminds me of what it was like having dial-up service.
Congrats. You're always so focused on the Icelandic weirdo that I didn't think you could care for other artists.Me? The 13th Duke of Wybourne? Here? On teenagewildlife.com? At three o'clock in the morning? With my reputation? What were they thinking of?
In reply to: Regarding the grey tights, well, I must confess that they're fictional
Regarding the grey tights, well, I must confess that they're fictional
I should have known you'd disappoint me... And you never did get that snap for me of you cupping Oscar Wilde's marble cahones... Hmmm, maybe I will have to punish you, after all. Summer makes me drowsy.Autumn makes me sing.Winter's pretty lousy,But I hate Spring.
Well, I looked for Oscar in St Stephen's Green, but when I realised that he actually was in Merrion Square, it was too late to go back and give him a big hug and shafting .Me? The 13th Duke of Wybourne? Here? On teenagewildlife.com? At three o'clock in the morning? With my reputation? What were they thinking of?
I'm tiredI'm soreI'm worthlessI'm beatenI'm broke and I'm brokenI'm an unwanted burdenI'm a pathetic example of a human beingI'm unemployed and unemployableI'm nothing but troubleI'm nothing until the music startsI'm nothing when the music stopsI'm not the man I wanted to beI want to go homeJe est un autre
And you have a slight paunch.Me? The 13th Duke of Wybourne? Here? On teenagewildlife.com? At three o'clock in the morning? With my reputation? Has no one thought of the consequences?
slight? I'm leaning toward severe, though the last few months of unpaid unemployment should be sorting that out somewhatJe est un autre
Taking a dive againbut sadly not for money or glory butjust to stand up and fallagain and again;they call you the glass jawwhen you knowyou learnt how to take one on the china long time agobut it's time to forgetyour moment in the sun,if that's what you can callthe 16 months you spent standing on your own two feetyes, back into the ringto take the jeers personallyand wish you were somewhere elsedespite the fact that you havenowhere to goI hear the crowd calling(anyone's name but my own)and smile knowingI could have had him in the 3rdJe est un autre
You had before you a bride of blue skyBlossoming cherry torch to her bright sideIn fingers of bark, so rigidly clutchedA morning too pure to be painted or touchedEasterly spread with her limbs leaning toThe warmer horizon, all haloed with dewPitted against dawn�s naked translucence Blazing like eyelids in sun�s heavy nuisanceNow, morning melts; you're a trembling awning Trickling under her mouth�s frigid yawningWinter has stolen her, veiled her in grayBedded her; sullen, with nothing to sayNo spirits to rise, no roots to forge deepShe lies - your white willowed bride - in a heap But, soon the sun beam to your cheek will be marriedSoon, the cold dream of her bleakness is buried (it's like a sewer of puss) - Dogz on TW
oh nobut maybedid you see?that boy you metbecame the man you sawwho grew up so fastall aloneand thought he was Peter Panbut became Rip van Winkleand you love him?sucks to be youJe est un autre
we look at the pictures of ourselves and see so many things,I've forgotten just how I used to be but I remember I was cold;and probably desperate, thinking I was starved for love when it was all around, directed at someone who never cared about the people that loved him, lost in the fantasy that some day he'd be great.Oh, don't worry, someday we'll all look back and regret the good times we let slip by due to higher concerns forgotten forever that seemed so important.Oh, god, I'm so sorry for all that I've done. Just please remember that soon I'll fade into oblivion and then you can laugh at all that I did, all that I said, all that I ever wanted to be...please, just forget about me.Je est un autre
Slowly you lumber back to townwith your hands in the air above your headand your palms open-wide for all to see;they all knew they'd be empty.with lines on your face and cracks in your skin,the years' signatures tracable in every one,and a desire to fade away disbelieved by everyonedid it change you or am I mistaken?we had such high hopes when you left here, don't let us down for longleave us again and we'll remember what you were and forget the hulking shadow that fell upon us for a week in late spring, a stir of misplaced youth that made us shudder and remind ourselves that:There but for the grace of GodetcJe est un autre
What if the purchase of a Saarinen tulip dining table, a vintage one,Would yield unceasing and abundant happiness?It will?How much?____Kid, you've paid your dues...dues and dues. ~J. Tweedy
How did it come to this?Life repeating itself in a small townthat thinks it's big;all it takes is two people to move away and you're aloneHow did it come to this?How is it that the weeks go so slow but the months go so fast?You might play the fool but you don't knowwhere life could have been this time tomorrowif you'd tried.C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre