/lit/ - Literature

And here is one I wrote recently:

Her fruit was ripe, I bit
I'm nothing more than a humble mongrel
whipped cast, rash and unabashed

Her fruit was ripe, I bit
Her fruit was ripe, I bit
pungent juice wept from the bruise
where the skin was sluice and slobbered on

though the meat was fleshy and sweet
she purred while I grrred

I die every day, to live every night
under the industry of her want for me in our fusty foundry
please no ceremony, I want she, I want she, no matrimony

My fruit was ripe, she bit
in her belly lay a pip
a'brooding in the oozing
My fruit was ripe, she bit
huffing and puffing on the mattress stuffing
upon the bunk a fervent funk
in my butcher's hands her soft fruit tendered. She never pretended...
she purred while I grrred

it's about fucking
I die every day, to live every night
under the industry of her want for me in our fusty foundry
please no ceremony, I want she for laundry, I want she so I'm not lonely
I want she, I want she, not matrimony

please share please

Room a catacomb, this ghoul a balloon, with the breath
from beneath your breast, yes that is best.

Hug it to me, and the rubber raspberries
with wantingly wet mouth I suck..remind me of your gentle fuck.

Men to be men, must love and pity
so deeply and secretly

Flaccid, I asked for this
below spit rich belly pit moan and blush with hot hormone

Wash it from me, this stuff sad and sticky
blub into the soapsuds, trim my 'tache and pull the plug

Men to be men, must love and pity
so deeply and secretly

How you'd smother me, wetly whisper what you'd like
and we'd be clumsy as virgins in vigil light

bob dylan is a liar
his bios are shit
guthrie told him to steal
and he ran with it

the charade carried him through many a year
chart-topping with units moved
the fact that the current generation still finds interest
means we're all screwed

sure is hot and bothered in here.

>>1321017
mabey because I wrote both those and they're both about fucking. mabey

>>1321009
>I hate things because they are popular and I am 15
ftfy

/b/ the poem
this is relevant
post any beast porn
pic related

holy shit anon
it really works
try it

how do i
get rid of
acne
is bp necessary?

i'd fuck drake in the ass
would you a chain chomp?
i the whole thing

laugh
you
lose.

the game.

bamp

I see a setting sun there
that is stuck between a later now
is glitching a a moaning moon
is tapping digits blowing steam,
I left some things behind we went and got them
took some time to go
to for the road excuses make
a comb of winds so allaround about
shelter open like arms
and grasses shtifing like papers and people
in crowded streets and shelves,
in a hue, a disclosure of reflection of whiteness of fog
or something warm,
an auburn sigh of waxing day;
we are stems, thin and upwards, stringy and like water,
we fall down in circles, we follow and trail the down of those overhead
and climb in dops of air! and be a free, or and, coordinating feeling!
we speak like deaf children and mumble like brooks
“tura lura lura”
o holy oscillation in my chest
o we are sifting, we are guiding,
we left somethings behind like dimples
and a colored inhibition,
let's go them them together
or imply a sunburst, or double helix
of humming, the air humming warm
“tura lura lura”
“let's go together.”
let's come as close as we can
add nauseous praise!
we'll be happy in maybe
in a welcomed almost. there are branches pulling closer
let's not touch, and play, and tilt
“I think it is we that will let us”
“let's go together.”

>>1321008
Hey man, I think this is dece. Your rhymes are a bit meh but I see a resilient skill for wordplay emerging here. Practice moar.

People-watching in a crowded café.
Hiding in a corner chair, invisible.
I would like to leave my bubble one day
I'd like to be utterly kissable.
I'd like to say hello to new people,
Proud and brave, speak, in command of a crowd.
But nothing I say interests sheeple.
Unable to squeak, let alone be loud.
Normal, oh 'normal' how tempting a fate.
Yet contrary to my creative mind.
It seems I cannot have my life that great.
Forced to make a choice or be left behind.
Should I love myself and my intellect?
Or have others' love, alas I must select.

dancing in a black river

when i die
everything i have ever touched will be haunted by traces of my energy.
The clothes that i once wore will
hang on the lines and dance in the wind,
like a ballroom of ghosts waltzing to the invisible orchestra of human bone.
the bed that once protected me as i slept will be still and silent
as the trees, at night, dance in the wind.
Through closed, dusty curtains, it will look as if someone painted
a black river on the wall
the energy will flow, and show itself to an empty room.
After all, life is just a masquerade
with the lights shut off.
everyone rotates and changes partners
waltzing to the orchestra of human bones
until the lights come up
and you find yourself dancing with death
his embrace is forever
forever. forever.
forever

>>1321088
wow, that has a nice flow to it.

>>1321110
Thanks kindly. I thought yours was pretty meh, however; quite cliched and trite. Not my cup of tea at all. I would have found a more artistic way of expressing those ideas rather than the plotting, almost proselike structure you took. You lost me at "utterly kissable."

unless u trollin then that's k. It's kinda like /r9k/'s anthem but with less misogyny.

Locked myself in my room at night
in case of rapists, not ghosts though
even today, I prop boxes against
my closet to keep the demons in there.
Are you ME? every goddamn night
of my life, you started seeing things
in the corner of your eye, right where
that shit made it worse when i was a
kid, obviously (still am) a god damn
sociopath; but that's how uncles get
in the fetal position so that no mon
sters pull you out of bed by your mis
fortune. I haven't lost this habit, either.
How else you gunna bait a monster
trap, other than with human flesh?

>Avant composed of found text on /x/

“When you're left wounded on Afghanistan's plains and the women come out to cut up what remains, Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains, And go to your God like a soldier”

1/2
Quite some time ago, there was a strange young boy
He dreamed of playing with the Universe, just like a toy
He was a genius, a physicist, and a damned good one at that
Before his years reached ten, he brought life to a rat
When he was eleven, he created his own species of spider
And when he reached twelve, he built a particle collider
With his collider, he saw deep into the fabric of space and time
He discovered the laws and wrote down all the rules, declaring "This Universe is mine!"
But when he knew everything 'bout the way reality works
He got quite bored quite fast, omniscience has no real perks.
He searched through his bookshelf, and found an old book, one he had never read
Within it, there were stories of a man who turned water to wine, and fish from bread!
But it wasn't the man that excited the boy, no sir-ee
It was the man's 'father', that this boy wanted to see.
This being, a being of all power, the boy wanted to meet
This boy decided one day, he'd have God at his feet!
Omniscience wasn't enough, his small mortal frame craved more
He wanted to be omnipotent, and then against God he would wage war.
He would be in control of this reality, of this space.
He knew for sure, that ruler of all life was undoubtedly his place.
After a thousand years of Human evolution, his dreams were in grasp
Humanity had evolved beyond Earth, beyond thought, beyond mass
It expanded to a point where every Human being was little more than incandescent gas
And the leader of this evolution was none other than the boy
It was nothing to him, just another mundane step in his ploy

