I like,

Walking on beaches and writing my name,
Dancing to songs when I don't know the words,
Racing down hill with my hands off the handles,
Snuggling in bed when the rain hits the windows,
Grinning at someone for no reason at all,
Finding lost objects deep in my pocket,
Drinking Earl Grey when I'm feeling hungover,
Hearing tall tales told in the pub,
Writing a letter that looks like a mess,
Adoring a girl and wishing she'd notice,
Being the butt of the occasional joke,
Smelling the world after its rained,
Seeing a kitten chasing a string,
Touching things that are centuries old,
Climbing up trees and getting stuck,
Just being me and that's enough.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man, when the copper fades away."

[more contemporary version]

I like,

Walking on words and writing my songs
Dancing down beaches with my hands off the rain
Grinning at someone deep in my pocket
Drinking tall tales lost in the bed
Adoring a girl that looks like a mess
Smelling the butt of the occasional kitten
Touching the string and getting stuck
Just being me and that's Earl Grey.

~
Heaven is a place where
Nothing ever happens

Haha, both versions were wonderful. Capturing little poetic bits of life can never be awful. Keep it up!

"Maybe you are jealous because your face will still look like an anus no matter what you do." ~Vanessa

The words are clumsy, hard to write
Some seem wrong and others right,
The words that made me sob and weep,
Are those I murmur in my sleep

The words they sting, and often bite,
They haunt my mind and steal my sight,
Some words I wish I'd never said,
My soul is heavy, my heart is dead.

Those words that I did say to you,
Those foolish heavy truths.
They were not how I wished you'd hear,
The true verse in my head.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

The curse

I don't care what fate decrees,
To love her is enough,
She fills my heart with longing,
I'll gladly bear this curse,

Each day I'd rise to lonely grey
My life was filled with dust,
My soul was blackened emptiness
I had no hope, no love

Then from the shores of misery,
She rose from 'neath the depths,
Into my life rose joy and hope,
Into my heart she crept,

The curse that I now do bear,
Is not that I do love,
It's that I do not know her heart,
I do not have her trust.

So to the corners of the heavens,
To the depths of every sea,
I'll bear this curse with happy grace,
For her love did set me free.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

Scratch the third part and it's something right out of Dead Poets Society..

~
Heaven is a place where
Nothing ever happens

Wait, so is the point to post your most awful poetry? Because I could get in on that.

She burnt me like a candle,
And I can't take this pain,
This scolding writhing agony,
This empty souless shame.

Now I'm burned and ruined,
Consumed by hungry flame,
My heart is turned to ashes,
My life is not the same.

I know I cannot fight this fire,
That never was my aim,
But I'd rather burn forever,
Then never hear her name.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

3 verses and no chorus?

Sex between a man and a woman can be absolutely wonderful, provided you get between the right man and the right woman.

In reply to:

---

3 verses and no chorus?

---

Feel free to insert your own.

Here's another bloody awful poem for you...

Tired is as tired does,
Today I felt that jaded buzz,
People whispering in my ear,
Garbled nonsense, tension, fear.
With aching mind and empty eyes,
I tried to penetrate your lies,
Those feeble truths I held so dear,
Have filled me with a nameless fear.
But tired is as tired does,
End this day I've had enough.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

Love came slowly, made me blind,
It grew within my darkened mind,
Till of her dreamt I all the time.
A fateful chance a deadly sign.

I played an empty lonely game,
Of stolen glances, secret pain
Till on that day my heart was shamed,
And tears fell from my eyes like rain.

She'll never know how long I dreamt,
Her skin, her hair, her lips, her scent
But now my hope is gone and spent,
These words shall be my sad lament.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

Now we got a number one:

She burnt me like a candle,
And I can't take this pain,
This scolding writhing agony,
This empty souless shame.

I just wanna feel
Real love feel the home that I live in
Cos I got too much life
Running through my veins
Going to waste

Now I'm burned and ruined,
Consumed by hungry flame,
My heart is turned to ashes,
My life is not the same.

I just wanna feel
Real love feel the home that I live in
Cos I got too much life
Running through my veins
Going to waste

I know I cannot fight this fire,
That never was my aim,
But I'd rather burn forever,
Then never hear her name.

