/lit/ - Literature

>>5654675
Ok I think yours is pretty bad. Here's mine.

it's ham for dinner and i'm jewish
god mom, i thought we went thru this
i converted just the other day now
please wash my yamaca and give me a beef hotdog,
kosher only, that's what i eat
i keep my room all nice and neat
i love hygiene and praying
that's my scene - just saying.

July 30, Oxford, England

Leaves shine wet in light
Echoed dusk on night bricks tall
The garden soil sighed

I like simplistic haikus.

>>5654675

I like it. Can't really say much else because I have down syndrome.

>>5654675
I don't like it

The pinched wheat of elk dumplings
looks like a puckered Tamarin's kiss
or Lucy's fossilized cooch from Ethiopa.
Dried of steam, soy sauce douses the pocket
of salty, succulent, sweet, sizzling, scrumptiousness.
The sticks chop the gurgle between my teeth
as my eyes steady across the table towards–
the elk dumpling squirts as I clench, eyes popping–
your batting lashes as the wires in my head tighten
and strum to the chorus of "Hey batta batta,
Hey." Your slice of white dices me up
as the elk dumpling slides gleefully
down my swollen esophagus like us in a waterpark
with your feet tickling mine
like they are now, you dirty slut.

MOD
ERA
TED.

hint: pic related

>>5654822
Fair enough. Care to explain?

>>5654855
I have a faint idea of what you mean but I'm fairly sure this went over my head.

>>5654878
>>5654855

Well, it's mainly about the fact that it's the mod era, Ted (Talks are a concise way of consuming modern ideas). It's also strictly moderated in letter use because I met ore, Dad...People look for gold in the darnedest places and for the darnedest reasons, and when they find it, they become greedy and groveling, even with their words. Anyway, it can be interpreted any which way you want.

See: Aram Saroyan.

Only english?

>>5654952
These threads are never English only m8
Post whatever language you want, although I can't guarantee it'll get feedback. I only speak English, Spanish, and broken German

Jerk the lock and spring the catch
Knife in boot to lift the latch

Tumble through and gently land
A ghost of dust, it rises grand

And under foot the floorboards creek
As skittering mice in drywall squeak

And left behind things lie around
On littered desk and filthy ground

An empty house is like a heart
It's purpose shorn with life's depart

But morbid hands with scalpel reach
The waiting dead have things to teach.

>>5654969
I like it!

>>5654675
shit

my turn. I wrote this to highlight the dangers of experimenting with drugs. It's appropriate for the holiday season.

>catch me running from the dankenstein monster
>eyes zombie red from him smoking that ganja
>up from the grave
>no one is safe
>sensimilla smoke fills you with evil and hate
>me gonna make this an irie monster mash
>natty werewolf blowing bongloads of hash
>mummy rolling up a paranormal spliff
>and he's tearing off his bandages to roll it up with
>shocked by the lightning from the mountain top
>lion of judah, bless my cursed crop
>and I
>I and I
>me animate again, me alive
>re-animate again, me alive
>natty natty neckbolts make I alive

>>5654986
shit

>>5654986
Fookin' standard.

Irie man.

>>5654675
>>5654832
>>5654969
>>5654986
Shit.

>>5654986
What the fuck

my screen froze, and saw the whole discourse
as technology had failed me.
what was it here for? a serviantal exhaust
that heaves at the lost,
its masterpiece.
for at this cost
we have to have faith, following the stafes,
obeying its movements
like a dancer to the strings,
or a prisoner along the pavements;
the kings, bowing to their knees,
the mighty sword held once proudly
as the sun caught against its metal sheen
to give life to the ground below,
nurish us, we did, we did well
up into the point of ambiguity,

we could no longer communicate through the winds-
as we killed off the ancient rules
only to prove
that nature could no longer be part of our sins.
the foaming sea,
washing away all the trees,
crushed the sand on shore
into chrome and shining sheek.

"build from here, up-
the heavenscrapers, its new name,
we will make it better, for there is no God anymore."

"where the higher we post,
the harder the fall, but toast,
to the vessage of the future which
we shall pave away."

information flows through us, beyond us;
do i question it?
can i question it?
i'm put into the web,
barechested, outstretched-
the spider approaches, red orbs in blank daze,
slowly lower, vemon plunged into my veins.
its retracts, leaving its victims
to suffer until their death,
which corrodes and errodes
away the septums
then quietly into the brain
it pains;
most don't notice they're dying, but by then
the spider was already spun
a web that one
does not know.

archaic forms,
the one of material.
the real is obsolete.
we can try to stay still,
but as its will
we are pushed into a sprint
with no looking back.
it is behind us, we must learn to build our new history.
we are the archivers,
and i am the reader.
gone the revivers
and limped leaders.
cold, digital muses with veiled crooked smiles will travel as apart
of this harsh river, dismantling the humanity and the heart.

>>5655058
Shit shit

we made us then and all along
beyond white rush of water
and all the living sons of father's daughters
made them homeward with a shrug

the veil was lifted,
bridled linen torn
a shroud to drown away the outer:
hands in ash and cupping cheeks
the sigh of mothers

Babel's tainted, sooted drawers
the air in teak and leather
saintly heather for the altar
for the lain about the floor

again the rain's let in
the flood's all drew
the babble shook the roots from out her clasping

seven daughters swung to farther
lain as heather at the door,
no longer dancing

A map would be nice
From my words to gods ears
If I said I could move anytime I feel?
Would it be frightening?
Reciprocate what can never be equal
Not a square
A fourth fold lets out
Eight and ten slip through the missing rib
With a reluctance
No hand me down names and violence
Juniors with raised defenses
Mitigate the misplaced kindness
Your vague advice
Free associating to curb the edge
All I really need
If you read me
Because I want you to
It's only here for you
I only like the things I make
That started in the middle with you
My right hand to the left foot
Letting a leap of a test
A fish in the ocean or nubile on the cross
Vesica piscis, I see you all the time
Overlapping the sixth
All my sad things
Most of the old things
To take it seriously
To get results use reason
The first fold to make a point
You think I don't realize?
Spitting out health food
Last of them the thirteenth and trailing second
Still jealous of your England
To make my thoughts bearable
Swept away like a small one
Placing your tone somewhere distinctly unromantic
Dissolved in your guts like wild rice
I know you are cruel to yourself
And I know you could be kind
It wouldn't kill me to let you have it all back
I am crude, paranoid, what a wonder
Some flag folding sycophant
Avoid making sense or credibility
To articulate a screaming feeling
Rambling words set to a pair of loops
This won't be the last of me
Stopping to sense the doom
It just happens, every so often

A Venn Diagram

A map would be nice
From my words to gods ears
If I said I could move anytime I feel?
Would it be frightening?
Reciprocate what can never be equal
Not a square
A fourth fold lets out
Eight and ten slip through the missing rib
With a reluctance
No hand me down names and violence
Juniors with raised defenses
Mitigate the misplaced kindness
Your vague advice
Free associating to curb the edge
All I really need
If you read me
Because I want you to
It's only here for you
I only like the things I make
That started in the middle with you
My right hand to the left foot
Letting a leap of a test
A fish in the ocean or nubile on the cross
Vesica piscis, I see you all the time
Overlapping the sixth
All my sad things
Most of the old things
To take it seriously
To get results use reason
The first fold to make a point
You think I don't realize?
Spitting out health food
Last of them the thirteenth and trailing second
Still jealous of your England
To make my thoughts bearable
Swept away like a small one
Placing your tone somewhere distinctly unromantic
Dissolved in your guts like wild rice
I know you are cruel to yourself
And I know you could be kind
It wouldn't kill me to let you have it all back
I am crude, paranoid, what a wonder
Some flag folding sycophant
Avoid making sense or credibility
To articulate a screaming feeling
Rambling words set to a pair of loops
This won't be the last of me
Stopping to sense the doom
It just happens, every so often

>>5655058

Shit is as shit does.

The sounds come out from the concrete, woodwork,
they come, and come, and we sit silently
unknowing who, where, what, why, but
hearing all the same, through the windows, cracks.
The noises, they rise up and fall, befall at night-
fall and rise, recede and surge, falling and
rising: the sun and the moon and the tides and
the breath. We keep listening for the sounds
to see when they'll stop, continue, stop, return,
waiting to discover where, who, what, how,
doing nothing but listening to the sounds, the noise,
why–a clash, a scream, a screeching scrape, clicks,
hollers, howls, operatic hums, incredible thunder, a bang!
And nothing. We hear, listen for nothing, waiting still,
nothing, silence, yet, something- nonothing, no more sounds but
a noiseless nothing, from where, who, what, how
nothing persists, unknowably, unquestionably,
nothing, and then we hear a–no
nothing.