2/2
Now that Humanity had advanced to the point where life had no meaning
The boy killed them all with a thought, a form of spring cleaning
No other omnipotent being would beat him at his own game
So he killed off his species, the end of Humanity brought him no shame
He was focused on his goal, obsessed with his dream
So in his non-body of gas, he set out into the Universe, that bright starry stream
He searched for the one they called God, he searched for billions of years
When his search yielded no results, he shed what were kind of like tears
"Does God not exist? Is he hiding from me?
If he is, he should come out so I can kill him and take control of all Reality."
At least he had a nice view of stars, planets, and their various rings
And in his quest, he'd done quite a few interesting things
He once accidentally seeded life on a planet when he sneezed
He coughed up a star every now and then when space dust got in his lungs and he wheezed
One millennia he was bored, so he arranged a few billion stars into a nice spiral shape
And he was always fond of monkeys, so he gave intelligence to a species of ape.
As he watched the apes rise and evolve, he realized something and laughed
He'd been looking for God this whole time, but was he really so daft?
He had been God since the beginning, having created it all, ended it, then created it again.
The Earth, the solar system, the entire species that he murdered in cold blood and pain.
So he guided these people in strange and cryptic ways
Trying to keep his presence under wraps, letting the Humans live through their days.
One day he created a young boy, an unnatural genius, one destined to lust for ultimate power.
The boy gave this new boy his name, his memories, his favorite sponge for the shower.
And he left the planet Earth, and went off to seed new life across the great black ditch.
And as he left, he muttered under his breath: "Just try come and try to find me, bitch."

>>1321003
Her fruit was ripe, I bit...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vKeHINjUIsO6guVMz

>>1321007
please share please...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vjyDhWTX1FHdKT8Ca

>>1321008
Room a catacomb, this ghoul a balloon...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vWgYBvpbujU7B6gDa

>>1321009
Bob Dylan is a liar...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v70E0rkx4kgqP032O

>>1321017
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v9Pe3dc0Roo7ZOmh4

>>1321023
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vqTQZQmOVsoeub6EX

>>1321030
/b/ the poem
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vHKnaqTEj9O1rGWuz

>>1321080
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vqKp3gmrFSfv0FKs6

>>1321088
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vCjUoq9rGYXtf022L
I see a setting sun there...

Grammar is intentional?

In through my open window
Came her porcelain ghost
Like a gentle needle
Or a thread out of time
And here she still remains

In an empty and quiet house
She told her last secret
Upon these misty points
Or in this salty wasteland
And there she will remain

Her dead dogs all were there
Rising up from the ground
Each one like a companion
Or a stranger at large
An with them she will remain

>>1321105
Socially anxious sonnet...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vulSXddWBUbv3h3tS

(Please replace sheeple with anything else)

Night, street, lamp, drugstore,
A dull and meaningless light.
Go on and live another quarter century -
Nothing will change. There's no way out.

You'll die, then start from the beginning,
It will repeat, just like before:
Night, icy ripples on a canal,
Drugstore, street, lamp.

>>1321290
pretty much man. y u do that tho?

>>1321107
Dancing in a black river...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vmoMbWH8aNWmo5EZY

>>1321316
sounds like an Opeth song or somethin

>>1321141
Locked myself in my room at night...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vxvENI3FcnSyzo6Zo

>>1321145
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v837psEjTcAoqOoo3
<3<3<3

>>1321158
>>1321169
Not perfect but here is "God"
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vMiFALx7HbDbxaZah

>>1321316
In thru my open window...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vBRrS8xSP2AXvLVFF

<3<3<3

>>1321321
Night, street, lamp, drugstore....
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vMa00Hz78NTzb1bUn

To anyone else lurking: Post em. I'll read em. Today or tomorrow.

Goddammitalltohell

Concrete will cruelly chomp down and chew their faces,
and the gutters gleam with their skin-spouted pulsepumps.
They're still not gonna find any almighties.

Read the ghastly gospel!
of songbirds years trudged past.
Many lunged to their deaths down blackholes of soporific spunsugar,
with sweaty grunts of the sadsickness briefly ceasing.

We can gather round and chant the mantras
of damned men's gorged groaning grace.
Running the rounds of ups and downs,
some stopping with barrel to temple
halting it all with a surehanded squeeze
or tying on nihilist neckties: always far too tight.

Hoping for holy eyes, these stained glass scenes get sent down as translated rays for the pious with the light now a whollygift.
Sitting further down a few pews others might only notice hue-skewed strands of sunlight with floating motes of shed skin cells.

There's an irreverence to every holiday; hearts burst
as hands clasp hands with harmony, and crowds clap in camaraderie.
Someone else plots a path down alleys to avoid the parade;
it's just their day off work.
It won't let me do the formatting for this poem, but oh well.

Goddammitalltohell

Concrete will cruelly chomp down and chew their faces,
and the gutters gleam with their skin-spouted pulsepumps.
They're still not gonna find any almighties.

Read the ghastly gospel!
of songbirds years trudged past.
Many lunged to their deaths down blackholes of soporific spunsugar,
with sweaty grunts of the sadsickness briefly ceasing.

We can gather round and chant the mantras
of damned men's gorged groaning grace.
Running the rounds of ups and downs,
some stopping with barrel to temple
halting it all with a surehanded squeeze
or tying on nihilist neckties: always far too tight.

Hoping for holy eyes, these stained glass scenes get sent down as translated rays for the pious with the light now a whollygift.
Sitting further down a few pews others might only notice hue-skewed strands of sunlight with floating motes of shed skin cells.

There's an irreverence to every holiday; hearts burst
as hands clasp hands with harmony, and crowds clap in camaraderie.
Someone else plots a new trip home down alleys to avoid the parade;
it's just their day off work.

>>1321485
Goddammitalltohell....
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vv8I6DSR4xsLMeNbp

>>1321008
>>1321003

too raunchy. where's the dark poetry at..

>>1321485
right on.

Bamp

>>1321485
You just blew my fuckin' mind

>>1321513

too grimdark.

>>1321683
Second attempt.
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vJcOHmQoPvk9sMpdu

umm..ok. I have never wrote poetry but Im just going to write what comes out.

Arizona dreams.

I had a dream I was in Arizona, it was in the early 90s, this scares me, there is nothing more terrifying than being inside a warehouse in the middle of the Arizona summer.Life is too far away for me to see, I can only see what's in front of me, even tho I lived 24 years on this earth, it has just began. Why must I imagine the 90s and feel my lungs fill with hot air? I cannot breathe by the sheer thought of this plastic dream, im to scared to move on, life is big, huge, void, and I dont want to take another step, but it keeps dragging me along, I wish I was trapped forever in this dream, pizza hut, hbo, videogames, tv. I've never been to Arizona, only in my dreams, I love walking in the middle of the street at night, in this suburban mist, I smell the fresh grass, the pines, the stars look piercing white, and then I remember that I never lived in this neighborhood, and then I look around me, and everything goes on, and I try to make sense of this life....because I wish it was like my Arizona dreams.

>>1321607
Thanks. I get discouraged a lot.
>>1321670
Not sure if serious...
>>1321683
Agreed. It's not as dark as it seems, in fact that's basically the point of the poem.
>>1321705
Thanks again for reading it both times. It's nice to hear how somebody else gets it, in essence how well I communicated the language as well as the idea.