I just wanna feel
Real love feel the home that I live in
Cos I got too much life
Running through my veins
Going to waste

Sex between a man and a woman can be absolutely wonderful, provided you get between the right man and the right woman.

Oh why won't you love me?
Just why can't you see?
I know I'm not perfect,
But please set me free.

If only you'd love me,
I'd give you the key,
To my oldest of secrets,
My darkest of dreams.

If only you'd see me,
I'd stare deep in your eyes,
I could fall in your beauty,
For miles upon miles.

So I'd love you to tell me,
Won't you make up your mind?
Won't you say if you love me?
Won't you give me a sign?

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

But most importantly, does she have big tits?

Salad Insane V2

Sunday (The completely non-Bowie related version)

Sunday.
Is like waiting at a bus stop,
In a cheap blue raincoat,
Wanting to be somewhere else.

Sunday.
Is like an empty pint glass,
When you stare through the gloopy remnant,
And realise that it's finished.

Sunday
Is constant cups of tea,
Ink stained fingers
And tired eyes.

Sunday,
Is worrying about tomorrow,
Not living for today,
And wishing for something different.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

Rather nice, thanks Persilot.

Do you like this one by...



Poetry of Wallace Stevens

Sunday Morning

I

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late
Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair,
And the green freedom of a cockatoo
Upon a rug mingle to dissipate
The holy hush of ancient sacrifice.
She dreams a little, and she feels the dark
Encroachment of that old catastrophe,
As a calm darkens among water-lights.
The pungent oranges and bright, green wings
Seem things in some procession of the dead,
Winding across wide water, without sound.
The day is like wide water, without sound,
Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet
Over the seas, to silent Palestine,
Dominion of the blood and sepulchre.

II

Why should she give her bounty to the dead?
What is divinity if it can come
Only in silent shadows and in dreams?
Shall she not find in comforts of the sun,
In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else
In any balm or beauty of the earth,
Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven?
Divinity must live within herself:
Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow;
Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued
Elations when the forest blooms; gusty
Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights;
All pleasures and all pains, remembering
The bough of summer and the winter branch.
These are the measures destined for her soul.

III

Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth.
No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave
Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind.
He moved among us, as a muttering king,
Magnificent, would move among his hinds,
Until our blood, commingling, virginal,
With heaven, brought such requital to desire
The very hinds discerned it, in a star.
Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be
The blood of paradise? And shall the earth
Seem all of paradise that we shall know?
The sky will be much friendlier then than now,
A part of labor and a part of pain,
And next in glory to enduring love,
Not this dividing and indifferent blue.

IV

She says, "I am content when wakened birds,
Before they fly, test the reality
Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings;
But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields
Return no more, where, then, is paradise?"
There is not any haunt of prophesy,
Nor any old chimera of the grave,
Neither the golden underground, nor isle
Melodious, where spirits gat them home,
Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm
Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured
As April's green endures; or will endure
Like her remembrance of awakened birds,
Or her desire for June and evening, tipped
By the consummation of the swallow's wings.

V

She says, "But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss."
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,
The path sick sorrow took, the many paths
Where triumph rang its brassy phrase, or love
Whispered a little out of tenderness,
She makes the willow shiver in the sun
For maidens who were wont to sit and gaze
Upon the grass, relinquished to their feet.
She causes boys to pile new plums and pears
On disregarded plate. The maidens taste
And stray impassioned in the littering leaves.

VI

Is there no change of death in paradise?
Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs
Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,
Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,
With rivers like our own that seek for seas
They never find, the same receding shores
That never touch with inarticulate pang?
Why set the pear upon those river banks
Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?
Alas, that they should wear our colors there,
The silken weavings of our afternoons,
And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!
Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,
Within whose burning bosom we devise
Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

VII

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

VIII

She hears, upon that water without sound,
A voice that cries, "The tomb in Palestine
Is not the porch of spirits lingering.
It is the grave of Jesus, where he lay."
We live in an old chaos of the sun,
Or old dependency of day and night,
Or island solitude, unsponsored, free,
Of that wide water, inescapable.
Deer walk upon our mountains, and the quail
Whistle about us their spontaneous cries;
Sweet berries ripen in the wilderness;
And, in the isolation of the sky,
At evening, casual flocks of pigeons make
Ambiguous undulations as they sink,
Downward to darkness, on extended wings.




