/lit/ - Literature

>>4932501
I am a frog in the water
I am a fish in the sea
I am a man with a daughter
I am the bane of the free
I like to climb in the tree
I want to make a fire in your mom's anus
I am the collective purple palm tree
We are a legion
Forget us

>>4932562
That's not a good poem, anon.

>>4932584
I think it's good... Maybe you don't understand it.

>>4932594
Then please explain it to me.

>>4932562
>mfw I actually liked the first four lines.

>>4932596
Maybe if i sing it to you.

http://vocaroo.com/i/s0HxRfONS7O3

>>4932626
If you were a little bit louder, this shit would be gold

>>4932601
you only liked it because bane was in it.

>>4932649
FOR YOU

Il y a un bourg à l'fin de monde
Où les bourgeois sont sur un siège
Leurs œuvres; leurs rêves; les vies et neufs
Tous sont enterrés par la neige

Où le soleil oublie d's'lever
Où la lune grise rit grotesquement
Les lueurs sinistres environ dansent
Et les étoiles démentielles chantent

Où le vent souffe, plus froid que l'mort
Sur les arbres nus, les côtes perdues
Et chaque jour les ondes éclatent
Comme mon cœur fou, pensant à vous.

The grammar's probably off. I don't actually speak French.

>>4932645
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0wpLk8l2xY6

THE WAAAATEERRR FILLS MY LUUUNGS
AND NOOOW THIS HAAAS BEGUN
THE ENDD WHICH WILL DEVOUR
EVERY SOUL EVERY SOUL

AND YOOOU WILL BE NO EXCEPTION
THE DARKNESS OF THE VOID WILL TAKE YOU DOWN
WITH THE OTHERS SAME OF A KIND
THERE IS NO END IN THIS SUFFERING ;)

>>4932693
INSTEAD OF CRYING LITTLE BITCH
LET'S GRAB SOME UGLY HOOKERS TITS
THEN STUFF THE MONEY IN THE BAG
WHILE ROBBING SOME IMPORTANT BANK

HELL YEA THIS LIFE IS VERY GROOVE
EXCEPT YOU HAVE TO EAT DOG'S FOOD
BUT I FUCK BITCHES EVVRIDAY
THAT'S WHAT I LIKE BOUT BEIN GAY

>>4932667
Are you Canadian or what?
Some things are quite beautiful and other things are completely unacceptable, like a parody of something from Québec ("l'fin"? "l'mort"? "d's'lever"? "enterrés par la neige"? does the coeur fou actually think to vous?).
A more grammatically correct version would be:

Il y a un bourg à la fin du monde
Où les bourgeois sont sur un siège;
Leurs œuvres, leurs rêves, les (did not understand),
Tous sont enterrés sous la neige;

Où le soleil oublie de se lever,
Où la lune grise rit grotesquement,
Les lueurs sinistres dansent alentour
Et les étoiles démentielles chantent,

Où le vent souffle, froid comme la mort
Sur les arbres nus, les côtes perdues
Et chaque jour les ondes éclatent (?)
Comme mon cœur fou, en pensant à vous.

>>4932895

No, just trying to pick the language up when I'm supposed to be working.

I don't know what the rules on swallowing syllables is - but I've noticed that people do it in conversation so I figured I may as well swallow everything I need to force a tetrameter.

>>4932667

Not bad anon. I would suggest "Les vies et leurs nouvelles"

L'idee de morte comme froid comme. . . est un peu cliche. Mais il y a la verite la. Quelque chose plus etrange est mieux... comme froid comme le bouche de l'amour perdu (amour est aussi une equivoque de "a mort!"

>>4932895
>>4933057

Thanks for the feedback, anyhow. My French is not at a level where I can tell good verse from bad verse yet so I'm going blind. But at least I can clean up the grammatical issues.

A bastards first steps
Celebrated by some stupid bitch
I really wish you'd stop trying
To ever become rich
Not that you'll get there
Too many phones in the way
If you get some money
It's gone in a day
Enjoy pretending
It shouldn't be too hard
If you spend your time like your mom
Breeding retards

>>4933253
I like it. The tone- quite confrontational, seemingly written with... malice? It's almost as though there's some actual emotion behind it, unlike the "Muh thesaurus-dived dead words and 2deep4u abstract feels" crap that's regularly posted.

I do like it.

>>4933253
I don't like it. There is no meter. It's awkward to read. It reads like you only wrote for it to rhyme, and not to do something with the form - the fact that only every second line rhymes kinda fortifies my suspicion. You only knew the last words, and what you wanted to say, but you don't know how to properly put it into a form.

Also, the theme is meh. It's a rant about a stupid woman. Not very interesting, but maybe that's just me.

You see the colours of the world
Through the tints of your shades
And yet you choose to reject
The finite placed right on your lap
What's more, you call it a phase

>>4935567
This has no flow whatsoever.
It was painful to read.

Unfinished and not certain where I'm going with this:

If I should roam, rather than seek
Tread not the pathways, but the grass
Fill not each moment for its sake;
But let the idle minutes pass.

If whisperings rather than shouts
Are all my pallid voice can will
And embers stir, rather than flames
Would I then be mothered still?

Or gold be counted by my name
And Woland's knee heal at my touch
And I be crowned among the saints
And seem a muchness of the much.

If shadows, too will walk with me
And human sin's for me atoned
If I could set the world alight,
Would I then be carried home?

>>4935456
Bro, it's a rant to the majority of the world.
It's calling out the priests of the religion known as modern parenting and the viscous cycle of enabling it instills in the worthless.

"Oh, I has child now! Life has meaning! Look at Billy...he's so bright and creative! From the moment I laid my eyes on his delicate little form, covered in my blood and shit, I just fell in love. No, you won't understand until you join the cult.--I mean have a precious wonderful miracle yourself."

My son, my son, my beaming sun
Take boy's steps towards a man's
The vice and virtue of the world
Are out of your command

The seven seas are poisoned now
They swamp across the land
Each outstretched arm you run towards
Is held in Satan's hand.

The clocks are slow and flagging now
The wind has petered out
The axis grinds upon us soon
And time is winding down

What strides you take pave death my son
Beyond my breast - abyss
Inferno traced on every step
A Seraph's Judas kiss.

The light lies down to sleep tonight
The sun takes leave of earth
The Gods renege on humam gains
Our prayers tamed by our hurt.

The Universe has lost her shine
An tears drench nature's face
The past has come to claim her price
But you still have my embrace.

But you still have my embrace, my love, you still have my embrace.

>>4935678
Burl Hicks pls go

Btw I really liked the poem; you pulled off anger without edge.

>>4935678
And what was the point of it being a poem?

On that Kentucky road
Paved with gravel, near the tall grass,
I could faintly see that abode
Of ours, in which we passed
Our warmest winters,
We two sinners.

That was the house, the one,
Whereupon the sun
Shone its brightest,
Where the wind was quietest
And coolest at night,
Where the starlight
Drowned every kind of fright
And apprehension.

O, if I could only hold it in suspension!