Here is mine

You are you, You were born as you, You can't be anyone else but you, If you try to be something your not than you are not you, You are the only one who should be you, Nobody else can make you feel like you, Your destiny is controlled by you, Be you and only you, You are the only one you have in this world in the end, Be the one thing that makes everyone beautiful, Younique

>>5655445

>younique

That's a black woman's name. It has to be.

Anyway, I'm not sure if this is supposed to be an isolated slice of prose, a poem, an excerpt from something else, general advice, or what, but the idea is certainly a nice one. That being said, you should incorporate it into something else if it already isn't (and don't let the fact that the concept has been conveyed elsewhere before, because you're just doing YOU).

>>5655425

Sounds very much like Beckett.

This garden is so vast that we have never met its caretaker.

What is this? Have you forgotten that you are angels?

Meat Wagon

Opening a window—just a slit—she blew out a puff smoke
He was still reclined, his eyes now closed, with an arm covering them
Shielding her dark blue uniform that was split down the middle

She reached inside, crossing her right hand towards the left
Squeezing herself like a stress ball, cigarette limp in her mouth
Squinting to help her think like she always did

Abandoning countless codes of conduct on slow days
In the back of the box on wheels, among the life saving equipment
Trained in the techniques of mouth, chest, and torso

How to move a body
How to handle stress
Steady hands

People had died on the same stretcher where he resurrects her
Rattling the cabinets and oxygen tanks like a reckless rescue mission
Reaching for the handcuffs, joking about using the defibrillator

They had seen it all and genuinely cared to help
But this was how they escaped, a way to forget it all
The blood and death, the violence, sometimes sexual

She closed her eyes and thought about his gloved hand
Canvasing their bodies for puncture wounds,
Sliding across her skin, purple latex

She wished the radio would never again mount with static
Groaning in a mumbled code for help
As they aligned zippers and sterilized their hands

She always grimaced when people called it the meat wagon
Though that’s all it really is
He uncovered his eyes and blinked, again?

You smile without thinking and
A camera appears

Sometimes you forget
Who you are and
Where you are and
Become your skin and
Freeze
In a photo you cannot be seen.
You can never be—
No one can see beneath.

We laugh loud enough to be heard and
Move apart. We get our drinks and
Walk away.

Sometimes you break
Just for the moment
One lip pushes up
The other falls down
There is blood in your mouth
It trembles up to your lips from
Beneath

Smile
(You fuck)
She’s right
Don’t you want to smile?
You have such a nice smile
She will kiss you if you smile
She will seal it with her own and
Your mouth will stretch open and

Freeze, now.
In her arms.

Where one day you would have stopped moving
As you will—
Trying to smile for someone else

Bump

Its one of those times
When you feel like
Nothing would be better
Than for your brain to start
Oozing out of your ears. like Play-Dough.
Creating a literal absence inside your skull
Opposed to the figurative vacuum others have
Come so accustomed to noticing.

And once you wipe your nose clean
Of the leftovers.
The numbness will be relieved
By a lighter sensation

For it would be reason to continue this
Un-thoughtful presence.

Instead of just grabbing the turkey baster
To slurp the mess up.
And putting it inside the nostril,
Transorbital style. and giving the bulb of it
A big squeeze. Taking away that shortly lived
sense of nothing.
was laying in bed wondering what it would feel like if my brain exited my head. so i scribbled this out. it definitely needs some heavy revision at some point but it was something rough.

>>5654675
only cheerleaders use exclamation points.
other than that its pretty aggressively uninteresting.

>>5654692
i enjoy the god being lowercased when you are talking about being religious. it gets too sing songy take the rhyme out completely

>>5654800
wow someone that actually knows all the parameters for a haiku, other than syllable count.

>>5656121
oops, sense of nothing is the last line of the poem, i forgot to hit enter.

posting this for more critique. the end needs a lot of work

This gravel street was warmed by the darkling sunset
hours ago. Now, lit up by bulbs and sparks,
we sit with it and watch the opposite's onset,
silent, bound to the tune of a meadowlark.
The sap-filled tree stands, the hidden sun
heats the iron metal of the park-bench frame.
A light spits forth, the ritual is done,
on the whispered lake now shines a thin flame
that shimmers on the rolling waves. We watch it grow,
averting our eyes from that crack of light
that burns our eyes if stared at. Wind now blows
away the clouds to formally end the night.
The spring has come to end the winter frost,
the time has come to gather what we lost.

>>5654675
>—Metasatirical, semi-ironical
>polyallusive, wholey sincere

I cringed. Bravo, OP.

and happened again, as always happens.
i cant balance me for my own. its unfair. so unfair.
at time, i want to cry but my eyes are so dry. tears ate me inside.
big walls. big sorrow.

>>5655796
>>5655804
>>5656121
>>5656172
>>5656258
I've already critiqued some in the thread, but have received none in return (other than a short comment). So I'll do you all if you all do me. >>5655425

>>5654800
very noice

>>5654675
disliking your own poem isn't a good excuse for writing bad poetry

>>5654969
not bad but could probably do a little more.

>An empty house is like a heart
>It's purpose shorn with life's depart
i think this couplet is awkward

>>5654986
absolute shit

>>5655425
adequate but feels wordy and a bit imprecise

>>5656172
mostly good except the ending is shit like you say. don't have time to figure how to fix it

>>5656121
one of those free verse poems that is pretty much prose

>>5656895
well, yeah peoms can have prose to them

>>5656920
yes but they should not just feel like prose with line breaks

i love free verse, but free verse should feel like free verse, not prose

bump for public good

>>5655425

Edited:

The sounds come out, out from the woodwork,
they come (and come) and we sit silently
unknowing: the sounds, their origins, their nature,
hearing all the same, ears to the cracks, hearing
the noises. They rise up and down, fall, befall at night–
rising and falling, receding and surging, up and down,
rising: sun and moon, tides and time, din and air,
breath and–We, we keep listening for the sounds
looking to see if they'll stop (but they don't) they persist
So we wait, wondering what, who, where, how, and
(doing nothing but listening in silence to the noise)
why–the crashes, the screams, the screeching scrapes, the clashes!
Hollers, howls, horrendous hums, terrific thunder, a bang!
And then suddenly!

Nothing,
silence.
We sit silently, listening, hearing nothing, waiting, hoping
for–nothing, silence. Yet, we wait for something, a noise, a–
There! There! A hint of something!
No, nothing,
no more sounds but a noiseless nothing–a void–
Where did they all go? The sounds, why leave us
with: this silence, this mystery, this nothing, why–
We wait, listing our wonders, still listening, waiting yet
nothing persists, unknowably, unquestionably, inconceivably
nothing persists and persists and then we hear a–no,
nothing. We hear nothing. We hear a
nothing. We hear a silent
nothing. We hear
nothing.

>>5655425

Decided to revise it.

Also, it's meant to be read very quickly, so keep that in mind, por favor.

The sounds come out, out of the woodwork,
they come (and come) and we sit silently
unknowing: the sounds, their origins, their nature,
hearing all the same, ears to the cracks, hearing
the noises. They rise up and down, fall, befall at night–
rising and falling, receding and surging, up and down,
rising: sun and moon, tides and time, din and air,
breath and–We, we keep listening for the sounds
looking to see if they'll stop (but they don't) they persist
So we wait, wondering what, who, where, how, and
(doing nothing but listening in silence to the noise)
why–the crashes, the screams, the screeching scrapes, the clashes!
Hollers, howls, horrendous hums, terrific thunder, a bang!
And then suddenly!

Nothing,
silence.
We sit silently, listening, hearing nothing, waiting, hoping
for–nothing, silence. Yet, we wait for something, a noise, a–
There! There! A hint of something!
No, nothing,
no more sounds but a noiseless nothing–a void–
Where did they all go? The sounds, why leave us
with: this silence, this mystery, this nothing, why–
We wait, listing our wonders, still listening, waiting yet
nothing persists, unknowably, unquestionably, inconceivably
nothing persists and persists and then we hear a–no,
nothing. We hear nothing. We hear a
nothing. We hear a silent
nothing. We hear
nothing.

>>5655023
faggot.

http://youtu.be/ssJhAskKxj8?t=2m24s

>>5658754

Takes one to know one, loser.

>>5658746

How's this mate?

http://vocaroo.com/i/s1oLbwRlnJQq

>>5658812
u sound hot

>>5655084
Just read the first few lines. I'm done.

>>5654675
I think everyone thinks the point of poetry is to confuse readers.

>>5659109
The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful things.


Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom beautiful things mean only beauty.


From Wilde's preface to Dorian Gray

Just a quickie ballad. No metrical form to speak of.