London Bye Ta-Ta...

I heard the lonely crash of bitter waves,
On empty moonlit shores,
They ground the cruelly jagged rocks,
And mourned the passage of the days.

I saw the empty rotten timbers,
Rising riblike from the wistful dunes,
Defiant to the shattered end,
A slimey wreck, a pale moon.

I smelt the tears of love forgotten,
The salty brine of sorrow,
I wept for all the times now lost,
A longing empty helplessness.

I turned away from darkened shore,
The echo of the ghostly wind,
Yet still it haunts me in my dreams,
That shadowed coast of bleak despair.

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

I liked that one.

It's mostly all in the void,
everything that you are,
everything that you say,
everything that you think.

It's mostly all been told,
everything that you believe,
everything that you heard,
everything that you considered.

You don’t know who you are,
therefore, you can’t tell someone
what to believe,
what to think, or
what to say.

You don’t know where you’ve been,
therefore, you can’t give directions on,
how to save one’s soul,
how to live one’s life, or
how to communicate one’s mistakes.

Be nothing in the void.
©2006 JAC


MySpace

"I feel the bleak despair of empty hours,
The ticking of this broken clock,
Will someone please come restart my heart,
And save me from this blackened rot?"

"You're the one who makes me live,
For you I'll rise above it all,
Only you can understand,
The secret workings of my heart."

"I sink into the murky mire,
Without your love I'm doomed,
I'll not forget your joy filled eyes,
Farewell my love that never was."


"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

This one sucked so bad I had to put a hidden Bowie lyric in it. It's probably the only part I like, too.

I am waiting in a sea of black
Dip your toe in,
watch the shadows attack

Let your feet anchor into the sand,
let it engulf,
as you reach out your hand

Find my cool fingertips through the dark
Don't be afraid,
though the water is stark

Swim out to me in the rippling waves,
though the undertoe
may provide us our graves

Hold my hand as we drift out to sea
In pendulous uncertainty,
get lost with me

The whispers of warning on the misty air,
will pull and pry
and try to dispair

When the sea does churn and night sky flash
with lightning bolts
and thunder crash -

I will not let go nor swim to shore,
for I love you
forevermore

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

I just found this on my hard drive. Wrote it in high school for a "Poetry Slam." I slammed, alright.


Cover that blemish
Cover that mole
Cover each blight
Now, cover your soul

Cover those scars, girl
Cover that bruise
Cover your face
With attractive hues

Cover that tear stain
Cover those blues
With white powder, red gloss
Mascara and rouge

Cover those roots, girl
And change your name
Want to make it in lights?
Then cover your shame

Cover your colors
Lighten the dark
Cover your mother
Sick white, like a shark

Cover that mouth, girl
Now, you're on TV
Uncover that body
That's all they will see

Cover it up!
The critics will shout
Whatever you cover
You're always cast out

Pull up the cover
And hide from the night
Cry in the dark, girl
Don't cry in the light

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

Y'know, I quite like the conceit, and like... half... well, maybe half... of the verses. Not necessarily in the word order given, but still. It seems like if you chucked half of this and reworked the rest, it could be a decent poem.

Who was it who uttered the words "Only a human can create and judge great poetry?"

Fuck, I honestly thought the Praying Mantis might be in with a shout.

I think it looks very dull when seeing it on paper while when read loud or being sung in an interesting way there would be some potential. There is too much concept to make it really bloody awful.


Liest das denn keiner außer mir?

Inspired by a nightmare I had recently...

The Crawling Dark

When winter comes a blowing, with it's cold and frosty breeze,
The Crawling Dark comes creeping like a horrible disease.
He gobbles up the greener grass and gloops on all the trees,
He leaves his slimey blackness with it's sticky slug like sheen.
He flows in all the rivers and he slips into your house,
And when he's done his crawling there, he'll jump into your mouth!

"Well I'm a common working man, with a half of bitter, bread and jam and if it pleases me I'll put one on you man... when the copper fades away."

In reply to:

---

Inspired by a nightmare I had recently...

---

I can honestly say I'm glad I've never had a dream of Dogz ejaculating in my mouth.

