Poetry

[POETS SOCIETY No.10147985]

You can post your poetry on this thread. No nudes. Save that shit for another thread.

[Anonymous No.10148601]

>>10147985
Aight senpai I just wrote this under some pretty interesting circumstances. Say whatever you want about it I don't give a fuck.

There's a riot in the faraway
A milquetoastment in the rabble
A self-abuse in the chardonnay
That insouciate's the rattle
Of thoughts serpentine that I need not always be
The necessary future suicide I currently am
I might some day through some impossible twist
Find people who give a damn
Who're beautiful & comely
& murderous to the end
Willing to see
That I'll not be
They're least tolerated best friend
For there're people this side of the line who realize
Precociously their best fate
Is to unreassize the size of the prize
And egress to the Too Late
To the soft cold place
Beyond JudeoIslamic platitude
Where Uncatholic is the latitude
Of meridian destined future meeting place
I'd like only to efface
Proof of my ever being here
To sever the ear
That hears the mere
Dulcet mediocrity that is my best
Means to attest
To the redundant fleshcase I'll unbless
Into any unsentient Hell before the leastmost cognizant heaven
That might've striv'n
To realize in me the inevitable logicality of my inmost innatest worthlesness
The final test
I'm dashed against with quotinoctian finesse
The inevitable distress
Of a git realizing in himself qualities he always knew to be innate
It's too late
So why not go ahead & grind out a fate you knew to be the great
And final antiphony
Of a life you've lived in a state more than half phoney
Than the sincerest and most prolonged attempt
To take the inevitabilities contretemps
To their final fructified followthrough
The bowerbegot
Unneccesitated sot
Sweet sweet tasteful hateful
Fatherfucking end of you.

[Anonymous No.10149970]

>>10148601
>an Egress to the too late
does this allude to P.T. Barnum? If so, kek.

[Anonymous No.10150213]

Midnight’s merely blue,
but me, me, me, I’m
through
and through
sloe, cracked soot-
on-a-boot,
nicotine spat, licorice whip.
You can scratch, scratch, scratch
but I stay underskin true
to ebony, ink, crowberry, pitch;
hoist me up by my hooves
and shake till I’m shook, I’m still
chock full of coke, fuliginous
murk.
O there’s swart in my soul,
coal by the bag,
cinders and slag,
scoriac grit, so please
come, comb
through my fleece with hands pallid
as snow and watch
how they grow tarry, raven,
stygian, ashed—
or, if you wish, clean me with bleach
I won’t
flinch, just char
down to a core of caliginous
marrow,
pure carbon, atramentous,
utterly piceous,
shadowed, and starless,
each clumpity clump
and eclipse of my heart raptly
re-burnishing
a woolgather dark.