The Jigsaw man craves only peace,
He wants completion; he seeks release,
There's something missing from his face,
Perhaps you missed it in your haste?

The Jigsaw man is corner wise,
You form the outlines of his eyes,
But man is made from many parts,
And Jigsaw man has lost his heart.

Jigsaw man is in a box,
It seems that something pure is lost,
Perhaps you'll have to start again,
Or wait until a wet weekend.

Jigsaw man has gone to pieces...

You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!

I hope this doesn't sound like anything but a compliment, but your writing seems to be improving so much, Percy. I'm very impressed. Not that I'm the one to impress around here, but you get what I mean...

Anyway, here's something that's incredibly dark and creepy. And, I would hope so, as my main inspiration for writing this (though there were many) was a carnival-type dark ride we used to have at our local amusement park, until it got torn down about ten years ago. Here's some info on it, if anyone cares. (This is the second page of info because it addresses the incarnation of the ride that I actually remember, but the first page is pretty interesting, too.)

This poem is basically an eerily-executed warning about fearing time and hanging onto the past so much that you fail to live in the moment. Also, it's about the "price" of the overcompensation - living with abandon, being thoughtless, because one feels they have no higher power to answer to and that life is just one big joyride.

(Don't mind the gratuitous elipses. I did that because TW doesn't seem to recognize indentations.)



I heard time chattering inside my closet
.............Tittering
At the expense of my own stunted laughter
.............Stunned
The runt amongst the litter
Of dry bones
That shriek, like flutes
Like hollow bamboo shoots
They still chime in
The illusion
Of oxygen
The thought that made me pant with panic
.............Hah, hah, hah

Time was gnawing on my toys and shrunken gowns
At once, I thought,
Because, they taste of me
.............Tick, tick, tick
And, soon he'll have a thirst for me
That can't be satiated
In a scent
He'll crave and come for my own flesh
He'll lap the salt from my own skin
As if
.............Lovingness
Had overcome him

So, I upheld the pretense;

The living dead can dance
I'm free as free can be
Spinning in the dark
With me and me

I did not notice
How I waltzed
.............Creak, creak, creak
Only but a whisper hovering over the parquet
Feeling cold as clay
To the bottom of my soles
With my toes
Pressed so crisply into his
He dipped me into the abyss
Into dismay
Into decay
Where all is nude
Within the design
Of his dark decrepitude

And, there I sensed his silhouette
Which never left
It mastered every movement
Every languid motion
Of my porcelain
Marionette;
Clamoring and cackling

Time is cachinating
In his cold and calculating
Machination
Convulsing
In repulsion
The everlasting echo
Of my maturation
Rendered hopeless
By means of its late achievement

.............The tragic fault in my living bereavement

The laughter in the dark
Was me
For, when I breathed
My seething fears
Into the night
They seized me tight
Strangling me inside the grasping fingers of my ribs;
I could not sense his delicate, skeletal grip
Which rested on my hip,
Until I felt his pointed finger pressed
Into my lips

I am his twin
I have no choice, now
But, to grin, for
Time is grinning
As I'm spinning
Into Le Cachot
With nowhere left to go

.............Click, click, click


I have a couple of fag women I go hunting with. - Altoid

Thanks Kate, wish I could manage to write some longer pieces like some of your excellent poems. Anyway here's another shorty.

Weary City

I stumble down streets I no longer remember,
Heart lost in this city of fallen pretenders,
Indifferent currents slowly sweep me along,
Whilst sirens scream songs that were lost long ago.

What man could make these concrete hells?
Of towering greys and cheap rotting smells,
Where wide eyed urchins pant their glee,
Disturbing the angels dreaming of sleep.

Can weary blue eyes ever find peace?
Maybe the city will grant it's release,
Where rich soils lie and tall trees grow,
There you shall find me at peace with my soul.


You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!

Here's something shorter, just to prove to myself I can do it.



