gunsmoke on 17/11/2009 at 15:47
Here I sit
Lonely hearted
Paid my dime
And only farted
jimjack on 17/11/2009 at 18:03
Mind tricks leading to confusion
Turning love into an illusion
No chance of any coital fusion
Best to stick with self abusin.
37637598 on 17/11/2009 at 18:03
When I was young and in my prime
I masturbated all the time
but now that I am old and grey
I limit myself to twice a day
jimjack on 17/11/2009 at 18:04
I see where the theme of this versing is heading here.
Fingernail on 17/11/2009 at 18:50
weren't you there, cause I was there,
and all the family friends were there
and members of the band were there
and all stood still
when jimmy played an i on the piano
the birds stopped singing in the sky,
little jane brought up her pie,
grandad had to go upstairs and die,
when jimmy played an i on the piano
people came from miles around,
three kings, and all the local clowns,
to hear the biggest brightest sound
to yet be found
when jimmy played an i on the piano
I tried to work it out for days
I sat there and I thought of ways
to squeeze between the black and white
some grays
like jimmy and his i on the piano
I went to bed and meant to pray,
but woke up late and heard the fray
next afternoon - can't be, no way
as jimmy made the steinway sing a j (on the piano)
there's no way I'll compete with that,
I grabbed my coat, I had no hat,
the j (I thought) was rather flat,
and anyway, it's all an act
when jimmy plays his scales on the piano
I'll take myself now far away,
but I'll be back, right on the day
that I can stand before them all and say
I can produce a k on the piano!
steo on 17/11/2009 at 19:07
Dethtoll, your style of poetry reminds me of mine... Not that I've written any poetry in two years.
Good stuff.
Vivian on 17/11/2009 at 19:10
This is about the film, Aliens:
Now that baby's beds have all been made
in the sallow hearts of us poor saps
what will occupy your time?
The warehouse lights
that ground out our headaches
blink out, one by one
the rips and scuffs you made with your imperious scurrying
will remain unrepaired, unpainted.
Will you be handymen?
I've seen you stare dumbfounded
at the controls of a microwave oven.
you seem offended by our tracksuits, our clipboards, our spanners and torches, our saturday night underwear.
the tack and circumstance of a framed spelling certificate is lost on you. What will you do?
the hours tick off these tedious metal walls
you listlessly fondle a pogo stick
and grind your impressive teeth
on my least favorite mug
...
maybe you could learn the piano?
steo on 17/11/2009 at 19:36
And here's the last poem I wrote, just over two years ago, about a visit to Stratford-upon-Avon:
In my dream I awake to the gentle hum of a diesel engine and step outside
I see our vessel gliding gently across the shimmering brown stain of the Kennet and Avon
I ready myself to explore my dreams, though how, I could not say
I marvel at the sight of a rustic street, a beautiful garden, a tall and grand theatre
The doors swing open and out comes running: a king, a queen, thirty soldiers disguised as jesters
The crowd laughs in synchronised monotony
The scene vanishes and I open the door to Shakespeare’s neighbour’s house
I marvel at the sight of a sixteenth century MP3 player
Engraved with Shakespeare’s very own signature
The neighbour, who assures me that he is William Shakespeare
Somehow fills my mind with the false desire to own it
I look for a pocket but the only one I find is my skull
I reach inside and pay for the trinket with the fleshy pulp of my mind
I pocket the item and it vanishes forever but I am too blind to feel cheated
I find myself back in the street again
but now the Theatre is ablaze and the crowd possessed
At my feet I see valiant Talbot face down in the mud
stabbed in the back with a coca cola bottle
The doors of the theatre swing open and out comes, screaming
Ronald MacDonald clad in chainmail and brandishing a broadsword
The heads of Romeo and Juliet hanging from his belt
I run in fear but he’s chasing me in a BMW, cackling
I make it back to my boat to escape
but I still feel their glaring eyes burning and I realise that truly there is no escape:
For when I return home I see only Stratford once more.
Aerothorn on 17/11/2009 at 19:45
I had a class a year ago where we were forced to pump out 20 poems in 20 days. I wrote some stuff I was actually proud of, and (for me) it was relatively diverse stylistically. It also made me write poetry for the first time in years (sadly, this habit has not lasted - I believe I have produced a total of one poem in the wake of that class). Mostly because I'm LAZY.
Unfortunately I cannot for the life of me find the folder with all of said poems - I hope they haven't been lost!
Edit: Wait, found it. Okay, this was the first poem I wrote for my course, and I'll opt to let it stand on its own (for now).
Home!
Whilst away, I thought only of you!
Lying under the canopy of my king sized bed
I could do little but reminisce of the stains on your microwave
I worried that another might clean you
But on return, I was comforted by the smell of spoiled cream.
Housemates!
Family and friends were no substitute for you!
In the moments of peaceful quiet, I was empty
Longing to hear your voices rising from the kitchen
In my nightmares, I returned to an empty abode
Yet here you are, falling down the stairs!
Laundry!
In my journeys, I let others touch you
I thought of you, but never gathered the courage
To massage liquid detergent into your layers
But I am back!
Today, I put my blankets through the dryer - twice!
Home!
demagogue on 17/11/2009 at 20:37
I used to dig myself as some sort of poet.
Here's my attempt at concrete poetry, written on 9/11 when there was literally a black plume of acrid smoke over the city (and my apartment!) that burnt your nose when you smelt it.
Code:
[09-11-‘01] ,
o9=1=01
1
ty
Ci
he
T is a coffin,
A black, billowing lid
Drawn over its gape.
I like this one ... It's an image of the first proto-human in his death throes, having the first non-animalistic symbolic thought (he sees a bear in a constellation) ... But sadly no one is around to share the idea with, and thus ends the "history" of the human race just as it began, and the world goes on being blind and eventless.
Quote:
An Alternative History of Our Species
(Or Another Throw of the Dice)Hungry, always, it lay dying. A black predator
rising from the horizon
Drawing in the cold air
its arms stretched out, its shoulders on the hard,
blunt earth, it grinds
its head further back,
groaning but losing its voice. And in its vision
a light & another one.
Its eyes grow startled:
It's a Bear!
His
insides burn. An unseen strength convulses his body;
No one walks by.
The sky is a sea
into which he falls. He dies on impact,
thus ending
the history
of our species as completely
as any
other.
And here's trying to be cute with Wordsworth with a retelling of his famous (
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/London,_1802) London, 1802 ... Actually it's meant to be read bitterly, or at least with a dose of cynicism, on how quick people are to dismiss Wordsworth and Milton these days, caricaturing a modern perspective. Since I love almost everything Wordsworth writes, it's not really my perspective at all, but it just seemed the inescapable counterpoint to his famous poem by today's standards.
Quote:
New York, 2002William, ‘twere best you weren't here at this stage,
We have no need of you: being a douse
Of restless waters: market, gun, and mouse,
Westside, the frontier wealth of oil-won wage
Has fall'n aside to the Silicon Age
Of faux relief. We're worn of antique vows;
Oh! Stop your spinning and save us your rouse
And take your dogma, intol'rance, and rage.
Your psyche's like a sun and pushed away:
You had a trap whose banter's like the Klan:
Loud like the religious, incessant, bland,
So did you tread on people's common right
With weary godliness; even though they
The simplest requests you desist did cite.