(So I think this is terrible, and a lot of other people don't. Tell me the truth, /lit/. Are they blowing smoke up my ass?)

Got your grey suit on
Dark glasses, dancing on the grave of the past
You only remember what's important
But your memory drowned in a shot glass
So nothing is.

You won't remember yesterday tomorrow
All of your days are running together
Some bar, some girl, some bathroom stall
Keep trying, maybe next time will be better
They all love you.

Don't tell the truth, don't tell the truth
Screaming, running, chased by what's not there
Run away, run away, pull up your stool
The vodka doesn't care what you've been
So it's fine if you don't know

>>1321739
How much poetry do these other people read?

It's not very good, it's not very bad either. It's just bland. None of the feeling is imparted in it. If it's a condemnation, fucking condemn them then. You're not being vivid enough. Ok, they don't remember anything because they're always drunk. Well, point out (or make up) some time when they actually were a belligerent drunk dick, or something humiliating about them they flushed away like watery beerpiss in a dive bar urinal.
The point I'm trying to make is you have to not just think of your thoughts, but understand that poetry is a form of communication - what do you want the reader to take from it. How do I make it interesting for them? There's a huge gap between interesting to you, and interesting to everyone else, think of it like a "You had to be there," joke.

>>1321419

Thanks, you've got a nice voice. You read it a bit melodramatically though, felt kind of insincere. Or perhaps my poem just sucked ass.

>>1321761
That's probably the most useful advice anyone's ever given me about writing. Thanks, man.

Guide to Walking Through Streetlights
Put foot to pavement under sky so cucumber cool
and remember the time in a dream I was given a gun
limed and crusted like sea wreckage.

Whenever I dream I mark things to remember
when I stretch myself out of bed and spill onto the floor
and then deal with the forgetting on my own time:

1. The disassembling;
2. How I kept the bullets away from the heat of
3. even my fingertips;
4. The polishing, and the way it pushed the gun's
5. green into a new kind of
6. turquoise.

Cross where you can, when you can.
Cross on white lines and brickwork black like gone matches
and when no one is looking.
Cross yourself between breaths just because.

Yet still no hard evidence the subtle dynamics
underpinning how hep cats drink,
and I haven't really had a handle on who I am as a person
since that summer when I always found myself putting plastic
bags of spaghetti into borrowed refrigerator space,
oblivious to sauce or comeuppance.

And she, touching her cigarette like an old friend in the dark
while in the kitchen I committed harikari with an ice cream scoop,
doling out my insides in perfect portions of red, oblivious
to how our mimosas shook with golden ripples.

>>1321316
Open window, second attempt with extra deadpan
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vW18aPdeTtf3XzcaD

>>1321739
Got your grey suit on
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vV4LdyuPDwC2NPMla

>>1321709
Arizona Dreams
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vhUBmte7mxB2nBv3u

I don't really write a lot of poems and I don't think I'm good at them, so please be kind on me for this one.

A devil tricks, an angel gives.
The old man dies, the newborn lives.
Water meandering down the river's stream,
carrying hopes, lives, faith and dreams.
Time flows on no matter how much we resist,
but break the clocks and now time no longer exists.

Pride, Greed, Sloth, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, and Wrath:
Sins described to bring the sheep off the shepherd's path.
A golden road to a place created by God created/believed by man,
throwing the sheep against each other in a bewilderment they can never understand.
It is a frail invention, an intricate divine plan that easily shatters.
But by the end of it, do or don't, will it all really matter?

A man in space sees only the surface of the ocean;
he does not see the life beneath it flowing in motion.
A man on Earth sees only the stars of a night's sky,
only seeing what limitations are laid against him by his one eye.
Knowledge is power, which is why we are made narrow.
Knowledge is power, which is why our understandings are made shallow.

Who are you? A compilation of infinite shards,
You are an incomplete mirror your own subconscious guards.
Break it, and the glass shatters to dust,
like wood taken in by termites; like iron taken in by rust.
Like me, you are not your own person, but that is fine.
For in that, you are your own world, just like I am mine.

In the start
We all have hope in our heart
In the end
Our lives were pointless and we're dead.

>>1321815
Guide to Walking Through Streetlights
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vLct5p4YCMmfl3zuS

Took a few tries. I like the poem. Sauceless spaghetti is the worst.

>>1322194
A devil tricks, an angel gives.
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v4y0XmMecbYCzHzB0

>>1322200
In the start...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vX2HAQBRd3hW7mv8T

>>1322264

Did you like that one?

>>1322274
I'm well-versed in religious imagery. I liked the images and the word choice. Yeah, I liked the poem. Flowed pretty easy to read cold. I tell you what though, you want to get me/female readers turned on? Maybe tack on a line or two about a connection/bridge between those two worlds. (Lol forever alone) But seriously, that'll take it from 'like' to 'omg WANT'.

And just because:
Madmen - Billy Collins

http://vocaroo.com/?media=v3f4edJvgigA5x44R

>>1322286
>>1322286

Thank you for the advice, but when you mean two worlds. Do you mean Heaven and Earth or Heaven and Hell or Religion vs. Non-Religion?

>>1322295
No, like at the end of the poem. You are your world, and I am mine. Like they're saying, screw all this eternal stuff. Contact between the worlds. Your world and mine, orbiting the same sun. (Or something like that...)

>>1322307

Oh, I'll have to explain that one.

Something I forgot to include in the poem is the title. It's called "Identity Crisis" for the lack of a better name.

The last two lines basically sums up the last stanza when I placed in the whole concept of how we are not ourselves. Like, we are just a compiled fragments of what we've seen, read and heard. So it's like, you're not completely original, but you're different.

Each stanza is different from each other and poses a different scenario on the perception of reality (or so I tried to make it to be).

Sorry for the confusion.

>>1322322
lol. I'm a hapless Romantic down here. "Gather ye rosebuds" and all that. I used to get friggin' juiced about religious ideas, but this is no longer the case. I guess the connection between worlds thing was my way of trying to say that this dim reality is far more valuable and important than these ideal religious ideas, regardless of whether they come from Christfags or athiestfags. And by bridging with real-life communication, the two worlds know each other better?

mmk. one more.

It is not sure
or said or been
that what we have left behind
will us.
for cynic branches even up
to dust, steel ribs,
the crashing bus;
she tumbles along the cliffs of the guards
who stand in awe and the
paw of the warden,
the magistrate, lawmaker, thumbing his prose.
thumbing the cusp of the defeatist nose.
frustration comes then periodless
and in and of itself strips bare
a Srebrenica of who knows where.
a chorus of outerbelt somethings there
who whir and coo like babies do
or helicopters fall from skies
and people on pavements, passerby's
to get home, get by, get
:in vain,
we are porchdrawn and luckless in the passing lane.
who give up Names at any cost
(we are afraid of we die without trace
we restless artless worker bees)
we are tired,
but headlights will illuminate our exhaust.

Just finished:

Two potential paths of equal pain laid out:
With yet not with thee or wholly without.
Agony to see thee, never to hold;
Never to see thee, misery untold.
Here I hunger but can never rejoice,
Away I long to just once hear thy voice.