Culture, alienation, boredom and despair

They say that light spreads far and wide,
And that it conquers the darkest tide,
But evil lurks when the light shines,
Upon the best of times and during work's deadlines,
It creeps and crawls and bends and dives,
To direct a spotlight upon what thrives,
Which is typically called the "sweet deal",
Outside closed doors truth remains surreal.
© 2006 JAC



MySpace

A TW horror story for the Halloween season.

It was another gloomy storm racked night,
Outside the wind did howl.
When on my screen I saw a flash,
That made me frown and scowl.

I clicked the icon, heart in mouth,
And gasped in awful pain,
The message came from Diamond Dogz,
I knew it'd be inane.

"Dear Percy how I love your Poetry"
The wizened fiend did crow,
"Perhaps you'll come away with me,
and live with me in Turkey?"

"Not I" I cried in mortal fear,
Perhaps the beast was nigh,
Observing through a telescope,
Just waiting for his time.

And then I saw a horrid face,
Observing through the glass.
The manic grin of partner Dave,
He laughed and laughed and laughed..

He smashed the glass and grabbed my arm,
And dragged me to my doom,
And now I write this warning,
From a tiny empty room.

So if you get a message,
On a dark and stormy night,
Please dear friends don't open it,
Or you'll share my doom.

"Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say.
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way."

It would've been ten times scarier had you titled it "Get Out Of My Ass! For The Love Of God, GET OUT OF MY ASS!"

But, you know, I guess there's something to be said for subtlety.

I'm a kid
And I love CANDY!!!

Bats at night fly lowly through your arches,
They would not be there if not for the love of starches,
But oral fixations are hard to stop once started,
Fragrance sprays are sold to those who frequently farted.

So lick your long lollipops and hard English Toffee Bars,
While you trick and treat old ladies as they empty candy jars,
But remember ugly witches adore fat cats,
Who are malodorous and attract black gnats.
©2006 JAC





MySpace

They say that mirrors never lie,
But tell the truth we dare not see.
Well I stared into the empty depths,
And saw a face look back at me.

It's brow was racked with troubled thoughts,
The eyes were dark and tired.
An empty husk devoid of hope,
A lost and lonely child.

I tried to reach beyond the glass,
To give that face a sign,
Then all at once I saw the truth,
That wretched face was mine.

"Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say.
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way."

Next time you look in the mirror lose that cream jacket.

Look for me,
I'm always there
I'm like your conscience, your despair
I'm always just a cry away
I'm always just a shoulder

I'm out of love,
I gave all mine
While I indulged you, you declined
You always have yourself in mind
It's always getting older

I have nothing,
you have less,
save for emergency finesse
I'm always lower than you know
You're always getting colder

I can't endorse
the death of me
I can't remember feeling free
But, beauty is lost unto me
if you're not the beholder

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

This one is pretty dang bad, but I like it, just the same. Not for the crappy Jack and Jill motif, but the whole, "I'll kick your ass if you cross me" deal.

I see it in dreams,
We're climbing a hill
We speak not a word
The silence is shrill

I'm wearing a veil
of gossamer threads
My gown, it is torn,
my train of black shreds

You lift up my train
to help me ascend
I lift up my head
and watch you pretend

Can you see the tears
beneath this dark veil?
Cold as the water
inside of your pail?

Wash your sins, dear,
with the water and tears
Tell me my suspicions
are just empty fears

As if I don't know,
as if I don't see,
how you look at her,
and how you look at me

I've broken your crown
upon the blow of a stone
No longer my king;
you have been dethroned

I watch you tumble,
collecting the mud
I sigh at the sight
of you trickling with blood

I wash from my hands
the sins I've committed,
the life I have spilt,
and the hurt I permitted

One thing's for certain,
I'll not tumble after
This silent hill shall
ring with my laughter



"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

The tumbling autumn leaves of gold,
Could not disguise my empty soul.
The gusty breeze won't stir my heart,
This pain that grows when we're apart.

Though cloudy fog might hide my sorrow,
Or snow may blanket all tomorrows,
I ache to find a place that's safe,
In ruthless winters cold embrace.

Perhaps when comes the pulse of spring,
I'll find a song again to sing,
But as the ice clogs each new river,
For now my heart shall slowly wither.

"Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say.
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way."

This is still not at all bad! Also, it rather reads like Placebo lyrics.

Stop posting not-very-bad "bad poetry" or you'll make me all sad. My own bad poetry sucks quite unequivocally.

In reply to:

---

Also, it rather reads like Placebo lyrics.

---

That just made my day, as I'm one of the faithful few who still doesn't think Placebo sucks! I think I'll go hit up his Myspace and see if he wants to use my talents for self-pity.

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

I Love Zombies!
They turn me on!
I Love Zombies!
The maggots are SEXY!
I Love Zombies!
And they love me!
I'm taking it up the ass!
Up the ass!
From a zombie!
YEAH!

I love prison!
Turn me on!
I love prison!
UP THE ASS!
I can take it
I'm a man
and I love zombies
Zombies

I'm a kid
And I love CANDY!!!

Probably the most beautiful stanza of poetry ever written:

I love prison!
Turn me on!
I love prison!
UP THE ASS!

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

Weeping willow, woebegone
Wanton twists of wistful wisps
Wanton woman's lust withdrawn
Wailing for a lover's kiss

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

What are you still doin here writing this pansy-ass poetry?! i told you to go see Borat! Now go on. Git!

meow

I'm gonna bide my time till the iron's nice and hot and then GIT someone else to pay for me. Now here's some more faggy poetry for you!



She dashes through the falling leaves;
the clouds are rolling in
The midday sun, they seem to sleeve;
the forest, growing dim

The shadows cast a web of grey
upon her pallid face;
gliding with each sprightly stride
of dark and frightening grace

The wintry wind is dancing
with each ebon, velvet strand
that trails like a bewildered child,
gripped by a heedless hand

The branches bare reach out
in each direction but her own
Her body flashing through the trees
Her face as pale as bone

She hears her lonely footfalls pounding
o'er those fallen leaves,
her gaping lungs devouring cold
in deep and desperate heaves

Through the barren trees, she weaves;
her destination fading
But, in the path which lies ahead,
she prays that he's still waiting

She comes into a clearing;
looks upon the open space
Her chest becomes a hollow
when she cannot find his face

She feels her body yielding
to the rocky, ruthless ground
Intentions pinned between the earth
and languid limbs, unwound

The fallow floor beneath her halts
The fog enshrouds her sight
As she mourns the efforts spent
preventing urge from conquering fright

"Why didn't you post yesterday?" -- to_dizzy

You berated me for forgetting what you said when you walked away
but maybe I was drunk
or maybe it was just another day
I ceased to recall as soon as I fell asleep;
That grey city hardly incites lasting memories in anyone
but the most foolish and wise.

Though maybe I just chose to forget
the words you'd sonn regret
as you walked away that day in the drizzling rain
no I don't remember but I can see it in my mind,
perhaps a composite memory of every other time
I watched you walk away
and whispered to myself:
'I've lost her I've lost her I've lost her'
and reached for the whisky and...
well, you know

You blame me for forgetting
what you said when you walked away
well, if it helps then
it's on my mind most of the time
and I'll try to make it up to you...
someday

You hate me for forgetting
what you said when you walked away
well, the intention I admire but the words you can keep
and say to someone else
wherever you are now.


I'm sorry.


OK?

It's a celebration!

The knife
cuts the flesh
when you bled
you called it theft
when i clean my knife
it is still dirty
now and forever
all is burning
i pull my hair
out of despair and anger
you sit and watch
glazed eyes of a stranger
i turn you around
and stab again
it takes longer to damage
and clear the din
it was already broke
i was helping you out
you needed a blanket
i needed a mouth
puddles of tears
strings of worry
lies and truths
different stories
when you wake up
my eyes are closed
you kiss my cheek
and i see my rose

Sigh... I feel lovesick at the moment...

Autumn Rains

The fresh autumn rain has come again,
And drenched this grey world in crystal purity.
Let it wash away the cloying dirt,
And cleanse the lonely streets,
Perhaps to bring an echo of spring long lost.

Oh how my empty heart aches for her still,
More bitter sweet than autumns gentle rains,
Fairer to me than all the golden leaves in fallen splendour,
More lovely than the setting rays of sunshine.