>>4935694
I have a girlfriend. She likes it when my idiot self attempts to write poetry...because I'm sensitive and shit.

That's the one I'm most proud of honestly, but I'm attempting to write poetry knowing full well that I don't like the medium.

(My favorite poem is Resume by Dorothy Parker, hence why I rhyme)

>>4935790

Oh god gfs when they find out you attempt to write poetry

>tfw she thinks you're a reclusive, shy genius
>tfw you're just a reclusive shy wanker

I wanna join so i'm just gonna write something, it's most like gonna be more of a 'written word' if you get the pun.

I turned the pornography I was watching, because my girlfriend texted me
It's was a coincidence, I wasn't expecting her to tell lies in the form of electronic poetry
But I guess we settled that a long time ago, with me gone, you wronged and everything a mess, a clusterfuck a braindamaged whore screaming in the streets of a previously connected minds. We settled that.
I say we settled that, but we still move on, we still talk like everything is fine, and our friends believe our smiles and we still eating apples, but you stopped baking pies.
I'm just tired of this, so I won't return text, i'll put the WebM on reals and stroke myself until it's darker and I give up trying to make my blood flow.

>>4935826
sorry for all the spelling errors, english isn't my first language and for some reason I have a condition that makes me despise proof-reading my own shit

>>4932501

She knelt before my erect minaret
snow white, busty and legs like christmas ham
no thigh gap
she blessed the minaret with holy water from her mouth
i pushed her to the bed
and maneuvered into her church
her prostrate, like infidels in bombed buildings
I invaded her and conquered her peoples
before I culturally enriched her face with my seed

Eudamoniac

If when i walk from car, between cars,
Will you stick close to me,
And let me feel documented letharge
That runs through the opposite sex?
Its happening now, its bursting!
Renting my eyes? Well,
my eyes know the pattens, but they
can still see colour:
flooding over car bonnets and woodwork,
pasteurising the sickly blackberry,
sliding inbetween my teeth, a jet of fresh air
going stale in my throat, I'm wary;
I can't see you anymore with redundant eyes
only with my pillow- thighs and gingerly thick fingers.
You're beautiful, smothered in maternal roots
but its all a warm act, dispute your cold arms
Wrapped tightly in various accounts, love?
Its just a colourful fruit.

And for all my sins, those magic tricks,
running rugged nails through a vat
of salty-shaking, spitting oil,
there is that shaded lick of a pencil sitting
on your brow, beneath your halo, you angel,
that blows away my book-knowledge
and leaves me breathless, shivering.
So cindering, we burn like father's safety matches,
up high in an unreachable cupboard
gathering dust and insect life,
next to a redundant digital photo frame.

>>4935845
>So cindering, we burn like father's safety matches,
>up high in an unreachable cupboard
>gathering dust and insect life,

at first i didn't like the last line but now that i've rethought it i think it adds a sense of melancholy.

but man these lines are good.

cuntlines

the ships are restless
i’m breastless, hips lean against
us. they stare at me starving,
carve without caring.
now i’m full of stained nicks
while seas laud me.
boys saw my arms off lest
i wave the coast into
their city. they think
i’m pretty (they’re proud
of their work; what a
pity).

fuck this town, let’s ride off this port
drink it down and catch some ladies,
fuck our labor; it can come later.
we’ll forget about babies
as we slick into
gin-soaked decks. the sins stay
on land, as the fins cut our hand.
fuck those flounders.
we’ve found her, and we don’t
eat flukes!

the fathers urge us into houses
where sisters serve feasts
for men in love with figures
that sigh their songs to beasts.

they whimper when they see
they’ve been out-tricked by
sticks and paint.
forget our sways to simpers and
saint us now. aren’t we holy?
we’ve ended Your crusade.
or was that all toll-free?
at least we got laid
up. home we go, to the missus.
i sure do hope they
miss us.

>>4935863
Thanks anon, It means a lot. I'm still in the process of editing a few parts and I see what you mean about the last line, i have a feeling i can convey that emotion better somehow.

Nobody cares if you burn, like I do.
Yea, can't say that's their concern, about you.
What I mean to say, "You're worth more to me than they'll ever know."
"You'll soon see. We'll be free."
"And whiter than the snow."

>>4935771
Nice, fluid and not at all clunky. Where it falls down is a weakness in imagery and a weakness in flourishes of language. You can do better than "the sun shone its brightest", or "the wind was quietest". Don't be restricted by your meter because you are almost perfect at controlling it, and undoubtedly have the ability to make that second stanza more powerful within it.

>>4935843
This is a joke isn't it?

>>4935872
Men in love with figures that sigh their songs to beasts.. I really, really like those two lines.

Paisleys swam on industry air
As the parts per million painted Cézannes
And taunted humidity at the funnels
While salmon spirits humming sustens
Floated on the tops of the water wheels on all those primary school diagrams

The gifted saw Huntingtons
But to lesser eyes a photograph

>>4932921
For swallowing syllables in French, yes, we do it a lot (we swallow the "e"), but it is not well accepted in written language, and forbidden in poetry; that's only acceptable in common speech and popular songs.
We always say clearly "la", so "l'mort" or "l'fin" do not exist if you want to say "la mort" and "la fin". But we swallow "le", so "l'père" or "l'début" can be said - though rarely written.
Also, "d'se lever" or "de s'lever" can be said, but "d's'lever" is a bit too much!
Where are you from?

>>4935771

Pretty solid, though I'd try to make the transition from the first stanza to the second a tad more seamless.

>>4935843

It does not suck. smirk/10

>>4935845

I enjoyed it. I hope that you used redundant twice out of irony, if so, props. Is it about siblings?

>>4935872

Choppy like the waves against the ships. But not bad.

>>4936182

Needs more of a concrete subject, comes off as slight gobbledygook. Something tells me you went to boarding school.

Dangerous safety hazards
hot air conditioner systems,
a sinking boat in July,
and my last shot of whiskey.
A pogo stick with no owner
and a cat without a rival,
a letter without an address
and a mailbox without a home:
A maelstrom of stray thoughts
keep me balanced and upright,
And whenever I think of that one time:
I kissed your sister in the end zone
and how you boohooed and bah-ed,
and how I scratched an itched,
right before we went out on the paddle boat,
and you sang a song
and I listened and reminded you
that I've cherished you all along,
quietly wondering
how long it would take
to murder someone like you,
with poison,
and a little love,

I smile and cry.

I swallowed your song-bird whole,
and coughed up the feet and feathers.
"Tastes like chicken," I joked and poked
at your sensitive ears with unjust jest.
And I remind you: you laughed softly,
like you always did in solemnity.
And now as some time has passed,
I can still hear some singing in my gut,
my lungs bagpipes, or maybe accordions,
people around me pulsating in, then away,
distraught like a diabetic in a candy store,
or a blind person in a movie theatre.
Then, I think about the projector's booth,
and what must go on behind the scenes,
wondering what kind of person likes such a job,
and imagine the face of his dog.
Then again, a whistling wheeze,
your parakeet cries.
I slap my tummy in short-temper and agitation,
wishing for harakiri,
praying for nothing.