Long ago, there was a mystic sect
in a country in another land.
The order had their secrets kept
In a cavern on a stony strand.

The cave was large, the mouth did loom
A faint chill blew from within.
Shafts of day couldn't pierce the gloom,
That roiling blackness, Stygian.

The treasure that this grotto held
was guarded well, quite sure.
Denizens of the shadows meld
into the tenebrous mass, obscure.

A hallowed thing was deep in there.
Such as it could not be taken.
The stillness that the dark can bear
May be found, but not forsaken.

>>5659212
>ballad
>No metrical form
hmm

>ctrl+f
>no Eluard

I am disappointed

>>5659255
there are so many things wrong with this post that i don't know where to begin

on lesser days, i downgraded social justice to deontological resignation
a Tramontina char on seared skin
forgoing feigned feminism for
anger
sky filling with sinking Sancho hearts
allusions to signal referential intellect
quip-pro-quo, fuck you, get on my level, pushed backwards into woodwork, braced obliques twisting against the knuckle-ridge
back and forth between i hate how she looks away but she’s allowed to look away it’s her choice
which is to say, i cycled in circles, giant steps to cousin Marry
But that’s not how it’s supposed to work.

Shh.

Just keep going, wind in hair, thoughts turned inwards
to the lack of age and
lackadaisical future
wave and smile hello and be the bright things they couldn’t be.

Dark, sharp and elegant
Gentle as a razor blade
Almost as soft as a barricade

You made no fuss
Treating everyone like wind,
Your existence was a matter of opinion

Proximity did you no favors
And so it was for me
I reached out and passed through

Once I thought we could be alone together
We were both stuck, looking back
I repelled you, you attracted me

Pinpricks to my arms,
But I kept on embracing
It was a surprise when you left

While I moved on listlessly
You went ahead and died
Full of contempt, choking on spite

But I loved you
I really did, you know.

I could be a different person
Someone better than me
I could be your favorite person
Just tell me who to be

I could brighten up your days
I could kill the old me
I'll do almost anything
Just tell me who to be

Next time that we meet
You won't recognize me
I'll be someone that you never met before

I would throw myself in front
Of traffic doing high speed
If it meant that you'd be safe
Just tell me who to be

And I will say things you won't like
But I'll say them politely
I'll forget my point of view
Just tell me who to be

Next time that we meet
You won't recognize me
I'll be someone that you never met before

I could be a different person
Someone better than me
I could be your favorite person
Just tell me who to be

>tfw no one responds in the last critique thread

When it's time for me to go,
No one will shed any tears
As far as they're concerned,
I was never here

No one will point to the wonderful things I've done,
No one will recall the wise words I've said
I've done exactly none,
And no wise words were ever expressed

When the time comes
I'll go alone in the night
I'll leave quietly,
I'll turn off the lights

In the end,
A silent exit will do
It's better than a shower of stones
Or a chorus of boos

>>5662308

Dude, I'm sorry but this is terrible.

>>5661930

>quip-pro-quo

I hope that this is supposed to be a pun. If it's not, the misspelling fully characterizes what's wrong with your poem: you're playing with ideas that you're not nearly as familiar or comfortable with as you'd like others to think. If it is a pun, then it also fully characterizes the poem in the same exact way, but also means that you actually think that 'quip-pro-quo' is a legitimately witty remark instead of what it is: a sad, artificial substitute of not having anything meaningful to say. Overall, it's hard for me to read your poem without thinking that your mind has inextricably meld with the hive-mind that is /lit/ to the point that you can't even sparse your own thoughts from common opinion and behavior on this godforsaken board (that I'm inexcusably killing time on). Basically, you're a third-rate Kolsti.

With that being said, I didn't hate it.

A warm body has never felt so cold,
an arched back never so rigid and flat.
Your breath sounds sweet but tastes
like moldy peaches left out in the sun.
I like being a human near you because
you make me feel like a human being:

the fluctuations of a swallowing esophagus
and the childless swings of midday moods
are but graphic representations of functions
(I learned about romance from my parents)
of XY: genetically predisposed to ask why
my body is the only thing becoming harder
while everything else deflates with every step
forward, forward, four words.
So I take a step back to realize
that ease is the hardest thing to deal with
like counting to four
(words in some lines above).

A warm body has never felt so cold,
an arched back never so rigid and flat;
But with such sweet sound breath that tastes
like moldy peaches left out in the tropical sun,
you make me like being human near you
because you make me feel like a human being:
I like to savor
the contractions of a swallowing esophagus
and the childless swings of midday moods:
graphic representations of functions unplotted
(I learned about romance from my parents)
on XY: genetically predisposed to ask why
my body is the only thing becoming harder
while everything else deflates with every step
forward, towards four words
(forward, towards four words)
So I take a step back to realize
that ease is the hardest thing with which to deal
because counting to three
(words are all we need)
is easy as ABC.

The Trespassers

When the dry leaves scratch
on the window sills
and the thunder haunts
the slouching hills
the killdeer sings in the twilit grass
and along the lanes
the dead folk pass

"Here stood the tree
where you carved our names
and there lay the fields
of our pride and shame
can you recall my skirttail
wet with dew?"

A smile, a slight slow nod.

"I do."

" And down below
where the school house rose
and you stood in wrath
with your broken nose
over one who dared to call me sweet?"
" I laid a rosebud by your feet."

"A daisy surely?"
"A red Queen Anne,
plucked by my mother's
own sweet hand. And shyly borne
underneath my shirt."

"I wonder was the other hurt?"
"He died in France,
he lies there still.
Beneath a white stone spotted hill."

"A sad thing. Well, it comes to all."

Now far and shrill the killdeers call.
And back they wend
through the darkening wood
and the two small mounds
where their home once stood.

and the wind wakes up,
as the thunder laughs
and brushes the dead
leaves over the path.

Cleveland is
a drunken town
the sidewalks
and the sewers drown
in weary light,
and broken cloud
the streets are rolled
up in a shroud
of close and troubled
waking dreams
the steam grates
bleeding at the seams
a swagger laid off
by the merchant marine
props a gray alley wall,
like a sidelined machine.
and I have stood
outside the bars
and watched the furtive,
straggling cars
at three A.M.
as they struggle past
to find their home
and rest at last.
And seen the vagrant
wavering moon
that rose too late
and set too soon
and shed too little
hazy light
upon the sodden
Cleveland night

Dialogue

"So, what is a ghost?"


a dead thing, risen;
a sleepless soul
unbodied, unshriven.
come out of some hole
some grave or some shrine
to vex those yet breathing
with voiceless interogations

"why do they walk?"


(a shrug here, a murmur)
They seek something maybe,
they come to give comfort
to visit old haunts
They rise from our memories,
sit in our dreams,
but they're no longer living.
perhaps they forget.

"forget what?"


The dream of life.
the striving, even in sleep,
to draw the next breath'
to find the next word.
and then lose them,
as all others are lost
exhaled into time and the past.
perhaps the path eludes them,
the trail unretraceable.
the end of their life
get's shuffled around.
and the rise and come seeking.

"seeking after what?"


Perhaps to give comfort.
Perhaps to ask questions.
Perhaps to wrap old fingers
around a last kiss
held close in a palm.
and depart again.
Is it lonely, being dead?

But there was no answer.

My soul breathes out
where the skater boys ride
down the dusty grey streets
by the tattoo parlor.

Angry muscles tearing at the breeze,
or sitting solid as a storm cloud
on the horizon,
beneath the locust trees,
sweating in the afternoon shadows.
drinking apple juice form a red cup.

I am that dark shape
beside the swingsets.
hands in pockets,
watching the bottle pass,
from lip to lip,
from hand to brown hand.
I am the silent witness,
pretending to read,
brushing the hair from her eyes,
blown by the same breeze,
that dries your wide backs,
that cools your smooth faces,
that carries your scent,
soap and sunscreen,
perspiration, to where I am,
pretending to read,
watching.
saving this moment
of your lives.

Some Rules for Dreaming

I cannot emphasize these words enough:
take nothing.
They are too real for earth, too dear, the dust
from off your shoes will leave bright stains
upon the simple memory of earth
do no forget that you can fly
and never take a staircase that descends
eat nothing: taste no wine, no kiss, no thought
Beware of passing mirrors in the dark.
exchange no words, remember to forget.
and never meet the eyes of strangers, friends
reflections, portraits, or the dead. Beware
of the familiar strange, the unremembered child
forgotten brother, unbuilt home, yourself.
trust not the dead, but seek their company.
There is a cold bright comfort in the lost.
and standing on a hill upon one foot,
lift up the other too, and hover there,
a yard above the earth, a frail balloon.
and when you leave, when bells or words or light
recall you from the bright and real and void
take nothing, not a sign or sound or face
I cannot emphasize those words enough.