As autumn fades to bitter winter,
And cruel and wicked frosts descend,
I long to feel her loving warmth,
For I fear my heart shall freeze.

"Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say.
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way."

Life is a strange thing
It tends to make people make peculiar noises for no particular reason
Somebody close to me once claimed that they had actually heard a fox fart
I didn't believe them
Still don't

To paraphrase my own song

Foxes at night
give a dim fart

Ha ha!

~
Heaven is a place where
Nothing ever happens

Here are two poems I wrote recently, one of them whilst heavily under the influence of alcohol... see if you can guess which one...

Poem 1:

WANTED. New Life.

Must include;

A kooky girl who makes me smile,
Sunny autumn afternoons,
Fondant fancies,
The smell of freshly washed sheets,
Canned laughter in 70's sitcoms,
Telephone calls from long lost friends,
Sand stuck between my toes,
And less of the bad things.

Poem 2:

Sometimes I feel like foot mouth,
Mixed up, ripped up heart,
Playing to your jigsaw motion
Trying not to laugh.

Sometimes I feel like lipless ear
Flame fanned lonely seer,
Reciting all your speeches,
Schisming your fears.

Sometimes I feel like finger toe,
Trapped in shuttered silk,
Searching for an upside exit,
Going for the kill.

Once I felt like heart mind,
Synergetic fate,
Hopping through the ether,
Searching for your faith.


"Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say.
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way."

Your alcoholic subterfuge couldn't last for long,
Now you're drowning in your sorrows,
In a world that's going wrong,
You've told your truths to liars,
Whilst watching sinning saints,
You know you're going wrong somewhere,
But you're leaving it too late.
I know your heart is shattered,
This facade is wearing thick,
But perhaps you'll find an answer soon,
Before you lose your drift.

"Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say.
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way."

Does anyone else find they can never think of appropriate names for their poems? Here's another one with no name, if you can think of a good one let me know.


Like a carwreck with no handbrake,
Or a shattered pane of glass,
Just putting back the pieces,
Ain't gonna bring her back.

Play host to all your obscene fears,
Make light of passing night,
But even haunted lust filled days,
Won't ever make it right.

So curse your gods and demons,
Find solace in your faith,
For when she left she unmade you,
And put me in your place.

"Don't see what I do not want to see,
you don't hear what I don't say.
Won't be what I don't want to be,
I continue in my way."

I like the old-fashioned "first line as title" convention. It takes the focus away from the title as the "key" to understanding it and puts all the emphasis on the verses themselves.


Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...

Each rung has an order
On the ladder of my
Nostalgic ascencions

They all, somehow, lead up to you;
My psychedelic drifts

When I lasso, lovingly, up in my arms
These paper-dry leaves,
I lift towards the sky,
In these shuddering fingers,
All my crumbling notions

They drift through the cracks,
And, they land in the pools of slow-swirling iridescence
That collect in the gutters
And ghettos
Of thought

Supported, for a moment, by that fluid film
That delicate skin
That crowns stagnant water

Then, sapped by the oily deposits
Of my carelessness and apathy
They're pulled beneath the surface

Their fluttering, halted;
Those unfortunate birds

I'm single. Yes, I know it's difficult to wrap your head around, but if you don't believe me, check my Myspace. Those things never lie.

You shake my hands
You jolt my heart
10,000 volts of icy cinders
I wonder when
You'll take the part
End this streak of blurs and benders

I used to like
The sun and warmth
Experienced outside your presence
Now it's like
My cup's gone cold
Leaving stains of starving crescents

I'm single. Yes, I know it's difficult to wrap your head around, but if you don't believe me, check my Myspace. Those things never lie.

Streetlights scratch a path between curtains that won't meet
And steal the dark from my eyes that would taxi me to sleep,
Until the sullen dazzle shakes my mind from its unrest
And weakness calms my body's need for sating, more or less,
But in those minute hours of staring at the paint
I long for your call to come, though I know that it's too late...

Wraiths drift about as I slip off at last
Into the arms of a dream that I will not remember:
Standing in an unfurnished room where we could live.
He says the rent is quite low because a tramline runs past
And a bell rings aloud as the train passes by,
Railing against the sleepers where they lie,
And by the house there's a river with a lock and a lever -
You can open the sluice and watch time wash away,
Dragging the dregs of the past out towards the sea...