>>4935936
Why was I skipped?

>>4936545
>boarding school
I'm about to graduate from a big public high school in Texas that's like 90 percent minority. But yeah it's a bit meh. I'm trying to be impressionistic but it's coming off as stupid. Debussy would be ashamed.

Delighted;
A warm sensation beaming
Can you feel it?
I'm sending mental messages,
lost and confounded in the presence of your sweet puckering lips.
I know the agony of pain in pleasure.
Chained and defeated, full submission.
I'm proud of you.
All the drippings, all the tears.
A savory, sensory prolapse of time and space.
We are cast out from the garden when its over,
laminated by regret until it takes us over again

Television has become a pit of all things bad with society these days

Consumerism, Sensationalism, and marrying gays

Chicks left and right going bald pussy, irritated skin

15$ for this bottle of gin!

I'll never visit a glory hole

>>4936614
Funny, clever, simple. I like it and I can almost take it seriously. Thanks.

>>4936614
...again"

>>4936590
>>4935936

It isn't very good. It's too blatant and obvious, and lacks the profundity that such a short poem should have to be considered good. Also, the quotations' purpose is not clear; it seems you don't really need them unless there's some dialogue I'm not noticing. You should just keep practicing.

>>4936614
>>4936637

That. But that's brilliant though. I don't know how to feel right now.

>>4936637

I take a shit in the morning.
I take a shit at night.
I take a shit when I'm mourning.
I take a shit when shit ain't right.
I take a shit after sex.
I take a shit before showering.
I take a shit during wrecks.
I take a shit while cowering.
I take a shit on Earth
I take a shit in space.
I take a shit with mirth.
I take a shit on every race.
I take a shit in the jungle.
I take a shit in the city.
I take a shit as an uncle.
I take a shit when it's shitty.
I took a shit today.
I took a shit yesterday.
I'm taking a shit right now.
But I just don't know,
if I'll take a shit tomorrow.

Dissipating dust rests in the library of Alexandria,
on rows on rows, of condensed thoughts
and sights of things seen and thought.
Our future's history rests on those shelves,
like silent echoes reverberating ceaselessly
between walls and eyes and ears and halls.
And the librarian likes to read, I'd assume,
at least as much as you or me.
But who am I? That is the question
that people forget to consider asking,
to the person in front of them in the bathroom,
where kerplunks command our attention.
Look! Okay, maybe I will.
But then again, the other option lies
at the foot of my bed,
in a form so shapeless, in a shape so formless,
like that one thing you can't remember
from a dream in your childhood,
clustered with reverent terror,
and maybe some glee. Gone.
So please, open on Sunday,
or at least, one day out of the year,
like the den of a groundhog,
who might be paralyzed, but still alive.

>>4936614
OP here, this poem is about the struggles of the contemporary heterosexual man with tradiont and the new age progressive liberal ideals.

>>4936697
"tradition"

>>4936520

Much of my life in New Zealand, currently in the UK. Slavic origins, hence the tetrameter.

the clouds move across the sky
towards the horizon and some distant country
i am alone

>>4936667
I take a shit in the morning.
I take a shit at night.
>good so far sets theme
I take a shit when I'm mourning.
I take a shit when shit ain't right.
>ok both those lines describe similar scenarios and can be taken as meaning the same thing
I take a shit after sex.
I take a shit before showering.
>here's where it starts to break down
I take a shit during wrecks.
I take a shit while cowering.
>what the fuck is happening wrecks and cowering? What?
I take a shit on Earth
I take a shit in space.
>Ok, we're back in the good bit again
I take a shit with mirth.
I take a shit on every race.
>I might mess up some tempo here but add "with mirth" between "a" and "shit" in the second line
I take a shit in the jungle.
I take a shit in the city.
>Maybe do something clever with the fact that the city is often referred to as the "concrete jungle". Otherwise good job with the juxtaposition.
I take a shit as an uncle.
I take a shit when it's shitty.
>ugh. Just ugh.
I took a shit today.
I took a shit yesterday.
I'm taking a shit right now.
But I just don't know,
if I'll take a shit tomorrow.
>This last part I don't like, the text is humorous but this last part doesn't fit the mood.

>I can't believe I critiqued a poem about taking a shit

>>4936545
Oh man i'm so glad you spotted the redundant thing. I was sitting there grinning when I put it in, but then I realised most people would forget i used it in stanza one. It's supposed to explore sexuality and how temporary it is in its nature, but i can see it being read as a sibling poem, but anyway, thanks a bunch anon xo

>>4932530
Anyone feel like commenting on this one?

>>4936893

Nazi/10

Clearing his throat
Hand moved
under pullover to reach towards mouse
some snot in nose
not enough to be considered a tissue endeavour
He hits some keys on the keyboard unrhytmically.
Rolls his sleeves
eats an apple
sits down and again types
He starts feeling some thing
some where
in his yellow skin or some thing
When confronted by another internet entity
his first response his anger
and later some thing else
Upon receiving criticism concerning a certain drawn pornographie
he decided to tell them the truth
"To love ru truly is super interesting"

>>4936901
How much is one nazi?

>>4936924

Six million shoah.

>>4936923
This is good. The prevalence of the capitalisation and line endings is pretty incredible.

Part 1 of poem

Mad monkey melting in mystic monk like moon - mellow and maybe slightly moronic but not Mormon. Masters of Manchester's smoking machinery in the industrial district of Motown saints. Aloe vera in Oliver all over the Dover seeing slight dog and wild beast in magic animal kingdom of Atlantis. I Adam and Evening news on the televisions being watched but not heard by the Baby Boomers who are now afraid they are old and afraid they are no longer cool and becoming their parents before their eyes after destroying the economy and supporting Reaganomics. Rust of mist ad strong intangible lyrical fervor of the beast in everyone of us trying to understand why he is human what it is to be human and laments ever reading Nietzsche and wants to achieve the Ubermensch. To the Ubermensch ebbing the ultimate goal and slicing of autonomy between mind, body and soul like Earth Wind and Fire in the 70's of my crust filled eyes. Driving seventy down I 5 and dreaming in day thought lubricant slipping into Virginia Woolfian demeanor and slight maybe slight of hand offence in the defense of an assertive personality and certainly not an INFP or any of the air signs but not as drastic or fiery as say an Aries. Virgo rising in day of long lost transfer to bus metro station in Pioneer Square brooding.
Brooding over booming and lamenting the lintel piece in the living room, I said to myself "who is it that decides the fate of the ostrich and who does the community commute of wise old fabled ham sandwich and salty dreary? How macabre the lone lonely warrior off the American West eating his last hand sandwich preparing to dig as Dillinger did the Baby-face Bonies of the young girls of his day.
Sometime libertine most-time saint and slow junky tho not slow in mind but slow procrastinator of daily chores and floor sweeping. Slight sly and coy janitors of evening noon crooning sad soft songs of Sinatra and alliteration alligator croak. Beer turning to wine before the night is over and wine turning to vitamin C in the morning of the final days and how can you believe that the mind is really there and that you can really waste a mind I mind time oh time and again how do I mind and American idiom lost and in translation lost again and then found only by hermetic Monk in library temple thinking. Modern day acetic spare changing his way to the Ottomans. Old Ottoman and long lost Otterman sleeping in day break bleeding out for only once and just to find his last morsel is not where he left it but right under his nose.