Every little glimpse of thee delights me,
Yet eternally my yearning fights me,
Tempting and taunting and mocking my heart,
Breaking my resolve, tearing me apart.

Away, at night, I ache for thy presence,
Day after day longing for one sentence.
I may get past it, but what will remain
But a shell of a man, sorrow's domain?

If romance were fair and thou couldst love me,
Never for a thing would I flee from thee,
But fate wills what it will without regard
For whose heart is made empty, cold and hard.

>>1322334

Religious ideas stayed mainly within the second stanza. Like, whether God exists or doesn't, who cares?

The worlds colliding together, boy meets girl, East meets West, nerd meets jock, angels meets demons, friends coming together. It's really open for interpretation.

At the time, I suppose I just wanted to say something along the lines of "you're you; I'm me," or something like that. Haha.

>>1322340

I'm a sucker for AABB rhyme schemes.

To me, I like the poem. Choice of words and just the quality of the poem, to me, is very well done. I just have a gripe against the subject, but that's something that isn't accountable in criticism.

>>1322353

As far as the subject matter you can blame me being on a Victorian sonnet kick. And in love, but y'know, that's less important.

>>1322335
It is not sure...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vU0tvtAnppIofCqdI

>>1322360

Like I said, it's my only gripe since I'm still butthurt over the beauty of Sir Walter Raleigh's "Now What is Love?" And every love poem to me reminds me of that poem.

>>1322340
Two potential paths...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v6yRqkJAPOBWakUVF

>>1322365

Ah. I'm not a big fan of that poem. Thanks for the praise, caveat or no.

>>1322372

No problem, you have a good one.

With the non-existant ticking of the clock
the anticipation slowly increases
We, the ones in the corners and under the benches
watch on as the lemmings scurry along their path
We, the ones who monitor the Great Clock
but have no sense of time
But we know
that with each silent click in the clock,
the moment draws near
Here in our despair,
we wait for the calling of the sky

Please post your opinion on this. I just started writing and I want to know if I have any hope of getting better.

seems like only two people left on lit.

ANd they behave civilized.

My world is crushed.

>>1322381

stfu fag

>>1322380
Non-existent ticking of the clock....
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vDA772fIhfo1Wcpl9

>>1322385
what a relief!

>>1322381

Just as planned.

>>1322389

Thanks!

>>1322371

Interesting to hear it read aloud, though the second line is meant to flow more smoothly. Thanks for taking the time.

I can't sleep because of you.
When I sleep,
I dream.
When I dream,
You're there.
When you're there,
I'm happy.
When I wake up,
You're not with me.
When you're not with me,
The world is cold.
I can't wake up because of you.

>>1322441
I can't sleep...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vYpDiN7N46QdbVU5z

>>1320998
puddi, puddi pudding...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vr14MPFWxHYd7hgvN

Okay, lil mama had a swag like mine(yeah)
She even wear her hair down her back like mine(yeah)
I make her feel right when it's wrong like lyin(yeah)
Man, she ain't never had a love like mine(yeah)
But man I ain't never seen a ass like hers(yeah)
That pussy in my mouth had me lost for words(yeah)
So I told her to back it up like berp berp(yeah)
And I made that ass jump like jerp, jerp (jueeerp)(yeah)
And thats when she-she-she licked me like a lollipop (yeah)(oh yeah I like that)

Shawty said the nigga that(go)she with(go)ain't shit(go)
Shawty said(go)the nigga that(go)she with(go)ain't this(go)
Shawty said(go)the nigga that(go)she with(go)can't hit(go)
But shawty(go)I'ma hit it-hit it(go)like I(go)cant miss(go)
And he can't do this(shawty)
And he dont do that
Shawty need a refund,
Need ta bring that nigga back
Just like a refund I make her bring that ass back
And she bring that ass back(aaaa)
Because I like that

- Edgar Allan Poe

Pull off your skin, let the show begin
Cuss someone out just to break the ice
Make silent lovers’ promises for meaning in life
The trouble is, meaning can’t be found
We are just a complex of light and sound
It’s all you really need
Create your own world, make it worth everything

I.
To Gen
From Essery

I can’t get
much further than that

II.
I doubt you’d remember
but I want to know
how you are.
Let’s disregard that it’s
been thirty years

III.
Dear Gen
the band broke up.
I’m living with my mum
playing guitar for cash

How’re you?

IV.
It’s not that I’m
hiding from you,
I just wondered if you’d
ever come find me

V.
It was, I think,
my fault about the band
My fault about
everything, really

VI.
Gen, there’s no more
scotch left and
I feel sick again

VII.
I had a dream last night
that I saw you again and
we fell in love and
you quit your job and
then I woke up
and there was still no scotch

VIII.
Shit
I don’t know your
address

Augen in der Großstadt
~Kurt Tucholsky

Wenn du zur Arbeit gehst
am frühen Morgen,
wenn du am Bahnhof stehst
mit deinen Sorgen:
da zeigt die Stadt
dir asphaltglatt
im Menschentrichter
Millionen Gesichter:
Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider - ( Pill, leeder)
Was war das? vielleicht dein Lebensglück...
vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.

Du gehst dein Leben lang
auf tausend Straßen;
du siehst auf deinem Gang, die
dich vergaßen. (fergassen)
Ein Auge winkt,
die Seele klingt; (sayle)
du hast's gefunden,
nur für Sekunden...
Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider -
Was war das? Kein Mensch dreht die Zeit zurück...
Vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.

Du mußt auf deinem Gang
durch Städte wandern;
siehst einen Pulsschlag lang
den fremden Andern.
Es kann ein Feind sein,
es kann ein Freund sein,
es kann im Kampfe dein
Genosse sein.
Er sieht hinüber (seeht)
und zieht vorüber ... (tseeht)
Zwei fremde Augen, ein kurzer Blick,
die Braue, Pupillen, die Lider -
Was war das?
Von der großen Menschheit ein Stück!
Vorbei, verweht, nie wieder.

>>1322992

I kind of like it, the narrative is interesting, but I don't know about the aesthetics. Granted, I tend to prefer more traditional poetry to free verse, but in free verse I like to at least see an effort at word play or beauty. Free verse shouldn't be just prose with arbitrary line breaks.

Heh, I had to write it as an assignment for my Lit class, actually. But thanks.

>>1322953
Okay lil mama....
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vcOlYIURyPPUSCBYE

>>1322983
Pull off your skin....
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vspfNCcX6vQ70uHpb

>>1322992
Mayday...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vjNLbqI9vQP7Tgemn

>>1323160

That's kind of amazing and I love you.

>>1323191
Here to serve. (Plus nobody requests anything anymore...)

Captcha: sentence Lustres

sadness
falling like rain flowers
drumming dulcet white
soft inside my years.
quiet
mabey dip my feet in
and never pull them out.
balmy
frigid cutting air
osmotic through my skin
sort of like a dandelion
catching winter's sere
feeling drops from me
starling aegis staring
that's mostly what I do.
pavement
swirlin black and saffron
a step forward,
doesn't mean that's where I want to go.
sort of
hide this veil of tears
hope for something tremendous

>>1323413

I like it. I think. I may need to think about it more.

