____twoism

That whole South-West Welsh coast is just the most beautiful place in the World. But then you knew that already Wyn!

turquoise70 wrote:I wrote a few.

Peanut

Earth nugget
Butter pod
Salt-backed miniature soil fish
A peanut is a thing
that comes in twos
and inside those two
are twos
Sand bean
Wax pellet
A fetal vegetable brain
that splits down the center
and squeaks against tooth
A plant meat glob
smooth and solid and uniform
An oily marble
like wet balsa wood
that scrapes away at the touch
of a fingernail

I really like this one!

a poem about my night...

Ant Police Smirk Inside Me

Red bit pile assembly
Tumble down and collapse on those ants
Your personal record becomes your sanctuary
As the garbage can laughs with me at your Ivory-h story
Retreating arm in arm
I can feel the trash spindle down
and tell me unwashed pavilion secrets
that pancakes begin to titter at
and happily ever after
from the grown vapor man, who kept his appetite

for a friend who deserves more than the world can give

skyline limit meant nothing to the generous varmint
who spent his wallet on curing cetaceans like me
wading on searafts
anchors away
to save me in a towel of waves
wrapping me in a bloom of sun shine rays
lifting me in time for the solstice sunset
as we glide in glittering water drops
chasing down that vanishing glow
that grew straight from his heart

//

the arm is my telescope
feeding those before myself
treat yourself like a dad

turquoise70 wrote:i swear to god.

okay, cram this down your poetry hole and choke on it:

peanuts cheez its ginger ale
pilsner and pale ale and ice cream
big ol bowl of pot

level three hundred ethics and value theory seminar
followed by furry chatrooms and porno

man my life is a shithole
but i can dig it

THE END!

I just wrote this while paying no attention to aesthetic appeal or quality control. if you enjoy it, then either poetry is useless subjective blather or i'm a poetic prodigy. if you think it's crap, then we agree. i think i win either way.

Basically.

Streetplay (Consonance):


Such depth in the hollow
of steely cold storm grates
where we kick gravel by streetlight-
twentysomething David Beckham’s with
Marlboro ash cleats and Xanax rattles-
and listen with tin ears to the pitter-
patter-splash resounding from the sewer
to the bruise-brown sky

where jetplanes sing their whale songs
like lullaby cassettes, post-flip, playing hiss.
Some of us, select few with pouty eyes and gray souls,
know that this emptiness is our whole world.
Few of us know, hazily at best, that in our
slum we have everything there is.

Aggressive Silence

the silence
the violence
the start
the end

the same
the blame
the destruction
the reconstruction

the death
the breath
the decay
the delay

the night
the day
all gone in a day

Untitled #1

I try closing my eyes
Often times I’m awake
Reaching for pills
I don’t even take

But something needs to get better

Untitled #2

Memories worn down like old cassette tapes
Collecting dust on the shelf
I play them back every now and then
But it’s just not the same

Untitled #3

I’m stuck between my thoughts
And a politician’s email
Telling me to fight for something
I know nothing about

Waking up in a place
So unjust and unsatisfied
At least you’re alive and breathing
Isn’t that enough?

It's probably not very good, but they're just a few things I've written between last summer and this past spring.

Amo Bishop Roden wrote:Streetplay (Consonance):


Such depth in the hollow
of steely cold storm grates
where we kick gravel by streetlight-
twentysomething David Beckham’s with
Marlboro ash cleats and Xanax rattles-
and listen with tin ears to the pitter-
patter-splash resounding from the sewer
to the bruise-brown sky

where jetplanes sing their whale songs
like lullaby cassettes, post-flip, playing hiss.
Some of us, select few with pouty eyes and gray souls,
know that this emptiness is our whole world.
Few of us know, hazily at best, that in our
slum we have everything there is.

This is badass.

Oh and I wrote one for the first time in ages. I don't usually rhyme but I was feeling v. Emily Dickinson.

On quiet nights
I no more hear
the hawks ferocious cry,
Of trains that barrel through the night
with their uncertain sigh.

Except in dreams I see the words,
the struggle and the fight,
another name, written bold
then swallowed by the night

These are actually lyrics, but I can't sing, so whatever:

"subtle
then it comes on strong
but it fades away

nothing
distress
incessantly plagues the day

options restricted to a static vexation
repetition repetition of every desire
remedies to this invariable botheration
held in my hands

options restricted to a static vexation
repetition repetition of every last thought
remedies to this invariable botheration
contained in one yellow...

subtle
then it comes on...
inadequate, deficient

compulsion
obligation to my...
dissociated mind

yours truly, recurrently treating
it's alright to need
there you are, my newest friend
it's funny how you care when they don't

yours truly, recurrently treating
when I wanted not to need
there you are, my only friend
scored, modest, brief means to an end"

rainier wrote:Oh and I wrote one for the first time in ages. I don't usually rhyme but I was feeling v. Emily Dickinson.