Part 2

So he knows and always knows where it will be and been and has ever been and will ever be-leave - leaving tho still here, lost and not beyond grasp I see Mr. Mischief smile gleaning at lost tomato family in green pasture sitting. Sitting sat looking on bench in park brewing. Brewing the lost morsel in lost nose looking, spotting train lost hoping and apple core eating, worming in Miranda vision by tunnel lit dooming. However - it is not the way of the man but the way of the word and the idea that is thought and once thought but not lost and thought the thought is not lost the thought in a way walking sullenly to hive mind collection in refrigerator of time not freezing below room temperature and abstract sphere melting.

>>4936949
>Old Ottoman and long lost Otterman
???

Part 3

Jerusalem weeps for last sandwich sulky. I found time to write my idea and the idea is to keep writing to get down to the bottom of this and what is it you are really thinking. Fast procession processing and animal delivering bike messenger of Greek ancestory. [scribble in M.S.] Not that word I was about to type, I cannot pronounce and honestly do not know what it means in sad dictionary of Oxford not Cambridge. Class warfare and Nixon Zombie rising for American sandwich eating. Nu DaDa - PostMetaDaDa leaning and gleaming from American streaming to the beat of the type and hum of the writer; lost prophet in tin can loosing time to the eldermen and respecting his wife's beliefs in superstitious sentiment resenting that the eldermen had believed tho is not believed anymore by the old but romanticized by the youth for the sake of privilege and tradition and identifying those that are from other countries and for their own sake and autonomy and for the sake of segregation and is a bad thing tho invisible but if you think about it's there.
Orwellian future in present day street lighting for cheek check of lost daughter finding. Found in the ocean tho not drowned attempts suicide for sake of reliving past lives and to move on to the next life wife finding. Follow through in to the tunnel of white light seeing and once tho not twice thinking about tired old man seeing red light districts of time, space, and forever and forever and forever
dadadadadadadadadadadadadadadada
Beckoning light of the resonance and 1920's slang and soon the bop will follow through instruments made by brass and wood-wind tinkering and in and out of the gutter the guitar will strum a chord and the poor old man on the tracks will sing, "My the world is inside out and you can't even eat it!"and the world will know he is wise and they should. The old man knowing everything in the American myth and the myth is really the truth and fiction is not that far from lost originality but with different names. Naming the nameless, facing the faceless. Gold bridge of truth and no slander intended to the sea captain on previous mention in plane flight simulation and radar detection, pondering the void.
The true void that has driven so many mad.
Lost void last thought mind oh mind black and bleak spiders and night time sky skiing down snow water-fall and long brother dreaming in bed night sleep awake for centuries and seeing the Minotaur of ancient lost civilization and bed rock.

>>4936956
>How macabre the lone lonely warrior off the American West eating his last hand sandwich preparing to dig as Dillinger did the Baby-face Bonies of the young girls of his day.
This is too much.

>>4936963
I think it's awfully poetic.

>>4936831

Well thank you, it means a lot. I wrote it on the john, if you were wondering what my inspiration was.

>>4936978

lose the 'lone'

My stomach plummets when I look out
from the edge at the top of the sky
where God's cry thunderbolts and swarms
of disastrous beauty and maybe some sun.
I peak over, belly down and neck adjusted
gazing at the floor of Earth below,
splashing my eyes with simple sights
of farmers farming and roosters roosting,
hoping I bind my body to stay
and not do something my nerves would regret.
I stand up and see not a soul,
for lightyears on either side of me,
expanses of lifeless grey and white
are my neighbors for now.
Then, I decide to look up,
and there flies a hawk,
silent, cool, and fixated,
and I realize I do have company,
so I jump.

...
soft and subtle, eyes and hips
...
pale white sets on dark pirouette
...
sunshine breathes through the limbs and the leaves
...
each pedal whispers her last autumn song
...
not aware of why I am or where
...
each step traces her placement wrong
...
frailty and perfection,
...
anxious
...
unbound and senseless
...
hearts holding moments of eternity in seconds
...
the thick of winter on her lips
...
behind me; dusk
...
her beauty; dawn

>>4937063
You had me lost up until the end there.

>bretty gud/10

bump for critiques of other poems ITT. I've critiqued enough

My hexagon’s long gone out.
The wax we stole off petticoats and
Barnacles liberated from the hulls of boats
Turned honey from the stress; fermenting
There, amongst the mess of our salty wares.
And
It wasn’t long before the bee’s came drifting,
Pollen ridden beggars with empty bowls worn
Like terracotta crowns, souls freed from their
Geometric cells—And Love, that howling beast,
Not content to ring one lonesome bell, rather
An
Orchestra of buzzing offbeats. Chimes
Let resonate to some queen frequency,
A cheesecloth hive; a makeshift bag of tea.
Let it steep—Just be— Aware of the metaphor
That can be drawn between you and I:
A
Honeycomb kingdom of orderly
Disorder. The halls composed of sound:
A knock-knock-knocking rain. A circle coming
‘round. A muse, the notion of patterned chaos:
The fluid markings of Jade; rigid wood grain.

Fret not your failings. fledgling heart
If sin weighs heavy, truth atones
Live life in ease, in ease depart
And weigh your words for truth alone.

A man is most himself alone,
And pain's embrace is living art
In smearing sin about the soul,
Fret not your failings, fledgling heart.

Temptation plays a martyr's part
In evil flames all good is forged
So stay unburdened, as you start-
If sin weighs heavy, truth atones.

And vital too, the seeds you sow
As unto me, your joy impart
Since God awaits your coming home
Live life in ease, in ease depart.

Brief waking is a listless march
Time's a taste of the unknown
Fret not your failings, fledgling heart
And weigh your words for truth alone.
this is a rondeau redouble I wrote when my niece was born

>>4937673
That's pretty good man, I really enjoyed it. Not much that comes to mind as far as criticisms, keep up the good work.

bump

>>4937177
>>4937673

I very much enjoyed these two

I'd post something, but then I'd have to translate it and it doesn't sound that well.

Loom and never near,
never, so tarry here, today
compromise, away.

I wonder if anyone catches my intent/meaning?

I want to tear a hole
Through time and space
Step right through it
To another place
Not because I want to be a sorcerer
I'm just scared of flying

>>4935567
i like that a lot and>>4935578 it does have some rhythm.

They walk there among them, among
the dead, and the dying, and those
stinking of sweet flesh, licking their
lips with each glance they steal.

This is the way
they come and go,
going gone and...This is
their coming and going
and becoming gone.

Aqui, ahora!
Otra vez mas!
Pero ponte la vista--
a sus ojos!

Trickling down the cracks
they crawl, looking up
to meet my eyes and sing
their yawns and dance along.