And a pealing bell from the tracks chimes aloud and wakes us up.


Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...

Some really nice poetry appearing here, despite the deception of the title thread. Here's another I wrote this afternoon. This one does have a title. It's called Embers.

Embers

The embers in the fireplace,
Have burned themselves to ruin.
Consumed like last years bitter love,
A hateful seed still growing.

The embers in the fireplace,
Lie still and turn to ash.
I sit and dream of happy times,
And weep for what has passed.

The embers in the fireplace,
Will warm my heart no more.
I've left that fire far behind,
My past, my love, my soul.

When you've racked up so much time on an internet message board why hide the truth anymore? Persilots Myspace.

Take a gun and fire a shot to start the game
This race I run – fools’ mates of girls,
Bemusements and bored games
With dealers, cheats and jokers playing round
Drinking vodka, lying down
Upon a chequered flagstone in my chest…
_______________________

Waves are rising by the second –
Sirens wail and walls are crumbling
It’s been raining for three weeks
I think I need a hand to help me land
A map to find some solid ground.
Just a rock or rubber ring to cling to will suffice for now…
________________________

Raking through the leaves on autumn’s carpet floor
A windfall’s to be had.
The harvest has been good this year,
We’ve grown a chart of everything
We think, we hope, we feel, we might.
Transcriptions of an evolution mapped out in relief…

In reply to:

---

Now it's like
My cup's gone cold
Leaving stains of starving crescents

---

I love this image, it's great. Though you might find a better word than starving.


Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...

Sweetest Pain.

It cuts me like a carving knife,
It burns me like a noose,
There's nothing really left for us,
Just trashy, twisted, truth.

Where it's at I'm just not sure,
I know I'm losing ground.
I'm staring in your green eyes,
I'm slowly turning round.

Hit me up for wisdom,
Knock me down for six,
Bend my arm behind my back,
You can't afford the risk.

Yeah it hurts me like a paper cut,
It maims me like a knife,
Every day is sweetest pain,
Since you came into my life...

When you've racked up so much time on an internet message board why hide the truth anymore? Persilots Myspace.

Yeah, I wasn't too happy with that word, but I honestly couldn't think of anything to replace it. Just got frustrated and settled. Anyway, the input is always appreciated.

I like your writing very much. Especially Sleepers.

Here's something of a slightly sordid nature... The kind of poem that'd normally never leave the confines of my journal, (okay I don't actually keep one but if I did this is the kinda thing that'd be in it), so whatever.. I'm feeling particularly candid today.



his back bows with narrowed intention
of propelling his splintering arrow
the solder that's sintering sinew
that quicksilver stitch spun within you

that breaches your cervix
harpooning your cortex
lobotomizing into blissful submission
his hot, rushing current
his pulsating torrent
that's splitting you clean like an apple in fission

rejuvenate jigsaw of pain and disease
to see-saw the tree off in two atrophies
you rock in your sickroom
he jangles the keys
he's built quite a monster
that stops at the knees

he asks, like it matters, "you giggling or crying?"
you tell him it's equal, not sure if you're lying
convulsing, ecstastic, this spasming schism
till shudders subside into phantasmic rhythm

I'm single. Yes, I know it's difficult to wrap your head around, but if you don't believe me, check my Myspace. Those things never lie.

There's a nice urgency about that last one. Somehow appropriate...

I haven't actually written poetry in a long while, having made a decision to concentrate my efforts elsewhere. This is from about six years ago:


High up in the big valley
A child was awoken cold
"Be near me when he passes,"
Was her father's request

And it shocked her outright.
The old place was overgrown,
Her grandfather's body lay in ruins,
And she felt suddenly old.

"Don't go up there anymore,
So that you're my daughter now."
But she could not face her father again
For it was he who had broken the news.


Temperature's rising, but any idiot would know that...

In reply to:

---

And she felt suddenly old.

---

I like this line a lot. It creates an image in my mind's eye of someone aging quite rapidly, which wouldn't be the case if you'd placed "suddenly" one word back.

Here's my emo ode to unrequited love and the animals who knowingly, desperately perpetrate it.