I hear the Mourning Dove's twirling, tottery siren
She hints that there's light to look forward to
Perhaps, she will rebuild the nest in my window sill
That I poked at with a bloodless ball point
Sending seasons of the amassed twigs,
And shit,
And one rotting dud egg
From her former Spring's quiver,
Crumbling open to the bricks
Below, where it bloomed
In a cloud of grey dust
And short, downy plumeage

I clench my eyes tight as I teeter on sleep
Her wings, then,
Rebound off the glass,
As she rattles a wail of indignance and shudders to flight
But, I can't yet illuminate
A warm, yolky scape
For her beauty to mingle with
So, I imagine her flying away,
And gradually merging
Into a black void


I have a couple of fag women I go hunting with. - Altoid

I like it... more crap from me though I'm afraid!

Streets

I'm lost down the streets that remember no name,
Skipping past cobbles that bear me no blame,
I'm scowling at shadows and paying no heed,
Whilst dancing in time to the hate of your screams.

These dark city street lamps reflect what is sane,
Such oceans of darkness where light laid no claim,
Not even the vilest can dare not to dream,
When you're trapped in the horror of what you have seen.

The night has descended from where it has lain,
Remember the faces of those it has slain,
Awaken and shake off the dastardly sleep,
Too late you forget that you sow what you reap...

You sit there in your comfort, you don't believe I'm real. But you cannot buy protection from the way that I feel!

This poem is sort of gritty and noir, I like.. And, rhyming scheme is great.

I've been trying to loosen up a bit on my structure and rhyme, but I find it hard because I really like the symmetry of it. Anyway, here's something a little more free-flowing I did when I found out about this Kurt and Courtney biopic that Love is apparently putting together.

I'm almost embarrassed to share this one because of the first two lines... Almost.


There's a gallery under his clothes
Of fresh wounds to fuck
Each gash he makes opens an eye
But, each blink is now grand with torment
He's no longer the right to be dressed;
To be seen

His face caked with seven, strange colors
The dry, rigid layers are cracked
By his every expression
He sits by a mirror and he peels one away
Each day,
Revealing another invention

Soon, he has pried at his own fleshy film
He takes off his mask and he smiles
He hangs his own face up to dry
They clamor to buy
What they proudly must don
As a trophy
To their sensitivity

Now, they all stand
At the feet of his handiwork
Clutching and tapping their chins,
Like hot microphones
The painter;
Listening, laughing and jerking,
As they strain to detect
Every vague undertone

Quickly,
He runs out of paint
In wells, they collect all the trickling acrylic
To dip their dull wicks in his own crimson ink
To transcribe his journals
To make him a soft drink

His body's still wet,
Incarnate;
They sop his imprint
With a long sheet of canvas
And, harvest his bone as a tool
To slash, milk and swell
The price on the tag
That's been,
Callously,
Strung to his toe

It's time for you to come out of Weed Heaven and Potville for a second and give me a little informationi! - Captain Lunatic

S'il est un musicien dont j'admire les défis,
C'est bien le grand, le beau, l'unique David Bowie ;
Sa musique me prend et elle me stupéfie
Plus efficacement qu'un coup dans les glaouis.

Mon Espace

What a pair... You and Bowie, I mean.

Whoa momma! I like them apples! I'd buy that for a dollar! - 96dbFreak on chronic

Here's a Yank who knows her French slang .

Mon Espace

Oh Sylvian
J¡¯aime penser c'est ¨¤ toi que Pulp a d§Ûdi§Û
"Oh Sylvia"
Tes cheveux, si longs et doux
Tes mamelons, si mous et roux
Simon Napier-Bell te croyait belle
P'tet tu l'as servi pour amuse-gueule
Oh Sylvian
Nous tous savons qu'il te monta comme un Sybian.

All right, so it's not a quatrain. Tant pis!

"why, instead of semen, couldn't men ejaculate strawberry jam or something?"
--jareth's tights
"I have had contact with a vagina."
--strangeDivine