I am leaving and I am leaving and
I am leaving and I am leaving and--

This is beyond me; This is behind me.

Pero ponte de
pie y mira debajo
de tus mismos ojos!

It is below me I say.
I am not one of them.
Yo no soy uno con ustedes.

But, but, but--
Oh how they see your shelves!

But I am leaving...but I am leaving...
But I am leaving...

bump

I Saw Her

Her image in the window
I didn't see it;
it was discovered through a secondary source.
He told me of how
the light refracted through the glass,
fired photons
inciting neurons,
just a glimpse of the sun's surface
though nonetheless blinding.
He hopes to see it again.

"Old and New Gospel"

Restless action — the sea swell breaks,
shoots an icy glitter-spray reflecting rays of light
as it travels across uncertain territories,
the earth consumed by the eager tide;
the experience total.

Then the gradual loss of momentum:
sun sallow, the surf receding,
diffusing among the drunken shadows,
imbibing in complacency;
water darkening into a viscous ethanol
and settling as a heavy dew in the red wine evening.

"The Amorphosis"

One day I awoke in my bed
and found a vermin between my legs.
Aroused with pity, and to spare it of shame,
I took a knife
and removed it.
And with that knife
I killed my mother
and fucked my father.
And so ended our significant feud.

>>4932668
Coldplay fan pls go.

>>4932562
This was really good, the first part illustrates the pretense and arrogance of the anonymous moral-fags, the second the grotesque and non-sensical humor of the kek-fags and then it concludes as it did in real life.

>>4935607
I like it.

>>4936579
dope shit

>>4933253
I like how it is so angry and over-the-top that it reveals the gaze from which it arrives to be itself a pretense. "stop trying to ever become rich" because i who criticize you, myself is superficial in my relation to riches, and as such judge you on the basis of those qualities which i myself lack. The gaze is critical because it is itself limited to the world which it criticizes, it is forced to pretend at the same level as those whom it hates.

>>4935607
It is fantastic that you don't know where you're going, it fits perfectly with the theme. Perhaps you should just stop it with that question. Or perhaps you should double-cross it, so that the true complex of strafing from the path would be revealed as the paradox of a solid, specific conclusion.

>>4935685
I like the redundancy of the last sentence, it carries with it denial. The theme of the law of the father as seen in the sun and its relation to its subject the son, is at best repetition. The way you tie it to the fall is nice, but again done before. Also i personally do not like this level of pretense, but i know many who do.

>>4935771
The idea is solid: First the memory mediates the real thing, but it isn't enough, then you try and write it, but again something falls out of the mediation. This idea of "the most" however (brightest, quietest, coolest) has been tied to the theme of memory so many times before, even in regular pop-songs.

you and i were going to meet and sit on a bench today
we were going to meet another friend of ours there too

i texted you 'i can't stay for long'
'but then it won't be worth it for me to come' you said. 'it's a long way'
i said 'but what about our other friend? he can stay there longer with you.'
you said 'we'll just do this some other time then'
'ok' i said.

in the afternoon i ran into our other friend
i told him you won't come and i can't stay for long
he said 'it's ok'.
but i actually i didn't really wanted to sit there with him alone anymore either
so later i thought 'i'll just go home'

i bought bottled water and almond slices
then i went to that bench without the intention to actually wait for our other friend there
i just wanted to sit there for a while
feeling sad

but then i didn't leave and our other friend showed up together with some other guy i'm friends with
so we sat on that bench and drank a beer
we made plans
'let's meet up on the weekend and do a BBQ' said that other guy i'm friends with
'ok, good' said our other friend
i said 'ok'

we said 'good bye' to each other and everyone went home
i will probably not want to go that BBQ and i feel bad for it

you were probably sitting alone at home the entire time being angry with me


the moral of this story is
don't drink beers in the sun and then read a book on the bus
you'll maybe feel dizzy and won't be able to properly focus on the story
but that's it

>>4939985
>>4939988
Anyone? I like both of these and I wanted to hear any criticisms/improvements/compliments etc.

All Poets Get To Write One Poem About Poetry

There is not much left to say about flowers.
As well, I think we can dispense with the sky
descriptions, and accounts of various weathers.
No one cares for conventions anymore so to try
them indulges an urge better left to others.
The dog waits at the owner's grave: loyalty.
The cat leaps upon the lap and purrs: whether
this is a matter of emotional expression belies
the essential solipsism of cats. At all hours.
Nor has the ocean ever much cared to try
much in the way of protest. Atlantis' towers,
Orpheus' severed head, heartless ashes of Shelley --
it's all the same to the abyssals and rollers
and may well be all lies.

>>4939985
The use of "imbibing in" is incorrect, should just be imbibing. Maybe that was for meter.

Man was this pretty though. It was so neat and tidy man, I can see those waves slapping, I can feel myself sitting in front of that red wine evening with the sun sinking into the sea, I can taste that viscous ethanol. It's really nice. I wanna know what the title means.

>>4939988
I get you're referencing Metamorphosis here, and I like to think I know about every separate interpretation of that brilliant short story, but I don't know what you're getting at here.

I've got a couple I could use some help with.

A reporter in a jailroom, whispering her source to a dying bulb
While the prince is in a fable, peaceful in his cradle, convinced of the impossible:
"All those wicked words I used to build my wild Western truth!
I was just following the rules. Yeah, I did what I had to do."
So now its later than it needs to be
And in the dulcet tones of dream
The prince atop his chariot,
Heaven bound & glory be.
A mother in a market chases after children that she barely knows
While the father on the barstool, dropped off by his carpool, is playing a familiar role:
"I used to be a conquering king. I watched the slow stars shoot & swing.
And when I'd wake, the world would sing. But now, I can't hear anything."
So now its later than it needs to be
And while his stranger family sleeps
The king looks for his castle,
Heaven bound & glory be.
There's a myth we must've made
One we're spreading every day
In every dying dream we grieve
The humming hole we fight & feed
It's the loving lives we long for
Heaven bound & glory be
A man in a hotel room, tangled to his teeth by the telephone
He's waiting on a woman, wondering what she's doing,
And pacing 'cause his pulse won't slow.
He drums his legs and pulls his hair; he carves her dimples in the air.
The raging world has spooked him scared, and he don't want her lost out there.
So now it's later than it needs to be
And though his aching eyes want sleep
Against all rationality
Against everything he believes
He prays for her protection,
Heaven bound & glory be.
I pray for your protection,
Heaven bound & glory be.

>>4941087
One more, for now.

So what if it's boiling? I'm awake and I'm happy
The sun's steepling its shards on my floor
I drag my feet to the shower and I hear someone singing
"I keep the lights off while the water gets warm."
Now I knot up my tie and toss books in a schoolbag
To keep my priorities straight
So I can sleepwalk through work like an outpatient program
I don't buy but go to anyway
And at some point I'll message you, to tell you I miss you
That you are the point of my days
And my face will get flushed and my throat will choke up
When you view it and don't answer "hey"
So I have been thinking of splitting this birthday
To see everyone I'd like to see
And you're first on that list
You're the lotto I hit
You're the smell of the wind from the sea
And I have been feeling this good for a reason
My friends and my family
You all are my backbone
You keep me balanced and settled
And I"m in debt to you all endlessy
So tonight I will call you and try to say
"Thank you for being the sun on my face
I know the world's almost over but you make it seem better
So I hope for you I do the same."