On quiet nights
I no more hear
the hawks ferocious cry,
Of trains that barrel through the night
with their uncertain sigh.

Except in dreams I see the words,
the struggle and the fight,
another name, written bold
then swallowed by the night

This is very pretty, it's tough to find rhyme used in good taste in contemporary poetry.

And thank you for the compliment on mine. Nobody's ever called one of my poems 'badass' before

Vordhosbn wrote: Her task is one that ends. Eventually she reaches the top, I suppose.

I loved this line a lot.

Amo Bishop Roden wrote: where jetplanes sing their whale songs
like lullaby cassettes, post-flip, playing hiss.
Some of us, select few with pouty eyes and gray souls,
know that this emptiness is our whole world.
Few of us know, hazily at best, that in our
slum we have everything there is.

Beautiful imagery and mood portrayed.

rainier wrote: On quiet nights
I no more hear
the hawks ferocious cry,
Of trains that barrel through the night
with their uncertain sigh.

Except in dreams I see the words,
the struggle and the fight,
another name, written bold
then swallowed by the night

Loved the imagery in this as well, and the sentiment. Especially the "uncertain sigh"s of the trains.

To Breathe on Mountains

When shall my atoms dance with yours?
When shall our contact with the floor be
indistinguishably no more than part of
everything immersed? Swimming in
square laws inversed, with handlike claws and
vocal verse and mirthstruck carnival outburst?

When can we, the beings, those with feelings,
dance the dance that meditates?
The dance that learns? The dance that creates
countless states of inner space?

Somewhere, some place, some arbitrary point in space,
we'll sit upon a universe.
We'll represent the poetry of
the balance of blessing and curse.

We'll sing just because we can hear it,
while we stare just because we're aware.
We'll walk to the top of a mountain
just to sit and breathe the air.

Tommy Went to Mexico - In Memory of A.K.

Tommy went to Mexico
with stars in his eyes
and a hypo in his breast
told everyone
who still cared to listen
that next time they saw him
would be in the Sunday paper
then lit across the border
a hummingbird on a tourist bus.

Tommy never made the paper
or the evening news
but there were a few weeks
that October
you could pass by his parents house
before it sold
and ask how Tom was doing
and learn his heart
fluttered like a monarch butterfly

in migration to Guadalajara
stopped on a Chinese poppy
freshly blossomed with red trim
slipped into a dream
thin lips grinning, eyes sugar glazed.
Perhaps he realized
his ambition was his true home
his empty pockets a ticket
to a future only he knew
to a future nobody else could see.

"the absence"

Shifting, tired, uninspired by the wage.
Taxing every syllable,
yawning every noun.
Repetitious, making the grade.
Conducive of back pains and nausea at times.
All in all a tedious climb.
Walking in lines.
Can’t find meaning, can’t find direction.
Silent suggestions.
Want to be happy. Want to be normal.
Bound to this condition, nailed to this position.
Why, who knows.
Long stares out windows.
A few pieces, but no parts.
Concealed in my mechanical heart.
The back breaks. Frequent headaches. Often late. No escape.
Every step we take, mistake we make.
No excitement for cynical fucks.
No happy endings in these stories.
No glory in sad songs.
Nothing to see here, move along.

"No Allegations"

Brick walls, all I see
All I hear
All I receive in response to inquiry
All analysis, every speech
Phrase
Word
Action
Brick wall cannot speak to me
I won't let the brick wall finish
I won't let the brick wall repeat itself for the 17th time
Brick wall pins it all on me
Brick wall allows no genuine retort, nor report
No criticism or allegation
Brick wall is a blackmail
Brick wall demands more of me
Brick wall wants to argue the unnecessary
Brick wall has no originality
Brick wall is impertinent, presumptuous and practices hypocrisy, no accountibility
On occasion I stop to question whether or not I am to blame
That I might offend or am at fault and should restrain
That sepia tinted trail always leads me to the same conclusion
But to recognize and attribute delusion induces no change
And although I feel guilty, I cannot feel ashamed
As I broke my brick wall, but they will not do the same
"Stop"..."You do this every time"
"You won't listen"..."You have no respect for me"
Or grotesque misunderstandings of objectivity
These brick walls, all I see
Always
And I will never, ever, ever get away from this torrent of the inane
It bursts and tears and gnaws at the brain
Metallic and cold, wired and cyclical


Written primarily regarding a couple friends of mine and a family member but also my general feelings regarding many of those I've come in contact with in the last few years.