Long time lurker of lit. Always see these but I never contribute. Looking for constructive criticism, positive or negative. Please be honest.

And the Heart Said...

sometimes I feel,
like everything is real
but then I wake up,
and it all falls to pieces

next time I’ll wake up late,
then maybe it will last a little longer

sometimes when I walk at night
in the corner of my eye
I can see the breeze swing by
and I begin to believe everything is real

it’s eleven o’clock
and the sun is shinning through my window
I’m late for work
but I don’t care,
'cause nothin’s real

sometimes I think too hard
It gets me by
If only the colors that I feel
were something I could see
but I know
the breeze at night
and the rays from the stars in the sky
are only in my mind.

>>1323442

The poetry is ok, despite my aversion to free form, but it's awfully sad. I hope you don't actually feel that way.

Dickinson's 764

My Life had stood - a Loaded Gun -
In Corners - till a Day
The Owner passed - identified -
And carried Me away -

And now We roam in Sovereign Woods -
And now We hunt the Doe -
And every time I speak for Him -
The Mountains straight reply -

And do I smile, such cordial light
Upon the Valley glow -
It is as a Vesuvian face
Had let its pleasure through -

And when at Night - Our good Day done -
I guard My Master's Head -
'Tis better than the Eider-Duck's
Deep Pillow - to have shared -

To foe of His - I'm deadly foe -
None stir the second time -
On whom I lay a Yellow Eye -
Or an emphatic Thumb -

Though I than He - may longer live
He longer must - than I -
For I have but the power to kill,
Without--the power to die--

>>1323452

Your own poetry damnit, not someone else's even if it's good.

>>1323442
be more descriptive, other than "i feel emo". you don't use any cool sounds at all, free verse is ok but they do usually flow

>>1323461
Well, at least it made you feel something. I actually did start off with a meter but I dropped it as I changed to phrases that I felt sounded and flowed better.
>>1323447
I did when I wrote it, but that was a while ago.

Thanks for the criticism, though. It's much appreciated.

bump

>>1321003
>>1321008
This flows very well and it's dripping with eroticism. Good Job.
>>1321088
This sounds more like a rap then a poem, but nice work in either case.
>>1321107
Is this about death and promiscuousness?
>>1321169
"The boy gave this new boy his name, his memories, his favorite sponge for the shower."
I love this line.
>>1321485
Did you get the concrete chewers reference from American History X?
>>1321815
"cucumber cool", "Cross yourself between breaths", "bags of spaghetti into borrowed refrigerator space" I really like these lines.

Countless nights--
I stay dreamin'
Hopin' for better days
Knowing no other way--
Wishin' on
Broken dreams
Drowning in my own--
Tired wishes
Dreaming all along
Self-pity and sorrow--
Growin stronger
Days growing longer
Washed up in my ownself--
Knew I was
Of the dead

I suck, but i'll contribute

>>1324197
not bad, I like your use of brackets. And your awareness of your own self-pitying is, I feel, endearing.

>>1323442
I like this.

She was, she was
A friend of mine
Do us a favour, your one and only warning
Please be gone by morning

She was, she was
A friend of mine

Inconsistencies
Words on paper
The track still warm
I came to hate her

Smitten no longer
Me, the only daughter
Render the vow
It's my home now

This, your one and only warning
Please be gone by morning

And if the ending is clean
The quirk, the fuss, the vaseline
She won't even see it coming
Roll them over, roll them over, roll them over
Me, the only daughter

She was, she was a friend of mine

Smitten no longer
Me, the only daughter
Render the vow
It's my home now

The penny's dropped
The room's in order
I masked the spot
Me, the only daughter

Do us a favour, your one and only warning
Please be gone by morning

(My) Poetry.
Writing, rather than composing.
Words.
Fragmented, rather than sparing.
Emotion.
Lacking, not hidden.
Skill
Seeming, not actual.
Significance.
Fictitious as opposed to real.
Purpose.
Desired.
Conclusion.
Pending.
Anticipation.
Growing.
Revelation.
Excuses.
Conclusion.
Pending.
Stop.
Return to the top.

>>1324265
Cool

>>1324265
This sounds like it's meant to be a song. It has a really nice flow to it, and It really makes me curious as to what it's really about. "Do us a favour, your one and only warning / Please be gone by morning"
Bravo.

>>1324297
It does actually seem to be like a song. Very nice, indeed.

Lines composed on the death of Leslie Nielsen:

So farewell then
Leslie Nielsen.
Greatest Canadian. Greatest comedian.

You starred in
some very good
films:
Airplane! Naked Gun.
And so on.

I was very sad to hear
of your death. I said
to my friend, Dave,
upon learning of
your demise:
'Surely you can't be serious!'

But he was.

By E.J. Thribb (Age 17 1/2).

Contributing:


Don't recall these smiles now
Your mind will be dripping down
With marked memories of lost
Can you let forget find us?

Inspiration inside of you
Untapped, untouched, I drove a screw
Colors, wild, wandering hues
Voice unsung, you became my muse

Written were these words before we saw
What we knew to be there from the start
Never wanted this predictable pain atop
That joyless dreamscape your conscious aimlessly jaunts

Inspiration inside of you
Untapped, untouched, I drove a screw
Colors, wild, wandering hues
Choice unsung, you became my muse

>>1324302
Sadface (concerning the subject matter) made me chuckle in a good way

>>1324310
I love how you've personified forget.
I don't think you should repeat a stanza within a poem. Otherwise it seems more like you're writing a chorus for a song. Songs =/= poems.

>>1323413
sadness...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vsZxCOXn82fdW4Gh3

>>1323442
And the heart said....
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vnAq2nZB0mQW0KfvW

>>1323452
Dickinson's 764
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vvk9al8PTSDBmmYDT

>>1324197
Countless days...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vXXTZkuWONxm5Xsna

>>1324265
She was, she was...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v2Ms3zVLEg4SrnZUm

>>1324288
(My) Poetry...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vdD4pCzuRLxpZw7ya

>>1324302
Leslie Nielsen...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vySjygkEDD6OchaFO

>>1324310
Don't recall...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vSVwrcTpS4jocAzWF

Beautiful readings. You truly captured the spirit of my Nielsen work.

English poet Dom Jolly:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qhEgdlRetrM

Dear /lit/,

I'd like to write a romantic epic, what form of poetry do I go about using? Is there any due form or may I choose from any forms available?

XXIV from Canto III of The Corsair, by Lord Byron:


'Tis morn -- to venture on his lonely hour
Few dare -- though now Anselmo sought his tower.
He was not there -- nor seen along the shore;
Ere night, alarm'd, their isle is traversed o'er:
Another morn -- another bids them seek,
And shout his name till echo waxeth weak;
Mount -- grotto -- cavern -- valley search'd in vain,
They found on shore a sea-boat's broken chain --
Their hope revives -- they follow o'er the main.
'Tis idle all -- moons roll on moons away,
And Conrad comes not -- came not since that day --
Nor trace, nor tidings of his room declare
Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair!
Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside;
And fair the monument they gave his bride:
For him they raise not the recording stone --
His death yet dubious, deeds to widely known;
He left a Corsair's name to other times,
Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.