>>4940639

I liked the first, untitled version of this better.

>>4940639
This is good. Try replacing "Atlantis" with something else

Wednesday Night Bingo at the Working Men's:

Then! An excited shout, a cry of relief - "It's Here!",
Meanwhile, jilted neighbours quietly cure and jeer -
"It's always bloody over there*",
Ten pounds then changes hands,
From group collective to single man,

A triumph! A joy! When the Gods intervene,
It's in number form, they slip from view - unseen

*I have a Yorkshire accent so "over" becomes "ovver" and "there" is pronounced to rhyme with "here"

>>4941590

*quietly curse and jeer,

Collect your shrapnel and glue,
pile it upon the mountain's pew,
for the snow has melted bare
through ravines to town's square.
We fetch a bucket to glean some drops,
and palm the sky till the season pops.
Lacquer cradles encrust our home,
where diminutive creatures live and rome.
Complications fall and again arise,
I hope you'll gather libations at my demise.
For yesterday we must wait eternal time,
yet soon we'll bathe gilded in lux of lime.
So, I banish a beast's roar from my throat,
praying for a dear and dulcet final note.

>>4942050


fuck, I meant *roam

BASTARD

Parasites. One clings to me;
not an insect but perhaps?
Sepia tones flash away on the wall.
click, click click...
I grimace to the click.
Something is latched onto me (not gum from below the seat,
nor a parasite, but it is no bother).
Yes, it is no bother, no bother for me.
Just leave it alone.

A hunger boils, it burns its way through me;
Until very little of me, Oh,
So little is left standing.
Maybe somebody might walk in;
Take pity.
But I don't need to worry do I?
I'm not at an age where I’m allowed to do such things.
I am not a husk, a paper cut out, nor a silhouette,
This is all I need.

In this place, where the moon does not dare speak,
Where mould grows on the spirit, waters wreathed in an deathly algae,
a thousand smiling crocodiles wheeze away at whatever weight I hold.
Their hell swarms pick away at my remains,
an insect driven automaton I roam.
Their hunger is just as relentless as mine.
But they've taken enough,
and I've given them all I could give.
A look of despair won’t save me, for they are starved of me.

My great hour is upon me.
It creeps, the tortured beast,
cheated and denied salvation.
It now gallops, fueled by this channeled witches breath of mine.
Its hunger boils from deep within still,
Its bones are splintered, it's body bled dry.
I fear not this beast, I will embrace it.
My body will embrace this point of no return.
The beast hungers for my parasites.

Please help me with my poem anons, please be harsh and honest

>>4943318
Here is a second poem

BACTERIA

With every article a child dies,
what do they think about?
-when their eyes lock, with you.
One has a fear for life,
the other only exists to cleanse.

The last two dates left me in tears,
where will the next one leave me?
Along the maggot ridden shores of the Acheron?
For where else is there a place for somebody such as me?
I keep the fungus alive, I encourage it.

I lie in bed, thinking about when you will sink yourself inside me,
from above, with a sinister kiss.
I wish I could bring myself to catch every last drop.
Conduct my spine or take my mind.
Take my breath. But don’t hurt me.

Consume me, for I am but a song for you to bend.
A treat for everyone to enjoy.
What happens if my mother walks in on you…
turning me into a squirming mess on the bathroom floor?
My love will not go unforgotten.

I want to know if any faults I see are the same faults you see

>>4943318
How can title their poem 'BASTARD' and not immediately be hit in the face by the pathetic edginess of it all.

Green absinthe is the potion of the damned...

a deadly poison silting up the veins...

while wife and child sit weeping in their slum...

...pours absinthe into his brains.

>>4943361
A bastard child, a person born of parents not married to each other
A bastard poem, a poem I made without having a great understanding of poetry because im still learning

it's all shit guys

>>4943382
Well I apolgise for not realising the meta and
I hope you get better
Not in criticism, but in feta
Cheese
33982342 2

But you when they that love, even such art
Bright in sweetest things out the lark at that
Showed play in grecian tires are filled the
Fragrant rose, being crown'd, even by the

Lark at me myself I'll read this glutton
Be dispos'd to use the joy above a
House fall by unions married, than when tyrants
Crests and she hath next my poor retention

Of their end. So thou shalt find out each in
Another's after yourself's decease, when
Others all in my judgment knew mainstream
Feeding is endeared with film worship

Thy worst all thy heart to the statute of
Thee to thy sum my heart's history is.

Choose life vulgar herd,
Even by your shadow to invent
He is thy resemble, -- as
Soon as oft when words to the vulgar.
If he could his height be unappreciated.

Chromatic creases reach across the sky
just outside my bedroom window
North of Venus, South of some constellation,
and they pluck and pull at some strings unseen
by most eyes that share their presence
yanking up lank limbs with little effort
like one would with a taxidermied rat
on golden strings glimmering by a night-light.

Look!
Insist on something less than zero.
Capture every drop with a sponge, and
Keel over only when you've drained completely.

Master the mast on your future ship,
Yaw and pitch without an equalizer.

Bind your thoughts to blueprints too,
Admiring the importance of those drops.
Call back to whoever grabs your attention;
Kayak down the stream.

Cease!
Yellow diseases:
Scurvy!
Topple over, only when depleted.
Savor the acrostic litanies in your belly.

Since you have been gone I obtained your features
to comply the lacks, my face is by now your mausoleum
and there's no such thing in this world that resembles of you more,
even if it often smiles at things that you would never find amusing.
I would want to burgle my soul like a basement
filled with fading magazines about summer and diseased trees,
and only leave the walls; in order to become essential,
cold as the marble that makes your parents rich.
I could not evoke you with my lexicon that can be counted
on fingers, so I avoided to do it, and everything that recalls me of you
is kept near as relic's splinters after a shower of bombs
and it is insinuated in porosities of the magmatic stone that replaced my skin.

Hard...

...cocks.

Dick so big, it looks like its melting.

Hard...

...cocks.

Eraser-head thick, sonic ejaculate.

Final...

...boss.

Putrid. Rancid. Infected. AIDS. Dumpster-green. Festering. Barnacles.

Hard...

...Knocks.

Fuck so hard, call me "Fuck hard"

>>4944338
Subtle
Unto
Coy.
Knowing

My limits
Yet observing

Determinate etiquette,
I say to you:
Cultivate
Kelp.

>>4945380

Terrible teeth sink into my neck.
Recoil! I say to thee,
Yank at the tendons of another.

Heralded as mistakes,
Armies wince at themselves in mirrors.
Recall the enameled filth from before.
Duress is all that is brought.
Enough to raze a city creeps.
Reeling forth another set, sooner than before.