I sing the god carcinoma
devourer of beggar and saint.
across all our tissue
the bulls he gives issue
make every is into an ain't

I sing the mighty sarcoma
Consuming the daft and the wise
In the pallid lymph courses
he marshalls his forces
Decembering all our Julys

Come give us the hymn "melanoma"
the bane of both pauper and prince
when the cool probe insults
and we wait the results,
and the specialist cannot but wince

we sacrifice things on their altars
a lobe or a limb or an eye,
that our doings without
may appease them no doubt
that this bribe might just let us get by.

But the comfort of friends is not cheering
and the struggle does not give release
and the glance of an eye
and the tremor and sigh
and the long dismal wait for decease

Oh drink you the health of Lymphoma:
requiter of dread and despair
and the step on the scale
as it tells a new tale
of a soon to be vacanted chair

But we had some good laughs with him didn't we?
and he made a good run of it though;
have another small round,
he won't wake at the sound.
take the bottle back home as you go.

You have broken the horizon
the darkness impends
And out of the heavens as silence descends
flies the Black Racer,
across the blind earth
the herald of heaven
the weigher of worth

We have scaled up to the summit
all tracks now lead down
from the bright empty future
across the fast fading ground
rides the Black Racer
The forger of fate
the sealer of sadness
the hour has grown late

No more tears on your pillow
the last has been shed
from the last lost tomorrow
to the side of the dead
comes the Black Racer
the calmer of care
to break the last bonds
of desire and despair.

Masquerade

Remember how we used to dance?
when every night was for romance
I'd put on makeup, you'd wear black,
we never thought of looking back
we'd meet in dark exotic places,
where no one knew our names or faces
you'd scowl and mutter, I'd just smile
we'd share the mystery for awhile
the others never understood
it wasn't about the bad and good,
we only had to be together
my crumpled velvet to your leather
my tousled locks, your dark good looks
Like something from the comic books
You'd brood and I would play the clown
I'd laugh, and you would always frown
my silly giddy point of view
could never win a grin from you.
But now I stare out through the glass
and watch the empty evenings pass
I smile above my cup of tea
and wonder if you think of me
and nights, as strong and rich as wine
when I was yours and you were mine.
I dont expect to win your trust
but there's no law that says I must
just sit here waiting for the grave!
and you, live like you're in a cave,
away from life and cool night air
and all the things we used to share
someday I may walk out of here
my cries may find some friendly ear
I'll repent of every rule I broke
and tell them it was all a joke.
and some night find you on some street
just like the ones where we would meet
we'll walk together through the night
and all the wrongs will be put right
we'll do all the things we never did
when we kept our names and faces hid.
and in one of those dim smoky bars
I'll tell you how I got these scars.

>>5662937
>>5662934
>>5662921
>>5662899
>>5662893
>>5662873
>>5662862
>>5662761

>post your work

This isn't a best of /lit/ thread, stop diluting other people's work with poems already deemed good by /lit/ city

That steel in full bloom, and I crave such love
As I have never known
A city never knew its own beauty any better
Than the rest of us did our own
If you get past all the details:

The grimy handprints on all those

Mies van der Rohe windows
The rusted old rooftop water towers
Smells of car exhaust about the bridge
And the clumsy construction cranes
Trespassing upon a murky sunset

Then I’m sure you’ll see
The skyline instead
A thousand ugly things that coalesce
To make one that is beautiful

Reading through this thread, it's clear that ninety percent of the poets here have zero discipline and are entirely unfamiliar with advanced meter and rhythm. The amount of free verse is kind of appalling. If you're not doing anything with your poem but pressing enter, you should just write prose.

I recommend Stephen Fry's The Ode Less Traveled for all you aspiring poets out there.

>>5663239
I uploaded a free verse poem, no one replied to it>>5655152 going to post some lyrics

Remember you were stuck in the corner
Seeing no difference when you're older
Caught my head in your traps
Like scars the bruises will last

Just know that I was true

I was driving last wednesday
Headlights and cars get in your way
A cartoon hazey december
Just like this autumn remember?

Im a lot like you

Things weren't always so smooth
Saw facts, no circus to prove
Maybe I expected too much
Didn't want to fall on the crutch

Back then I needed someone

>http://vocaroo.com/i/s18BZyE6HVOF

Sometimes its hard to find the right words
Or signs to show that your words hurts
I know now its better to be silent
Quiet in companion of a diamond

You once had the scalping eyes of an eagle
Discerned my feelings for what was real
I know now its better to be silent
Quiet in companion of a diamond

You know you don't have to walk here alone
Passed the head that hangs above the throne
I know its better to be silent
Quiet in companion of a diamond

All I have is a hokey little crush for you
You touched my senses and I felt yours too
I know now its better to be silent
Quiet in companion of a diamond

>http://vocaroo.com/i/s0NhuJejzuc5

A solid bar of
Stainless steel
Was jewelery
For the big wheel

If you think
That you need
A second chance to see
If you were just a little stronger
You would never need
Any longer

You're just
Another boy on
The road to destroy
And never be the friendly guy
To the pretty girls
On the road

No don't go
Little druggy joe

You lost your
Love on the
Yellow brick road
Where it went I've always wondered
Someday we're going to know

>http://vocaroo.com/i/s0x14ZtKPYPU
It moved us on, it moved us on
And never knew where we came from

In black and white
The storm had taught
A lesson learned
But soon forgot

And moved along, he moved along
To another island you lived on

I saw a bird
Eclipse the sun
The moon was whole
Then became none

I want to see, I want to see
Another star you could give me

In your shape
I made a town
Through the middle
The rain poured down

But you were gone, you were gone
In my memory you linger on

>http://vocaroo.com/i/s0ueSw4eX6QW

Going back home you said
Had nothing left to do
Nowhere else to go now
Pulled the rug out from under you
Maybe you had something else
Something constructive
Maybe you only had yourself
On which you were floating

Ain't you, any type to say?
Ain't you, a bitter contract kid
Was your act an accomplishment?

I saw we were happy once
Inside a crystal ball
You had those rosy
Slippers standing so small
I knew I had to wake up
I knew you would be there
With those plastic flowers
And colored bugs in your hair

With my hands in your own

>http://vocaroo.com/i/s05gh4XfA9gz

>>5663239

Pshaw, I know my meter and rhythm like it's not anybody's businesses. Try this little couplet on for size (one fit's all).

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater
is trochaic tetrameter.

>>5663069
Curses!!!!

>>5663306
tetrameter doesn't rhyme with eater

walk softly, October
where winter is sleeping
in a blanket of maple
the early stars peeping
neath tufts of high cloud
near a wandering moon
step lightly October
don't rouse her too soon
the wind in the branches
the owl softly calling
the drizzle of raindrops
as evening is falling
may seal her in slumber
for yet a small span
pass slowly October
we spare what we can
soon enough her white scribblings
will mar the clear panes
and her mantle of white
will obscure the bright train
of the maple and laurel
the Oak and the bay
and the night and the chill-blain
once more will hold sway
For a time then yet linger
for a space tarry here
in the mist and the twilight
the fall of the year.

An Ulster City


As I glided past those hills,
they rolled alongside me,
and I saw flaky wood,
shooting up from below.

I drifted on to the smoked town,
with the vein running through it,
where the water did flow,
and powered the iron hand,
of soft linen makers and water wheels.

They still continued the tradtion,
of the ancients of the past.
Rome's Tiber,
Byzantion's Bosphorus,
and Alexandria's Nile.

And as I lowered down,
I was met by granite houses like the ones where, as a child,
I clacked my knuckles across the mountainous surface of brick'd houses,
and watched the cheap plastic rainbow fumed hula-hoops,
sway and devour the motion of swinging.

This city knew many troubles,
funny coats,
bad moustaches,
and long, greasy hair.

Yet, this hangover of imperium,
this city of banners,
still manages the pendulum,
of that melancholy air.

>>5663571

View


As I look to Ulster's steppes,
I listen to those flutt'ring muses
They gently dance their tones,
and, somehow, their choir sings psalms with bass.

I see the curves of gaia,
the ones that look like they
could be squidged and squished,
rippled if struck.

And my gaze on the sweet apple
of earthen swoops, trades with
me delusions of being high-born,
and I wish to vision pulsing banners of dandelion with bloody anatomy,
in the wound between the hills.
My head grows light on the glint of plates and mail.

Those disney cartoons,
drawn on crisp vellum with orthodox shading,
beside antiquated language.
MCCXXV.

And I dream, with consciouss fantasy,
"This land is mine", a dreamt feather’d cap to adorn my thought.