>>1324519
Thanks Stoferin for reading my poem! I wrote 'And the Heart Said'. You're the best! I hope you liked my poem. Thanks again.

Sparrowlike

sparrowlike and hunched
see tilling, chillun', tilling the field
and sprouting,
we see him,
touting along.
and a sickle, a plowshare the
remnants of oxen
in the field
yes he's walking among them,
palisades
paces
he is marching along the margins of pages
and knee-high's, insincere,
formal and blunt
brow wipe and shoeshine
and how-do-you-do-child'
algae and sediments
-sentiments
tied up in surgery
(hands deep in cholera)
“hey, shush”
the field is a purgatory.
nay not no it vastness but
listing formalities
and slow movements
-glissando’s, tonsils;
there are my people,
let my people go
says the field and
sparrows swoop down and they
shit like snowflakes-
-to take take take him away at last.

>>1324302

Pretentious.

The ending was alright though.

>>1325452
I liked a few lines from this but overall wtf

>>1326053

>>1325452
Ha. This is perhaps the best poem in the thread. I'm not kidding. Do you post anywhere online?

>>1326082
No, I don't. I don't really plan on it either.

The enchanted angel never foresaw,
what the beauty hold tightly,
that I always wanted to be mine,
but one could never be perfect,
for ‘tis written beautifully in the law,
but is not kept so tight but with mildly,
exception for if she was mine,
the heaven would claim her perfect,
as would the fallen,
for the temptation of modern time,
be stowed me with thought of her,
dancing, prancing and fancying,
of when I make her happy,
but yet im lacking,
the hope and wisdom,
to make this saintly day,
a reality.

coercion: the recursion
of her mouth on your mouth
on his mouth on your mouth,
the burn of teeth
and the saving graces
of saliva in a smokey throat.

impenetrable,
the fog lifts to lay still the roof
and break even the words
which shake meaning out of the walls
of the rooms
of the lives they built around you.

the upkeep of old homes, hollow stone
structures with skin, muscle,
blood holding the weak places we touched,
is too much
at some point and we

go.

>>1326087
Ah, well. That's cool. Probably better off that way. Good luck with it.

A guitar,
gently sweep,
as our mind erase,
thought of hate,
of our mistake,
we are jaded,
slightly cynic,
because,
we are innocent.

we are not born bias,
but raised to hate,
by all kinds of men,
the modest and the elitists,
the teachers and the creepers,
no better than the other,
we strive on your mistake,
to give our lives meaning,
to better society,
into a plastic utopia.

Random poem i wrote a while ago

L.L.R:
A cold autumn eve,
I was filled with grief,
we hold each other sleeves,
in the shallow reef,
that we all believed.

the play:
A actor,
is only a conductor,
of our emotions,
that we may never display,
in this vast oceans,
in which we pray.

Macbeth:
Wicked prophecy of evil,
may turn a nobleman,
into a vile weevil,
for they have plans,
to unravel the cosmos,
creating death in it path,
in which the morrow,
of his wrath,
will lead him to a bloody death.

Shenanigans(could think of a name)
These gentle wave,
set the rave,
in a gentle motion,
in a commotion,
or the beauty,
of the scene.

I'll ignore you when you want to leave.
The creep that calms another crying animal

makes a level of quiet
in the garage.
Transitioning from the slop our
area is gentrified
from static objects to the dynamic plastic
of a television or a toothbrush or the floating ball
in the back of a toilet.

You have come into a room to prove
the room exists,
your mouth full of fingernail clippings, the television's
extent unknown. The study
of genitalia makes them pointless. Picked clean

of any mitigating circumstance.
Bowline, harpoons through the window, your body a street.

The beauty always knew,
of the saintly rule,
that we called aesthetics,
but at times,
they bend these laws,
and the name flutters,
for it is her,
the symbol of love,
and rebellion,
of the angel,
that granted,
this temptation,
no one could exist,
if the law did not speak,
in term meant breaking,
for isn’t it not us,
the real symbol.

Like an internet hit,
Like a broken tape,
it plays in my head
without relent.
Over and over,
I imagine the scene.
The blood on the walls,
and the shell of a man.
Sorrowed and pained,
scarred beyond his years.
He wears a smile
that knows,
this is his last.
One more second,
'till sweet relief,
because pain cannot follow
in Death's footsteps.
He tastes the metal,
gunpowder,
then lead.
Over and over,
I contemplate life,
and whether or not
I should follow my thoughts.

Only You Can Play With Forest Fires

I burn bridges,
like I burn all those leaves.
Destruction,
and power
are my therapy.
The fire dances
behind these blue eyes.
Raging,
blazing,
burning its way
through the forest of this mind.
Leaving scars in my head.
Omnipresent in my thoughts.
A child calls out,
muffled in smoke.
He chokes on the love
that they shove down his throat.
Writhing around,
to escape monstrous clutches,
he scurries in fear
as fire comes in.
Soul burnt to crisp,
no phoenix from these ashes.
All he can do is play
with some matches.

is it come and gone?
is it long before the spirit shaves his legs?
is it wrapped in trash, sent back in a sanitation tank?
is it disinfected, disconnected 'til it grafts some wires?
is it sped up, spun around brown and yellow in the fires?

what is this town? they said I got no place to be
the money need is taking everything I see

is it comes in lovely bones that put their shirts on ice?
is it fireflies that cross out eyes with any spice?
is it normal, born-again? let the vultures drink and drown
is it's force from weathers, birds of feathers never found?

what is this town? they said I got no place to be
the money need is taking everything I see

you're gone

for lunch i had peanuts

I am new to poetry. Tell me what I am doing wrong.


Intermezzo No. 2 - Laddy Lazarus

I am not
Some great evil, but the sum
Of her parts. Those who have died by my hand
Deliver me on eastbound fogs—La Niña’s grey heart.

To Cholula, far beyond the skin of coital corpses,
Where I danced and plucked beside another,
And tripped on His coattails
Down red steps.

To Atlanta, where I mingle among the walking dread,
Not by my black and white shoes or winter gloves,
But the talons, the nails
They contain.

To Paris, that maudlin morgue between Italy and me,
Where Desrues will bury me twelve feet down,
To make sure I can’t claw
My way up.

And at home, where I coagulate with goat haunches bent,
And strike the granddaughter clock with cocked fists.
They make the red eye rise:
So can I.

>>1326539
not stupid enough

bump

>>1325073

Just wrote this the other day: too bad I can't work in all my indentations but whatevsees.