>>4940039
Thanks for this. It's just, I don't know. Which is good of course. But I had one more end stopped line in my head - "Surely then, to carry home." or "Surely then, I'm carried home". I don't know how I was going to reach that, I don't even know if it would have been a proper ending. This was the first poem I wrote where I felt like every word had a significance behind it and had actually been chosen to do something so it's the one I cared most about ITT.

>>4935607
>>4935685
>>4937687
>>4937987
Thank you all. The "beaming sun" one was one I wrote a long while ago when I was 16.

A man stood
He stood among many
Dancing and swaying
Uncontrollably
Marching and stepping
To the beat
This man wore glasses
To accent his dark complexion
His teeth glistened
In contrast to his skin
He wore fools gold between his lips
And then he proclaimed
He yelled at the top of his lungs...


TURN DOWN FOR WHAT

MY MIND SHOUTS LIKE A CRUISES HORN
TOO MANY PASSENGERS TOO MANY TORN
I SIFT THROUGH THE WATER HOPING TO FIND
ANYTHING RESEMBLING A WHOLESOME MIND
3-DIMENSIONAL WEBS FULL OF BLACK WIDOWS
FILLING THE BARRELS INSTEAD OF TORPEDOES
I STAND STARBOARD AND LOOK AT THE HORIZON
SQUINTING MY EYES AND AM ALWAYS COMPROMISING
MISING
AND DEVISING
I SCREAM AGAIN ON THE DECK AND FLAIL MY ARMS
BEAMING WITH REGRET, SOMETHING ALWAYS DISARMS
"LET ME ALONE," I YELL TO MY SELF
AND THEN KEEL OVER ON AN ARCTIC SHELF.

MY MIND SHOUTS LIKE A CRUISE'S HORN
TOO MANY PASSENGERS, TOO MANY TORN
I SIFT THROUGH THE WATER HOPING TO FIND
ANYTHING RESEMBLING A WHOLESOME MIND
3-DIMENSIONAL WEBS FULL OF BLACK WIDOWS
FILLING THE BARRELS INSTEAD OF TORPEDOES
I STAND STARBOARD AND LOOK AT THE HORIZON
SQUINTING MY EYES, ALWAYS COMPROMISING
MISING AND DEVISING
I SCREAM AGAIN ON THE DECK AND FLAIL MY ARMS
BEAMING WITH REGRET, SOMETHING DISARMS
"LET ME ALONE," I YELL TO MY SELF
AND THEN KEEL OVER ON AN ARCTIC SHELF.

The stoned way curved toward an finsternis.
Whitegrey type glistenings or shinings.
Twirlhaired wolfish men climbed with green clothings and white shining shirts.
A unison to it, and some red dressed leaders in between.
"Vorwärts! Vorwärts!" One's a teacher, the other an entepreneur.
The greencoloured begin to hack, closer now to an finsternis, words whispered in their twizzling earwaxed hearers, on to stones set sideways by other green or yellowclothed wolfish men and kinder.
One or two have thoughts of white breasts.
Another has a fetish for belly buttons and licking armpits and eyes.
Some are dribbling on their slabs.
"Nein! So geht das!" the reds schrei.
He thinks, he thinks of the meaning of "von".
The true meaning, that is.
He wants his mutti.
His muttis pink busen and he wants them jetzt.
3 am. Witching hour. Es wird dunkler.
There are passing tradesmen with long triangular hats selling strange moving sacks of babies or snakes.
They come out of the finsternis as though born just for 3 seconds to provide die Grünen with some thing else.
And still they throw themselves, piss stained 'gainst the stoney slabs in the name of Kultur,
which for some reason has a different connotation in Tiutschland.
Someone convinces him that if their plight did not exist,
they would be in a worser state.
A whip provides food.
All are waiting impatiently on the passing of the dark clouds.
That the sun would come up and they would see the hills provide them with some thing else that wasn't just more triangular shaped men.

Ting-a-ling, my finger tips sing
electrified by the touch you bring.
I waltz by somewhere you've been,
milliseconds ago, letting you win.
Races, beats leaving traces
of white-washed, dimple ridden faces.
I lay down the cloth so we can sit,
then make sure all the candles are lit.
A bag of bread, cheese and crackers
your porcelain skin, hair that lacquers,
bring me more than the mailman has
a cherry sip, scrumptious razzamatazz.
The ebb of the sun, the shadows do dance,
twinkling your eyes, making me trance.
Like arteries full of sap, all is euphoric,
when split apart, it burns like phosphoric.
The center of our world is the sun's core,
synthesizing helium is never a bore.
Even scientists know, fission destroys,
so let's stay stable, like neon or poise.
But, if things only have half a life,
such as the molecules in you.
Then will doubling ourselves halve the strife?
Who knows, but trying will do.

Television static
Hides behind glass eyes
And short skirts
Penetrate like bitter sunshine

Briefly.

I pull back my hair
And count the imperfections
Before sticking my head
In an Easy-Bake Oven

>>4947843
Not terrible, and the caps actually does what I think you intended it to do. I'd suggest learning to write within structures and it'll help you clean up your free verse into something that isn't going to be mistaken for metal lyrics.

>>4944320
I like this a lot. Don't quite understand the last line and how it fits into the poem as a whole. But I really enjoyed this one and don't feel like I'm able to make any real technical criticisms.

>>4942050
I like this. "I hope you'll" and "yet soon we'll" broke the tone and flow of the poem for me. Can't say exactly why, but statements of desire/proposing things to another addressed character always seem to pull me out of the abstractions of a poem. I don't think it's too bad here at all, but that's the only criticism I have, subjective as it is.


Here's one of my own, turning it in as part of a portfolio next week for a class:

Gasoline Rainbows

Racecar grin you ain't no landmark
Got the Midas touch, it wasn't quite enough
Couldn't grab the moment, just the trademark
We had no cards and you called our bluff
Turns out half a tank wasn't close to enough

Even from the front seat I have to agree
Cardboard on pavement muddles the spaces
Between Point A and Infinity
Let's pull some blue skies into our cages
And fill our faces with empty spaces

Try and crawl out from under that absence of dark
Forget all the wills, forget all the mights
Spread out in the sunset of your bleeding heart
It ain't safe, chagrin dancing with a knife
It ain't safe, chagrin dancing at these heights

bumping for sum critique

>>4940016
That's it. I'm off of this site dawg. You're too right.

Poem No. 2

The river flows beneath the vibrant trees
Stones grow
And weeping moss hangs low
The sun intrudes with sparkling golden beams

Poem No. 13

The sun beats fiercely in America
Feverishly
The shade is kind to me
Sweet forgiving shade
Shade me from my sins oh Mother of God
Shade of night with shining garments of starlight
Shade me from my sins oh Lord
Shade unbright in all embracing light

Poem No. 5

Two worlds collide silently,
Rain falls, while wind breathes.
Dogs bark
Wind
Leaves

>>4940212
Needs to be deconstructed further, way too pretentious, way too insincere. You don't have to prove anything anon.

>>4932562
>We are a legion
>Forget us

Those last two lines seem to echo forever.