>>5663577

An Ode to Eimear Fearon


Dewless, blades of green
cover a claggy hill,
reaching up to the sweltering
month of August.

Envisioned, her pale body
scarpers up the curve,
wolfing back on the crackling gold,
of the buttercup crushed under
her hard, cool feet.

Subway, her nose paved
to a crashing soft, swiftness.
Twitching black eyebrows track
eyes that say I can stare into the deep brown
waters of a bog-pool. Laden with grass.

>>5663581

Politics


For an eternity,
my hot blob of rock
swole into a collective cud of
both sides yoke.

Divided to the cool
plains of a southern crick,
and ov’r coul the landmass, heavy
and stout to its value.

>>5663584

The Northern Odyssey


The young crinkling sound of pages turning,
on white sheets of linen,
and the trials of Ulysses,

Marks my mind,
as I gaze upon,
the dew pock’d blades of crunched grass in fields so close.

I feel the beaten golden rings,
dance on my bubbling skin,
and cock up the hairs on my paleness to pimples.

And I can see his face,
between Ionic Columns of veined marble,
and under pink linen drapes hanging above.

The juice of grease,
the paper-like texture of the chanticleer’s salted dermis,
entice me into the frivilous feast of cream, cheese and sweet smelling oils.

The bubbling streaks,
of sparkled wine dancing,
in the dusty earth urns,

And the silken sultry tones,
of the bard on his faithful lyre,
beguile me in brain-heavy slumber.

I dozed up to morn,
and set up to the great rustic hills
of Ithaca, and into the mud-marked hut,

where thin sheets of polyphane yellow,
set crackling crumbs of dust ablazon,
and I see it all through two frosted lookers,

surrounded by earth-toned and scarred rusticia,
i see the orchard-tiller’s feast on the table.
The door is made of damp, and chewy wood,

heady in it’s colour and tone.
I look upon and I hear
The Siren’s song,

as it lulls me back to the steppes of Armagh,
from where I wish to be freed

>>5663584

The Northern Odyssey


The young crinkling sound of pages turning,
on white sheets of linen,
and the trials of Ulysses,

Marks my mind,
as I gaze upon,
the dew pock’d blades of crunched grass in fields so close.

I feel the beaten golden rings,
dance on my bubbling skin,
and cock up the hairs on my paleness to pimples.

And I can see his face,
between Ionic Columns of veined marble,
and under pink linen drapes hanging above.

The juice of grease,
the paper-like texture of the chanticleer’s salted dermis,
entice me into the frivilous feast of cream, cheese and sweet smelling oils.

The bubbling streaks,
of sparkled wine dancing,
in the dusty earth urns,

And the silken sultry tones,
of the bard on his faithful lyre,
beguile me in brain-heavy slumber.

I dozed up to morn,
and set up to the great rustic hills
of Ithaca, and into the mud-marked hut,

where thin sheets of polyphane yellow,
set crackling crumbs of dust ablazon,
and I see it all through two frosted lookers,

surrounded by earth-toned and scarred rusticia,
i see the orchard-tiller’s feast on the table.
The door is made of damp, and chewy wood,

heady in it’s colour and tone.
I look upon and I hear
The Siren’s song,

as it lulls me back to the steppes of Armagh,
from where I wish to be freed

>>5663597

Brown Bird

A swiftness of being,
With gentle sky-taps,
Contrasts to the ploddy earthiness
Of the ground below.

The fog had swollen,
You could chew it,
Breathe it,
And squish it in your hands.

It made the sky flax-white,
Refined as a leather purse,
Or gentle oak-stained
Glass of wine.

And with all anchors of land,
A solemn being uproots,
Up, up
And up once more.

>>5663600

A Meeting With the Poet President

As a quiet befalls the whitestruck walls,
Out torrents the wee man,
Hair flowed back from sides, like a shorn monk.

His body waddles with concentration ,
and a commanding warmth surrounds him.
I feel my knuckles tighten across the bone as I clench my fists.

I wait as a soldier,
Then pounce hand to him as he looks up at me.
My our intertwining fingers are drawn in closer to his heart.

It's only now I can properly see him and no-one else,
His face, an owl,
And his eyes scarred with wisdom.

>>5663605

Portrush

As the ocean-cove glistens above the hill,
Each huddling human offers vacant looks
Out the glass to the sea.

The wee waves teem and twitch as the bumpy curve of gaia
Runs down to the shore.

As she worms onto the the rushing rocks thrusting above the expanse,
She leaves a raging puddle of white foam, cum-like.

The horizon of blue compacts, dark, way out, to look like land,
Far off on a wide isle.

>>5663378

Like a small dick, you can make it work.

>>5663611

I

On the metal station chairs
I felt foreign, and uncomfortable.
European and hyper-modern.

Three gallants,
chaviness exuded,
straddled themselves on their bikes and

Spoke in a river,
flowing downhill to the gentle curve up
and in water filled with fish, seaweed and speckled with turds.

I sat aface.
I did not envy or admire them,
nor feel superiority or contempt,

They were people, young and bright,
smart though they dare not show it.

And then in a hen-huddle, they scuttled off to a bathroom.
I think as I had heard the word "bine"
as I unwittingly stared into their collective.

II

The morning of thought flew onto me.
I was there to do duty.
To get the hounds off my back, when I meet her, and dance playfully our mouths.
I magnetized to the thought
I sweated a little and dusted the globs of pearls from my foread.

I wandered glances out,
to those yellow ray-fields.
I am not a farm-man, I do not know their name.
The pressure of the wordist.

III

I came to old iron-hand.
It's great station pulled up it's braces from industrial smoke,
used the grey clouds' swelling to luxure itself in the modern.

I jumped out, looked down at the gap.
I felt like Odysseus, looking into the abyss of Hades.

A swift gallop over, and a light canter,
to ask for the verbal maps of the wise train men.

I consulted the oracle who was looking out to the tracks,
he wore a blazon coat, yellow and green, like Apollo, shining.

With a heavy face, and shining head,
he championed an orchard-pig, fiborous and rare,
it's edges a tainted and faded yellow.

"Can I pay ticket on the train?"
"Yes."

Advice wisely given.

>>5663571
>>5663577
>>5663581
>>5663584
>>5663597
>>5663600
>>5663605
>>5663611
well you tried and thats what counts, whats with the Mussolini pictures? heres a suggestion for your autism

>>>>>/mlp/

>>5663620

IV

The fields of Elysium that washed past,
Were a radiation of yellow.
The day was hot.

I spake to a woman with a Coleraine accent,
The accent's pure gael,
A lullaby.

And when she leaves,
Another teenage girl is forced beside me,
On necessity.

I want to hold her hand.

We dont talk.

V

As I pass the peat-fields,
Heaney whispers a little more about his father.
I almost hear the faint chop of bog,

And smell Éire's flesh.
The Foyle rushed upon me,
On my crawling apporoach,

And I get confused on the buses.
I sit beside a lady, with the skin hanging, glueless,
Off her face.

VI

We meet and I dont chat,
Her sarcasm annoys me,
We eat.

We crawl like ants on Derry's walls,
And kiss.
Then we hold hands,

And I catch the bus home.

VII


When i take the bus home, I dont use the return ticket for the train.
I pass the steppes of Glenshane,
And the beauty of the fog is overwhelming now.

A unionist-familied teen near weeps when he sees
That the pass remains untouched and lacks houses,
Dreaming of the spiky-hairs dogging for deer.

The Italian man behind me is from Bologna,
Porticos.

>>5663625

I lie,
Swaddled in linen and the
Festering flax dam's produce.
Tonight my windows are stripped bare,
And the red visual hum of ulster's lights
Makes it seem as though dawn has cracked early.
A small acoustic man,
Swells my ears to noise.

I tapped today,
I made the sun regally abandon me from my incessance,
And in my tapping,
I declared love to the light show in front of me,
I knew that me and her were looking at it together,
And it was my bold pawn-move.

But as it goes,
My declaration was crushed into a mere blow of wind,
My pain felt,
My mind ablazon with melancholy,
Yet not an angered impulse raced up my spine.

Tonight,
As my cavern lies blank-stricken,
I see her tap away every now and again,
And when the wiggling trumpet sounds,
I hold the light show a little closer, still.

>>5663571
>>5663577
>>5663581
>>5663584
>>5663597
>>5663600
>>5663605
>>5663611
>>5663620
>>5663625
>>5663631

That's all, any constructive praise or criticism would be greatly appreciated, also any advice on whrther to go for publishing in magazines and where to go. Thanks.

>>5663624

Mussolini was the only folder I had on my computer the first time I posted poems on /lit/ and I just thought it distinguished mine from other people's work.

/mlp/ is pure cancer, we both know that, anon.