Shrapnel
these scales across the cliffs
are climbing, ascending truths and
causing rifts, are thoughtless, clotless,
we are bleeding in rhythm,
hark, in rhythm
and returning, grave sickness,
grave loss in our chests.
here are the cavities
-i point to them
where our stomachs churn, where our lies abound
sink ever downward, nauseous
here is where our heads are light
they skitter, the thoughts, fragments of shrapnel
-embedded in our helmets
see, hark, the we the soldier
is reaching frantic
like apes in the gravel, in pulling them out
and writhing, contorting, drowning in effort
of removal, projectiles
-these are the graves, the moments of losses
-these are our hopelessnesses, open sores of
lost wars of
losses yet.

these broths in the afterlife,
i found them on the shoreline
foaming like severance
and breathing like children
see the calls' echoes, child,
i see them on the stockades
and hark, the angel lows,
is calling to us singing to us
-hallelujah, last being, lo savior, lo chorus
-here are your wounds, they
travel in circles
(but not the same circles as we)
return to you,
in the amber of dead days, where
the steam is rising from losing carelessly
-the steam rises from the gut of the losing horse

you return too,
and lowering, lows, to the metal in our bones
Here is your progress!
and here is your shrapnel,
your carry-out
let's pull it from your head wounds, your black and viscous wounds
let us help another grow in its place-
let us.

>>1325122
Lord Byron, Corsair excerpt
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vu4cnA4XTiWuYw3N7

>>1327359
Why do people think it's OK to use retarded syllable counts with retarded content? Stop trying to be original and write properly.

>>1327374
how does one write "properly?" what is the right way to write?
>he thinks art is objective

>>1325452
sparrowlike
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vTGUQTdkJglR2l4YY

>>1326104
The enchanted angel never foresaw...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v6OzKtrUxhsn1Ynbp

>>1326119
Love holds the frame...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vZ122A1qSCsp9v7BE

>>1326171
untitled by jc
http://vocaroo.com/?media=veC3n2XKTJrbvvQ0c

>>1326183
L.L.R.
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vSz2vYqV8nbsYm6gR

>>1326187
Untitled by Bob Hope
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vvTR6ecNyiSmeHsMo

>>1326194
The beauty always knew...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vyE160jHIOKExSRkH

>>1326213
Like an internet hit...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vGQ1sCOoxHS68RpkN

>>1326220
Only You Can Play with Forest Fires...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vbmOSW3RbEptXjWh6

chug chug chug

Stories


racing through the bowing grain,
faces break the coming rain,
reckless and immortal as the dawn.
stretching fingers stab the sky,
pinnacles, as you and I
scorn the distance, ever moving on.
forests bow before our stare,
we run forward unaware,
as the mountains scurry at our feet.
thunder's sound sets our course
to the ever glowing source,
to the border of elation and defeat.
hands reach for the thunderclouds,
for the corpulent and loud,
for the price of all our sins and love.
for the shade and childhood fear,
letters smeared by a tear,
for the endless, effortless above.
those who touch it shrink away,
graying visions made of clay,
and our shoulders fill the gaps they leave.
storms roll by and stories fly,
of the clouds that were too high,
of the empty hands inside our sleeves.

Contemplations of The Maladjusted.

Suppose I am a wisp, whose voice remains unheard,
Suppose I bear a lisp, a terrible one that obstructs every word.
Would it then still be worth to console a broken soul that doesn't see the need?
Would it then still suffice to offer advice to a troubled friend that doesn't heed?

How now, tell me where a man like me will lie.
"Forever alone," a pebble on a prairie will mark the place I die.
A forgettable face for a forgettable man,
just another life no one fancied to comprehend.

In the deepest chambers of the mind's desolate abyss, chaos calls.
Her majesty, Lady Insanity, demands the damnation of it all.
To bludgeoned, rape, pillage and murder those who caused your fall.
Let them and those alike figure out what to say when they place your pall.

So, bright and tender flame, will you be my friend or be a friend in name?
Can I give you a fragile heart and be assured you won't treat it as a game?
Grey hair, I grow sick and tired, let me retreat back to my sacrosanct lair.
My life I resign; let my possessions fade in time; let this world wallow in despair.

>>1326347
Is it come and gone?
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v0JXjmvmIxsnJ0a2Q

>>1326522
you're gone...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vtogLtxGGMugBWXur

>>1326539
Intermezzo no. 2
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v3ZqbtwVvjsLIAYSP

>>1327419
Nicely done. Wonderful sensitivity to sound.

>>1327465

Thank you, I was here last night. Posted >>1322194

Because it wasn't destroyed to the ground, I decided to have another go.

And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war's alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms.

The longships creak and pine
As we row cross the firey lake;
Swirled in the hurly-burly
And in Valhalla to wake.

I haven't got any further yet. It's my first poem I've ever tried to write. I posted it earlier on.

>>1327546
0/10

>>1327547

>And in Valhalla to wake.
>Valhalla to wake
>Valhalla
>VALHALLA

>>1327565
I don't get it. What did I do?

>>1327577
Yeats didn't write about Byzantium in his first poetry volume.

Keep it simple when you start. You'll find your own mythology later.

>>1327584
Thanks. I'm not into poetry seriously by the way, but that sounds like good advice. As for Yeats, I've only read a little, but The Second Coming is AMAZING.

>>1327608
>mfw that poem was inspired by his occultist wife and is therefore worthless

>>1327619
Please go on D&E...
Also, I'm aware Yeats was into that kind of stuff. Personally I think it makes him all the more interesting, nonsense or not.

>>1327625
I'll go on.

I can't go on.

>>1327382
art is objective. Good art is anyway. Only bad art is subjective.

>>1328193
>implying language itself isn't subjective
>implying humans are capable of transcending their subjective experiences

>>1328197
I'll admit language can be confusing at times because it's meaning is dependent on context, but It's possible to write objectively. And it is possible for human beings to transcend the subjectivity of everyday reality and find Truth. But as history has shown Truth has never been easy to come by.

>>1328197
ERICA, I LOVE YOU. Come home now, skip your gay love in literature class!

>Captcha: Wooklega can.

>>1327630
as usual. typical.

once he's done reciting, you can't expect anymore.

>>1328217
ANN, I CANNOT I SKIPPED IT LAST WEEK.

captcha: ropperc cannot

(alas, so close to home)

>>1328206
No. If you've studied other languages you'd see the fault in this. The very language you speak limits and shapes your perception.

>>1328236
true, but that doesn't mean one still can't find universal truths within their own language. For example, look at Dostoevsky, he wrote originally in Russian but nearly everyone can find appeal in his writings no matter what language it's translated in.

>>1328236
>>1328236
Qapla'!

Vamp

>>1328193

What is good and what is bad?

>>1328554
I don't know. That's a loaded question. But certainly certain pieces of art are remember longer than others.

Roses are red.
Violets are blue.
I called the police,
and they're gonna rape you.
You fucking stupid nigger.
they'll cut of your dick,
tie it off at the end,
and stuff it up your ass.

>>1327399
Thank you. That's the first time I've ever heard any of my work aloud.

bumping, must preserve the masterpieces contained within.

>>1325453

>pretentious
>does not understand obvious irony

Sonnet XVII


User Rating:

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(235 votes)
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I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


Also: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzY2-GRDiPM is simply amazing

>>1328197

Language isn't subjective. That doesn't even make sense. I think you're just confused and you think that objectivity has to be something transcendent. That is not true. Something can be objective based on the common experiences of people. It does not need to be some mystical appeal to abstract "Truth".

>>1329388
>>1329388

brofist for neruda

Stand your ground
your life is before you.
Step backward
you will find the door.