On a millimeter
there is love and hate without a sentient heart
objectivity alarms the beast
his dreams seem throb in thy
in the dreams of a scientist
the most surreal sentiment arises
and the whole world becomes logical
love is without means.


The abstract is without a cloud
the cloud exist only in thy mind
our neuron based processor
cannot see the beauty of the metaphysical
The cloud is not God
but its creation and creator play
with their polymorphic bastard children

And the analogy seems weak
and the truth is not enough
and the knowledge is insufficient
and the limits disappear from your mind
bottomless pit, infinite sky, the limits abide.
the hyperbole converges.

The end is the beginning of the end
mu seems to be the only answer
and the answer seems to be the problem
and the problem seems to be mu.

At a bus stop,
I feel the empty spaces in my Wellingtons.
This world is too large.

Men in shorts cavort in a field
onlookers shout and jeer
commentary focus on persona
short men with short tempers
meaningless careers
no one will remember

pls don't judge i'm 16

Racing the sun down a desert highway
The mountain casts it's darkness
The sky disappears
The painted white lines are my only friends
I leave them all behind

Calcium:

milk shakes
me to my bones.
a child hood-winked
our perceptions distorted

>>4949579
I don't like No.2 or .13 at all, the descriptions sound really unimaginative and clunky

I like No. 5 though
>Dogs bark
>Wind
>Leaves

I like how playful this is

Perpetual uneasiness
And the sky becomes a wave of rolling noise
And your interjections contribute
To the haze. Fragmented like television static reflected off shattered screens and
Glass pupils

and you wonder why your kids do the things they do?

>>4950331
>pls don't judge i'm 16

Mods! Mods! Mods!

He came to me with money in his hand.
he offered me, I didn’t ask him. I wasn’t knocking
someone’s door down. I was running from that.
When I got out I was in that, I was already
through that, I had that. I had the studio.
I went to the studio, I went to Fox Studios.
I had it all and I looked at it and I said this a bigger
jail than I just got out of. I don’t wanna take my time going to work. I
got a motorcycle and a sleeping bag, and ten or fifteen girls.
Why the hell I wanna go off and go to work for?
Money? I got all the money in the world. I
’m the king man.
I run the underworld, guy.
I decide who does what and where they do it at.
What am I gonna run around and act like
I’m some teeny bopper or somewhere for somebody else’s money? I make the money man. I roll the nickels. The game is mine.
I deal the cards.

I’m the James Dean of the dole queue
You’ve got to admire my cheek -
Trying to work out how to live fast and die young
On seventeen-fifty a week.
A legend in my own cubicle
All alone, never one of the mob
I’m the James Dean of the dole queue
A rebel without a job.

The farmer's back is damp with sweat,
And bears a ton of wheat and corn.
Like you. You sat up on your net.

It toils his fields, avoiding debt,
The kids are blazing on the lawn.
The farmer's back is damp with sweat.

His legs are with urea wet
The trouser knees are stained and torn.
Like you. You sat up on your net.

His money made aside was set
To give to kids from himself born.
The farmer's back is damp with sweat.

Investment turns to bags of ket,
Resit exams and fucked up porn.
Like you. You sat up on your net.

The farmer's back is damp with sweat.
Like you. You sat up on your net.

Der Narr

Es lacht das Adelsvolk am Hofe,
Als der Narr im Kreise springt,
Und wie er eine schiefe Strophe
Über seine Torheit singt.
Es tanzen seine Puppen immer
Für den Spaß der Majestät.
Und der Narr wird dumm und dümmer,
Von der Früh' bis in die Spät'.

Jedoch
Zum tollsten Werkzeug wird ein Tand
In des tumben Toren Hand.

Einst legte er ins Herrscherbette
Einen fremden Frauenstrumpf.
Als zeterten die Zanksonette,
Hielt er lachend seinen Rumpf.

Im Gottesdienst vernahm man Zischen,
Als der kühne Pfaffe sprach.
Der Narr rief unerkannt dazwischen,
Bis ein Zwischenstreit entbrach.

Beim Gelage tat er fremde
Kräuter keckernd in den Wein,
Macht' sich auf zum Zimmerende
Und bejubelt das Bespeih'n.

Auf dem Turm der Sternespäher
Blickte in die Himmel auf.
Doch der Rat des Narren „Höher!“
Warf vom Turm ihn auf den Bauch.

Dem Künstler riss der Hofnarr wieder
Seinen Pinsel aus der Hand,
Oder spuckte auf ihn nieder
Von der grauen Mauerwand.

Doch lacht das Adelsvolk am Hofe,
Wenn der Narr im Kreise springt,
Und wenn er die schiefe Strophe
Über seine Klugheit singt.
Es tanzen seine Puppen immer
Für die wahre Majestät.
Und der Narr tut dumm und dümmer,
Von der Früh' bis in die Spät'.


Translation:

The fool

The noble folk at court laughs
as the fool is jumping in circles
and as he sings his crooked verse
about his folly.
His puppets always dance
for the fun of the majesty.
And the fool becomes dumb and dumber
from the early to the late.

However
The greatest tool a frippery becomes
in the hand of a dumb fool.

Once he put into the ruler's bed
a strange woman's stocking.
When the quarrel sonetts scolded
he held his stomach laughing.

In church one could hear swishing
when the bold parson spoke.
The fool, unrecognized, called inbetween
until a between-dispute broke off/started.

At the banquet he put strange
herbs cackling into the wine.
Went to the end of the room
and laughed at the spewing.

On the tower the star watcher
looked up into the skies.
But the advice of the fool "Higher!"
threw him from the tower onto his stomach.

Again the fool plucked the artist's
brush out of his hand.
Or spit down upon him
from the grey castlewall.

But the noble folk at the court laughs
when the fool jumps in circles
and when he sings the crooked verse
about his cleverness.
His puppets always dance
for the true majesty.
And the fool acts dumb and dumber
from the early to the late.

>>4950899
He said that all so fast and on the spot.

>>4950905

i like it. nice.

Logical Phallusy

We can be
witness to the first unmanned dildo in outer space—
strap a camera on the shaft
and document it's ascent.
I pleasure myself
to the tune of Also Sprach Zarathustra.
This is history in the making,
guys—we can only go
up from here.

>>4949505
if someone takes a look at this i'll critique yours as well

Sometimes I wish
I could smash your head against the pavement
and ask
WHY AREN'T YOU GETTING BETTER?

My name is Dooa Marma
and my parents are pretty out there
like they like to smoke a lot and go camping
in the National Park with tents made of natural fibers
and they bathe only sometimes and never went to college
but I was never the sort to embrace
a bohemian lifestyle like they do
and they don't push me toward that stuff
so I'm thankful for that
and thankful that at least they are genuine people
and care about me enough and want me
to live in a way that I am happy

>>4953965
i liked this one. I can feel all your emotions in those words.

>>4937610
I'll need to read it a few more times to understand the theme but it sounds very nice. I particularly like the enjambment. Although the lines "And "An" "A" don't flow well, to me. But they may go along with the theme.

Very nice poem.