>>5663577
I have walked through Ulster
cobbled alleys between tin sheds,
tributary to the great rushing thoroughfares
the river highways
I have chewed a crust
beside the tombstones of its churchyards
and read beneath the mosses, names
of women dead in famine years,
two summers my junior
and leant on the iron pile
behind the orphanages
and the old soldiers homes
where I bought an orange
from a van by Crook's Market
and shared it with a negro boy
in the wet sunshine
upon the green common.

>>5663657

Noice, what's your name?

>>5663690
Thank you. I'll stay anonymous though, no offense.

>>5663706

Fair play, man. Keep it up.

Beneath, the quiet unearthly presence of
Gentle hill dwellers, in the gentle hills around
Reptiles abounding
Fossils, caves, cool air heights

Each house repeats a mold, windows rolled
Beast car locked in against morning
All now sleeping
Rugs silent, mirrors vacant

Dust Lying under the beds of lawful couples
Wound in sheets
And daughters, smug
With semen eyes in their nipples

Wait
There's been a slaughter here

Don't stop to speak or look around
Your gloves and fan are on the ground
We're getting out of town, we're going on the run
And you're the one I want to come

bump

In the coldest of nights
And grimmest of plights,
Through the haunted darkness,
sit still, the spirits that consumed his life.
That once he would fight,
With all of his might,
But eventually, eventually,
He would fail in his fight.

The spirits’ warmth beckoned,
And in time, the man reckoned,
“To what gain, in abstaining?”
That dreaded question, always remaining.
For many moons had passed,
Since the cause of his task,
Since his life shattered like glass,
Like an empty bottle thrown against the wall.

And though he stood a better man,
Fate denied his master plan.
For all that was said, and all the occurred,
No action could make them unperturbed.
In time his mood soured,
And by grief, he was devoured.
Turned out to the cold by the living,
He turned again to the spirits,

and as his discipline ceased,
his consumption increased,
And he slipped back into darkness,
with no hope of release.
In the darkness, now he wallows,
His ghastly poison, down he swallows,
In his soul, his only light:
the spirits that consumed his life.

Listen to the angels sing
an ancient hymn of shame, it seems.
An aria of melancholia,
in reverence of our folly
to found institutions,
and then claim them holy.
Behold those priests,
akin more to the beast.
Those whom feast upon the fear of mortality,
those who deceive, and truly weaken morality.
The hypocrites and the thieves,
the adulterers and the rapists,
and all the rest of the papists.
See the shame so evident on their face,
evidence of sins that would part them from grace.
Their baseless hate, timeless oppression,
suppression of knowledge, and freedom of expression.

Science?
Deny it.
Conspire to undermine it.
Fuel the fire which inspires your descent,
And lament at its growing achievement;
Lament at your god’s bereavement.
Bathe in the blood of your savior one last time,
before the red rivers of forgiveness run dry.
And bear witness to the subversion
of your institution of coercion.
The inversion of your version of the world,
curled and beaten on the floor,
justly punished by the righteous.

It’s time for confession,
Grant us this overdue concession.
Confess your obsession, your repression,
and the oppression of your fellow man,
whom you claim to love as thy neighbor,
yet you condemn out of anger.
Confess all the crimes in your god’s name,
and that for all the world’s problems,
the secular aren’t to blame.
And last of all:

kneel down, and beg for forgiveness.
Confess to worshipping a false god.
Confess at the point of sword,
like so many before you.

>>5665807
I liked it anon

I'm alone in my house drinking rum
On my hand there's a stain of cum
I miss you my love, I think and pond
I texted three hours ago, pls respond

then she ponders about
the resiliency of human specie since
the atomic spores of nuclear shrooms
diffused in the atmosphere where
the cybernetic meadow was sealed in
a paraboloid glass dome

>>5667755
I chuckled

Uh... How do I into this I can't seem to grasp any of this stuff is poetry just nonsense that you make up? Like whatever complex words and phrases comes off the top of your head? It all seems like complete and utter fucking nonsense


Works good in songs tough

God of Death
I am of a thousand faces.
Who do I embody now?
My trust, in eternal stasis
Pure neutrality, my touch embraces

The enticing nihility of death,
To be used by the righteous and the mad.
To be so divisive is so sad,
But it’s all just the same in the end

Nothingness is reached through the negation of the universe,
Yet we know that all that rises falls.
We are nothing but nothingness dispersed
Units with tendencies within a system of equilibrium
Resulting from a system of nothingness equal to zero
In which zero is created through a series of complicated but contributing parts.

Your sanity dissolutes and your mind betrays you
My voice cannot be distinguished.
You have not gone mad.
I’m inside your head.
And you never know when.
I decide to pollute your mind and think for you.

I am the astral flame; I am all that is light.
My presence is absence; my calm is my strife
I am the only immortal; bow before all that is life.

Pure humanity is evil if not for my influence.
To shed the nothing inside you is to fail.
Your consciousness casts a shadow
Into the universe of my will.

A coin.
Head and tail of the Ouroborus.
Misanthropy or philanthropy,
Yet both of them do something for us.
Malignance or benediction
Heaven or Perdition
All motion, life, and duration are my whim and imagery.
I have no form
You are my form
Appendages to a being beyond your dimensional comprehension,
Cogs in a machine of inexorable function.
In a sense, I am you, but you are not me.
I am just facilitated within imperfect physical boundaries.

I am the God of Death
I am sunrise and sunset
I am the Spring and the Fall

I am a torch to light the wall
That was grabbed and then used to burn it.
I am knowledge
I am spontaneous infinitely different objects subject to interaction and termination.
The universe becomes perfect in the interaction of its imperfections.
All that is, is immaculate, and all that is will be dead.

I took a shit this morning,
My asshole was roaring.
The wet poop plopped,
like a like a freshly picked crop,
Unto green fields,
like sea lurking eels.
We all know this feel?
Shit just got real.

The paper tried to dismiss it,
but these shit stains persistent,
continued to build,
my asshole now filled,
with a poopy crustacean,
of life's devastation,
a manifestation.
of my utter mediocrity,
I am this toilets property,
I cannot endure the bathroom tissue's mockery.

>>5671098
That's shit, man.

It was a generation that crept
along on knee-pads.
These, the picayune people,
preyed upon
the Almighty Dollar,
panhandling in cashmere suits
and charmeuse silk dresses.

>>5662362
Because it reads like an uninteresting song lyric.

>>5662667
>third-rate Kolsti
That's something of a compliment, I'd say.

>>5672757
like being a third-rate pynchon

Shining apostle does his bidding well
Turning time with lemon-lime tinged
"Grab the wheel!"
Yet the pray is still being said
He is not well-read to the ryhme of
A priest's golden lie, naught but 5 leagues deep
In self-patronizing rot
Yet the clock is not thrown,
Continues to count, even when it knows
It is wrong
Gather your books, sharpen your hooks
Prepare the rhetorical analysis of an
Old man blinded by the sand that was thrown
RIGHT IN HIS EYES
HE DIDN'T ASK FOR THIS: PAIN, SHAME, YET NO GAIN
you sit there spinning your colloquials, your will in hand, just drop the fucking quill
The time keeps ticking
Yet you still won't stop
And the apostle bids you quiet
He takes out his papers
Sets down his pens
A smartphone is apart of this toolset
But it wasn't invited in
And all the while you watch
He talks
Basically bidding you to walk
And you still just watch
Like a kid with his eyes on the clock

there once was a man named rupert
who shaggged his own father named hubert
they had a child
who ate hot wings mild
and never with sauce very hot

>>5662667
Kolsti would never unironically use the word "deontological." Kolsti's in the DFW school of affected modesty.