He wanted it to be white. It was the smell of it. The smell of decontaminants and bleach, they smell white. He
imagined, could see them in his mind behind his closed eyelids, the white tendrils running from the top of his
head, streaking his forehead and cheeks with milky white fluid, before running down his back and chest and
legs, filling the spaces between his toes with white before finally disappearing down the stainless steel
ringed hole in the shower. But each time he opened his eyes it was clear and translucent as water has always
been. It was disappointing every time. He never stayed long in the shower after opening his eyes. Above the
sink the polished metal mirrors surface is so worn and warped that no useful reflection can be gleaned from it,
so he leaves the condensation. He dries off quickly before he dresses - the concrete floor doesn't inspire
lingering. Neither do the halls, which is a grand description of something that is more akin to a tunnel. Here
concrete features from floor to ceiling, crushing anyone unlucky enough to venture there in joyless grey,
painting them a corpse-coloured flickering from the fluorescent tubes lining the walls just beneath the
ceiling. A constant mechanical hum accompanies the footfalls, but otherwise all is silent in the halls/tunnels.
He closes the heavy metal door to the hall/tunnel and seals himself in the room. In here he spends every waking
hour with eyes on the monitors that still work. 25 are blank, only 3 still work. 3 are enough. They are enough
for him.

>>1329421
Trying waaayyy to hard.

>>1329421
poetry. not (badly written) prose.

ITT: the english language dies a thousand deaths.

>>1329439
and you're cliche is the final nail in the coffin.

Reading some of these, I kinda feel like a total amateur... but out of curiosity for your opinions, here's a Petrarchan-style sonnet I wrote a few years back.
It's not complex. But then, I guess that's the point.


My shoes still clinging tightly to my feet
The dirty soles still hamm’ring at the ground
Still raising Hell with loud, oppressive sound
As I race madly, headlong down the street.

My shoes, undaunted, still keep up to beat
The on-off, on-off pattern that they pound
The whiplash laces whirling round and round
As pulsing rhythms endlessly repeat.

This road we run is cruel as host can be
But yet we run, and run ‘til meet our end.
It’s not for lack of anything to do.

My shoes press on but for the sake of me
I fought so hard, and yet, could not defend
And so we run, in hopes of fleeing you.

>>1329452
>Reading some of these, I kinda feel like a total amateur...
OOooooh, how modest.... You make me sick.
Good job. I think it's actually one of the better written ones here.

>>1329458
You think so? That's awesome, thank you!
I did mean that, though. I like to write simply, especially with rhymes, and compared to the really deep, detailed stuff, I often feel kinda... lacking. And rhyme schemes can have this grade-school stigma sometimes, like, "HE STILL USES RHYMING >laughingwhores.jpg"
But like I said, it's my style. So I dunno.
ANYway...

>>1329480

I like it.

>>1329480
It's actually really impressive to get your poem to rhyme. So long as the rhyme doesn't interfere with anything else. In which case, It sounds like you pulled it off. That's my humble 2 cents anyway.

>>1329504
>>1329498
Thanks, guys, that means a lot to me.
I haven't been doing much with poetry anymore, honestly. Maybe I should try getting back into it.

>>1325122
Manfred was always my favorite Byronic Archetype.

>>1328193
well sorry. i'm not interested in your definition of objectively good art. i'm interested in making it, and creating representations and expressions of what i can't otherwise represent and express. and then sharing it with others to see what they think. what they think, admittedly subjectively, is good or could be improved. not "this is incorrect do it another way."

ya know.

“When you're left wounded on Afganistan's plains and the women come out to cut up what remains, Just roll to your rifle and blow out your brains, And go to your God like a soldier”

my fav <3

>>1329919

Interesting quote especially because Afghanistan has no plains, just mountains and a few narrow valleys if you don't count the desert. Which part was Kipling actually familiar with if any?

>>1327359
Shrapnel...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vqHqYpWuFeArOZ7yz

>>1327412
Stories...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vLqnVebhbETm8x12Q

>>1329956
hey p.s. man i really like the southern spin you put on Sparrowlike btw. totally not what i had in mind in writing it, but a really interesting interpretation.

>>1327419
Contemplations of the Maladjusted...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vz3OI0ThanOj9XxWb

>>1327546
And maybe what they say is true....
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vc2n37qPsela6Ndbx

>>1327547
The longships pine...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vZMxg7vbimKE8jO7Z

>>1328571
Roses are red...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vVbuw7xcXf9Nt8Cb9

Just put down:

we rode scooters
through the damnable heat
of desert canyons
on our way to the promised land

the air shimmered and broke
into a house that was not ours
with people who hid
the bags I had sent ahead

they made us dry off
on towels that weren't ours
I could smell the filth of others
on my face as I put them down

and then the doctor came in
and said we tried to scam the system
and with threats and jokes
said he hoped we learned our lesson

these are but reminisces
of dreams I have had of you
thirty years out and still
last night you were with me

forgive me the sins of my youth
and haunt me no longer gentle ghost
go to sleep, go to sleep
forget the love our dreams broke

>>1329388
Sonnet 27...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=v10MAfqLHWGdasN7n

>>1329421
He wanted it to be white...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vd5OAzCGJB2iwKiLM

>>1329452
My shoes still clinging...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vpoxKFOYpiEhDYxDY

>>1329990
Damnable heat...
http://vocaroo.com/?media=vENzOSesVx3HqRGJB

Gotta run! back tomorrow

>>1329958
lol, you believed my southern accent? "Chillun" was what made me try it.

>>1330009
it felt a little forced, but it was certainly interesting; i always just read my poetry in my midwestern american accent.

the oncoming slaughter of the post modern renaissance
is in the hands of those with a close minded stride
who will kill themselves before they get the upper hand
by lethargic mediums and praised mid century riot

hills, hills, leave us alone let us hide our beasts
and culminate in the presence of our kindess hearts
up on mountains, within trees, outside the jungle
the jungle of modern man, the streets of the cities

bless us, bless us, mother earth who brings us warmth
who brings us cold, who feeds us and gives us water
bureacracy, democracy, they'll all fall to pieces
with the hollow cries of the oppressed human masses

the pseudo nationalist cess pool revered by the world's
counter-type culture, the kids with the guns, the minds
of a new era who shout and exclaim let us be left to be
to love and be free from the shackles of fascist reform

pig headed children waltz around on the farm of digression
which is seen as paramount reform to this propagate recession
the fire will burn and the ashes will rise much higher
than the social caste mezzanine, and the putrid will rise much higher


actually posted a new thread without seeing this one. what you think?

Preservation

I <3 this thread
I <3 this thread
I <3 this thread
I <3 this thread

bump

Cryptic message written in the dark
So they might watch me
losing composure
Locking hands floating through the dark
all that haunts me
Is surely closure

You grew up way too fast
In a town that doesn't last,
In a town that won't let you change,
A town that stays the same.
You grew up way too fast,
As if you didn't care for the past,
You didn't show shame
While they packed on the blame.
Too bad when you grew up
You forgot to grow up,
It was plastic and cellophane,
Instead of what should be a brain.
And now you say the town that you grew up in too fast,
Is just like the town you moved in last.