>>5673207
Holy fucking shit best thing in the thread. Gr8 job m8

Brown shoes don't make it
Brown shoes don't make it
Quit school, why fake it
Brown shoes don't make it

TV dinner by the pool
Watch your brother grow a beard
Got another year of school
You're okay, he's too weird
Be a plummer
He's a bummer
He's a bummer every summer
Be a loyal plastic robot
For a world that doesn't care

Smile at every ugly
Shine on your shoes and cut your hair

Be a jerk-go to work
Be a jerk-go to work
Be a jerk-go to work
Be a jerk-go to work
Do your job, and do it right
Life's a ball
TV tonight
Do you love it
Do you hate it
There it is
The way you made it

A world of secret hungers
Perverting the men who make your laws
Every desire is hidden away
In a drawer in a desk by a Naugahyde chair
On a rug where they walk and drool
Past the girls in the office

We see in the back
Of the City Hall mind
The dream of a girl about thirteen
Off with her clothes and into a bed
Where she tickles his fancy
All night long

His wife's attending an orchid show
She squealed for a week to get him to go
But back in the bed his teen-age queen
Is rocking and rolling and acting obscene
"Baby, baby. ..
Baby, baby. . .
Cimmie then cakes, uh!"
"If I do I'm gonna lose my…"

And he loves it, he loves it
It curls up his toes
She wipes his fat neck
And it lights up his nose
But he cannot be fooled
Old City Hall Fred
She's nasty, she's nasty
She digs it in bed

Do it again,
And do it some more
Hey, that does it, by golly
And she's nasty for sure
Nasty nasty nasty
Nasty nasty nasty
Only thirteen, and she knows how to nasty

She's a dirty young mind, corrupted
Corroded
Well she's thirteen today
And I hear she gets loaded

"If she were my daughter, I'd…"
"What would you do, Frankie?"
"If she were my daughter, I'd …"
"What would you do, Frankie?"
"Smother my daughter in chocolate syrup
And strap her on again, oh baby
Smother that girl in chocolate syrup
And strap her on again, oh baby
She's my teen-age baby
She turns me on
I'd like to make her do a nasty
On the White House lawn
Smother my daughter in chocolate syrup
And boogie 'till the cows come home

"Time to go home
Madge is on the phone
Got to meet the Gurney's and a dozen gray attorneys
TV dinner by the pool
I'm so glad I finished school
Life is such a ball
I run the world from City Hall!"

>>5673254
Reads like lyrics to a bad song that tries too hard to be catchy

>>5673274
What the fuck did you just say about Frank Zappa's poetry you utter bitch?

>>5673384
I said it was shit

>>5673384
Worse than his architecture.

Ode to the little white head on the corner of my nose

O! yea to you little pimple
tiny zit of infinite forgiveness
there you sit, occasioning that spot
Where the nose meets the face

That crevice is yours
and yours alone
a sensuous pillow of oils and
skins and bacteria

You give way to white pus
after the squeeze
and leave no trace of being there
you simply cease

no ghastly red ring
no bloody mess
not even a scab of regret
you tidy yourself so well

Not like the hideous blister
there it appears
beneath your eye
a regretful embarrassment
thumb sized

It lingers for a week
affording never a tasteful pop
only days of ineffective pressing
and days of never knowing when to stop

not like the ghastly carbuncle
so stoic and forlorn
it rests on the end of your nose
like a goblin on a jungle gym
waiting for the school children

Does it know to leave?
Does It know to rest?
No! It only knows stay
No! It only knows wake

And then the king of awful things
You, the dread sebaceous cyst
hiding like a thief in a cupboard
waiting for your quiet slumber

in the night he has stolen your
vivacity and left a cruel pustule
the crude calling card of an unruly
dermis dweller

indeed

but you are not they
you are a kindly dweller
one who's quick enough to arrive and
would just as soon leave

So, Here's to you
That little whitehead on the corner of my nose
you will always be welcome
unless
you decide to grow.

>>5673463
No joke now: you're interested in Frank Zappa's architecture too? I find it fascinating that he was not only a composer, filmmaker, and guitarist, but an architect (albeit one whose plans were never properly realized).

All the memory in the world couldn't fit
an array of my troubles
So they go in the dumpster with the rest of the rubble

>>5654692 1
>>5654800 2
>>5654832 3
>>5654969 4
>>5654986 5
>>5655084 6
>>5655136 7
>>5655152 8
>>5655425 9
>>5655445 10
Dinner Ham love its Jewish kosher room,
my yamaca
my scene
my hygiene praying
Only
my Hotdog Mom
converted now
I thought


Sighed soil shine tall
Garden leaves shine the echoed
Wet bricks in the light


My eyes pinched
Lashes dirty like a pocket of waterpark sauce
My eyes gurgle
Swollen sweet squirts are now popping

Hands waiting with life's grand ground
Around floordboards have littered a boot
House in purpose rises a filthy jerk


Up running shocked mummy
With Smoking cursed eyes
fills the grave
With the alive
Bless monster mummy
With bandages again
Bless evil mummy


Froze heavens give this technology prisoner
Nourish sea of obeying rules
Sins proudly flows through this one


Saintly door swung
tainted mothers hands dancing
Rush in for sons altar


My screaming wonder
I sense feeling of cruel doom
Dissolved in frightening paranoid loops


Screeching howls rising to the moon
Windows scream and fall at noise thunder
No no no no no no no no
The tides from unknowing persists


Beautiful world end
Beautiful world end
Beautiful world end
Beautiful world end
Beautiful world end
I took only the words from each person's poem I replied to.

Each verse matches the post number of what words I was allowed to use.

>first verse is to first poem posted
>second verse is to second poem posted ect.

Its about a Jewish ham whose mom wont let him be Jewish.

was a lot fun.

>>5673916
what

>>5673916
Yarmulke

Sitting in the bloom of May,
Whose blossoms crown the tips of trees,
Where children play
and dance all day
Amongst the crunch of ancient leaves,

You rest your head upon my chest
Until I gain the strength to say
‘When sunlight fades
And winter shades,
Let me love you in those darker days.’


Smog blooms over the horizon,
As the heart of the city melts
Its bitter sweets over the darkening skyline.


You answer with your shining eyes
‘Against this world of bitter grey
Where concrete shades
And beauty fades
I will love you in these cold, dark days’.


Old Phoebus plunges below the surface
Where the whir of ancient machines
Stir softly the slumbering giants.


The nights grow cold from winter’s thumb
While under watch from crescent eyes
The fox awakes
The early drake
With hounding teeth and bristled tongue.

Deeper down into the dark,
Of blistered stone and acrid rust
Where evil dwells
In human shells
Who leave the streets a hollow mark,

The fox he prowls the bitter cold;
Gazing out at concrete moors,
He turns his head
Up from dread,
Vision fixed by crescent hold.


And well beyond the looking-glass
That sails the dreary darkness past;
Softly do we sleep in snow
That does not fall but ebbs and flows.

>>5674210
Yea i know but he didnt put yamurlke in his original poem

Wolfpack tracks you
Always chasing
Legs are pounding
Heart is Racing

Breath down back now
Feel them draw near
Ragged breathing
Run on raw fear

Smash through dark trees
Brambled bushes
Drive for life is
All that Pushes

Break the tree line
Hope now in sight
Village ahead
Bathed in light

Cry for Guards!
Cry for Swords!
Drive back the wolves
The dogs of war

Teeth dig through flesh
Ripping tearing
Rend the tendon
Nostrils flaring

And then I need a final stanza here because what I have is awful.

Pls no stealerino

T. Dunn Spet 22, 2014

Too sad for me that your rebirth should come
in so a melancholy month as this,
when waning sun leaves hands a-cold and numb
to biting wind, and eyes to hoary mist.

How many autumns hence before your hair
will flaxen shed, returned to dusty soil?
How many winters hence before your fair,
pale face will cease to mirror snows that fall?

The red-green leaves with colour fazing-sight
are rotten strewn, does beauty fall alike?
Not so. For what friends prize is that so bright
within you, that time nor age can strike:

Goodness endures; the warmness of your soul
we celebrate, a thing immutable.
What does /lit/ think? Probably ain't gonna let her read it, would be too beta.

Too sad for me that your rebirth should come
in so a melancholy month as this,
when waning sun leaves hands a-cold and numb
to biting wind, and eyes to hoary mist.

How many autumns hence before your hair
will flaxen shed, returned to dusty soil?
How many winters hence before your fair,
pale face will cease to mirror snows that fall?

The red-green leaves with colour fazing-sight
are rotten strewn, does beauty fall alike?
Not so. For what friends prize is that so bright
within you, that time nor age can strike:

Goodness endures; the warmness of your soul
we celebrate, a thing immutable.

What does /lit/ think? Probably not gonna let her read it, would be too beta.

I hate critiquing, because I don't really feel knowledgable enough do so effectively. Still, I'll take any chance I can get for feedback.

I left you stranded on a cold night,
somewhere between the first touch
of Autumn’s grace
and the heaps of leaves
spotting well-mended lawns.

It is not the first infraction
of mine upon the whisper
“I love you,”
Because it is easier to bark
than to bite to the bone.

And now you’re alone
when you needed me most,
and I, in lapsed pursuit,
Whisper again,
“I love you”.

Write your parents; the sad dad looks at his son. A crying is a lot, the elephant man was one who loved me. I loved him too, I am in here, loving. They stepped on me, the turd of the rattlesnake on the hiking trail to timbuktu, to timbuktu we went! Deaf, blind, dumb, deaf, blind, dumb and through you I see him! Even the edges of my cloak, gilded with filth, are but melancholy notes in the call to prayer. As he said, god is more than love can ever be, as he said, he said.

>>5654675
Look at the Bad man!
Talking shit is a lot easier when I'm half a world away, huh?

Praise the Sun and Pass the Ammunition!
Little kids raise a gun and blast your man for kicks in this
sick sick world. Goddamn I love rap, god
damn I hate these haters, these fiends, these fuckin rats. I Got

No Morals! Thanks Television. But my
Word is Bond, take it to bank and tell your bitches that you're
worth something.
- you know what'd happen If I gave a fuck? -

My homie Holds it down in Florida..
I sculpted my face out of gold cause i was bored and I was
worth something. I'm Demonspawn, but even gods and
earths love it. You're just a rich cunt's purse puppet.

Praise the lord and pass the ammunition
Every day i wake up and my ass is on a mission.
Dont delude yourself, you need cash to make a difference
little stars should man up or get back up in the kitchen.

bitch! I stand by my blasphemous convictions.
I don't even pray over the packages i'm shippin.
Blah Blah Blah Blah Fuck what you say dude.
You take after the bitches that raised you.

>>5674231

>>5673916
what the hell is this lol

A fine young time for a man
Were he going to try and do what he can
But instead he wavers and falls
And knows that time is the fine end of us all

But what can he say
What can he do
A fine recourse, ha!
Perhaps for you

Referring to the event
What in its course had left him all bare and spent
In trying to find a way
To the limelight, the beautiful fame of day

Without doubt, he tried
He truthed and lied
But bearing in mind
To be most kind

He had failed, as you know
He had bullied, fought, cried and tried to make show
But he couldn't do the thing
What? Oh! Lost for he couldn't dance, laugh or sing!

And ain't that a thing?

>>5673916

joyous imagery, swimming in the river of this, craggle creek i dig it

Hegels Baiguls

This isn't for a critique but I need help with something. Would you write :

>Why did they always have to build zoos so far from the city, he asked himself?
or
>Why did they always have to build zoos so far from the city, he asked himself.
or maybe
Why did they always have to build zoos so far from the city? he asked himself.

I never know why this things. Thanks.

Not poetry but you can have one of my many dark and sad Journal entries


"Im sick of being consumed by two worlds interchangably. Every step I take toward succeeding as a human being leads to a stumble. I want to write and feel and drown in culture and humanity, A primal hunger tugs at my gut. I want nothing more than to experience the richness of Life and its fruits, the smell and taste of a controversial existence. But I am to empathetic of how these choices will affect certain people in my Life. I am sick of drinking and taking drugs to dampen these senses, Dousing the fire of the self, the power of insight. At times i dance and cheer in respect to my young age, but the 20 years that passed will no doubt pass again and with just as much at haste. I need to wake up my mind. I need to take a direction or choose to day dream and float somewhere in between."

Why is my writing so dark, I cannot write happy things.

>>5674855
And worst of all there is no market for edgy first person writings, Nobody cares about your life, no matter how well written.. How did kerouac and the likes find recognition, other than a few interesting stories?

>>5674759
why did they always have to build zoos so far from the city he asked himself

:p

also i personally think the third variant is correct except you should identify the direct speech with brackets and also add a dash or something

>>5674855
>At times i dance and cheer in respect to my young age, but the 20 years that passed will no doubt pass again and with just as much at haste.

Don't do that. You're making yourself sound like an edgy 20 year old.

>>5674883
I know It is pretentious as fuck man, I was fucked up off my face

>>5674889
I'm just saying that cause I write ostensibly the same kind of things and it makes me hate myself even more when I read it back.

>>5674901
more of a stream of consciousness style but with emotions.. Its fucked and worst of all it acheives nothing other than helping you realise how fucking shit you are to life AND it cant really be put together into a novel that would be worth trying to get published.

Do you write fiction also?

>>5674920
Yeah, I had to get myself to stop writing that whiny shit. I realized that it was getting me nowhere and I was just trying to find more and more intricate ways of saying "I'm depressed". I try to write fiction now but I can't commit to anything so I just write very short stories (500-1000 words) once every couple of days. It's all pretty bad but I enjoy the act of writing them so who cares. Hopefully I'll write something that's actually good some day.

>>5674935
Word man, Could you share some of your stuff, id be interested to see,

>>5674940
Let me see if I have anything typed out. Most of my stuff I on paper and I never bother to type it up.

>>5674954
Likewise, Typing feels unnatural

>>5674966
Yeah, I got nothing and it's 4:40am so I'm not gonna start typing now. I'm going to bed. My e-mail is carlmygind@gmail.com if you want to correspond. I can type up some stuff and send it to you later. Don't expect it to be good though. The only thing I found on my computer was this whiny poem I wrote while I was working at a call center. It's called "Operator".

I work at sigh central
Sanctum of failures and loud exhales
A tower built on crushed dreams

Quadrants of flesh automatons
Querying, quelling rage
Questioning programming

Interrupted ideas and half sentences
Coffee breath and drivel
Weather, news, weather

Constant nonsense in my ear
Unconvincing truths and shaky commitments
Dreams of an end

>>5674976
Ill throw you a line.

I like it, Its raw and our styles are similar, would be good to share some work

>>5674674
I really like this. There's something about the way you structure each sentence to feel circular and self-sustainable, yet you've pieced together a really intriguing whole.

>>5663657
This is fucking amazing. I want to know who this guy is too.

>>5663492
I like this too. bit late for it though.

An afternoon spent under the shade of my shed,
is but an afternoon spent in the folds of dusk;
so fervently do the shades of the sky change,
the hues baffle on in waves as in a maelstrom,
clash in the in-betweens of red and purple:

so I must resist the urge to capture,
snap with my camera what belongs to immortality.
For so an every sunset must depart unknown,
forever immortal in its fatality: —
Not for the world, or the tomes of earthly poets,
but so that each drop of red tinge the purple hills,
there on the far side west of the village,
the green shrubs blazed with the wildfire of light,
the flames that burst forth but for a moment,
will forever be ingrained in some poor fool’s heart.

See it haze the afternoon air,
the dirt and smoke into a fog war,
see the birds dance in its height,
bathed in the drench, so they sing and dance afar,
as is the sun going down into the night,
see the tendrils of the broken light mar
the works of the horrible crew,
oh, light of the night, let me hold you too

>>5654675
I wrote this during my emo-phase.
Don't judge it was a long time ago.
Just thought I'd share it 'cause it's so cringe-worthy.

Ah, sunshine forces me into life
I don’t object
And I don’t make a strife
But into my clothes, I heave
I feel ail, but nothing else grieves

Why I force myself to do this?
I don’t know
But I’m 2 steps away from abyss
My coffees bitter taste
Is the sweetest thing I’ve ever faced

Only the moon accompanies the life I spun
But that morning
The moon shared the sky with the sun
I lowered my head and gazed at my feet
Hoping that there, a new friend, I can meet

A raven came to knocking on my door
No other sound
“Come along and let us soar”
The raven came here to stay
And I don’t want it to go away

Here is one I wrote today in the morning after being so stressed from life. please r8 an 8/8

>Stunned by my stress that keeps me blue sweaty and too depressed---After school and work I'm so tired so short of not taking another breath.

>Still standing tall nothing has brought me down to the ground so far---limitless care has been shown to me from no where oh, LORD! I couldn't make it without you ever again.

>piercing Love, I need to sing a happy song in the dim morning, the chirping birds and buzzing bees will help me feel free again and then, I'll take what I got, like the beautiful moments I had forgot so I can clap a rhythm to the trees that shiver softly in the breeze

>I'll go ahead I'll stretch and moan on a hill at the time a dimming sunset is born

>Darkness has come again and I know it's not gonna be the end---this night the stars at sight are shining very bright ---I'll always love in the end so long as the sun comes my way again.

>>5675659
i like this but i don't have time to say more than that i think that the first two lines of the second paragraph are a bit heavyhanded

I'm blushing red listening to Duster's songs
thinking about Johanna Newsom and
me as her crooked harp.
I think about who did the war and, weary,
found a remedy.
About Jan Palach
which is the framed picture
on my deepest altar
and his smile is the ocean ridge
that divides justice and love
and it's the smithy of them both.
I see him and Luigi Tenco
climbing on olive trees
dodging the jumping dogs
that joyfully trying to bite their noses
in a fantastic Liguria
invented by me
with the sea behind
and its winds
that carry the scent
of old arbutus
that overlaps in blue layers.

>>5676382
>piercing Love
I'd pierce your love, if you get what I mean *wink* *wink*

The Night and the Moth


The night and the moth
Are one at once and lost
In an endless, brainless skinfeather dance
The soul-lit flit of the flying trance
Moving in rooms out of sight.

The moth and the night
Turn in twin poles of untouchable light:
The magnet push of the deep hearts core
Shouts for something more
And beats its wings of cloth