You seem to care that no one dares
to read the threats my passage bears
You want to seem to care to see
this sable ink unfold from me

But, if you spied my plunging frown
I do not think you would swoop down
to snatch me from the brink, between
your talons, black, and eyes, citrine -

that claw my face with moonlight, where
my skull drapes backwards on the chair;
a dewy rose of numbing white,
that cranes itself to shake the night

I wait within your empty nest
to feel the warmth inside your breast
For, charity and arid scratching,
were egging on my backwards hatching

I am your helpless cub, instead;
a lanquid rainbow, colors bled;
leaked through the punctures from your fangs
to briefly slake your hunger pangs

Then, drug into your dusky cave
I'm hit with such a rancid wave
It's stinking with the spoil of
the victims of your nature, love;
your satiated hate for love;
your snarling mouth, agape for love


"What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz

____________________

Claude

MySpace

Addiction

Seeing her again,
I thought my heart might stop.
These hungry feelings deep inside,
I need her love so much.

I thought I'd gotten over it,
My heart was finally free.
She came into my life again,
Now love is burning me.

It's stronger than addiction,
Weaker than my faith,
Without her there is nothing,
Just memories of her face.

EDIT: Changed Grace to face in the last line. What the hell was I thinking?

When you've racked up so much time on an internet message board why hide the truth anymore? Persilots Myspace.

Edited by Persilot on 12/19/06 01:20 PM (server time).

Here's a little Christmas cheer for you all.



When I was little
I thought blood was blue
And, when it touched air
It took on a new hue

Now, I'm not little
I know blood is red
But, blue are my thoughts
Till they leak from my head

------------------------

"Questions And Answers I Ask Myself On Nights That End In S"


Why do you get so angry when I'm neglectful?
I only hate myself

Why are you so jealous when I get what I want?
I don't get what I want

Why do you get so frustrated when I don't get it right?
I'm apparently trying my hardest

Why don't you just go on and leave me, to die?
I love you and all this too much

Why do you get so scattered, sometimes?
I don't know

Why are you asking me?

------------------------

"Pumpkin Head"


I'd rather go to sleep
Than to finish out this day
Than to be another flicker
Through a crudely-carved smile

In the cold and dusk of time, does my skull turn to a cave?
Or, is it too late for decay inside this excavated crest,
Behind this empty, frozen face?
With a checkerboard smile

I'd rather boast a scarecrow on my sleeve to guard my heart
Than to ward off evil spirits with a jagged smile, in vain

I'd rather have night weighing on the roof that I lay under
Than to feel the open air and open hands that lick my flame

When I finally succumb
When I stain your ceiling purple

You'll stare up, in stupid fear
While I spread, as though
I'm smiling

Sinister and spiting
Now,
In such a useless form
I'm smiling in vermilion flame that was, but is not warm

I'll sputter like a deathly mobile
Trickling echoed refrains
To keep you far from sleep
Beside my true skeleton smile

I'll scorch a pale green ghost inside your eyelids
When you shut them tight
But, surely, it will dimmen...
As you fade into the night



"What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz

Merry Meatmas:

Santa didn't read my list
Now he's gonna meet my fist
Now he's gonna feel the wrath
Of a very merry meatmas
Come on Santa, eat this
Come on Santa, all night long
Sing me a merry meatmas song
You've been a very naughty boy
You won't give a single toy
Until you get down on your knees
And please me with your Christmas joys

"If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX

I really like the boxing reference.

~
Heaven is a place where
Nothing ever happens

My, my, how very ho-ho-homoerotic of you. Is it Christmas time for MEN again?



"What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz

It's always Christmas time for men. Just ask Claude.

"If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX

I can never sleep first
In a room with a stranger
Who is also alone

For, I can't stop thinking
Of bringing him something
Foreign
And needed

The bright of white skin

In the dim
Which we've both grown adjusted to

No having it construed
As anything but self love

No me trying to create
His own thoughts and conventions

I want my caress to be the hand that shapes him
To a precise re-production of self-gratification
And I want him to love himself back, so intensely
That the radiance lingers
Till he's only in dreams

I wish these things
Came as natural for me
As the urge comes in stillness
To do as to want

So my warmth could be realized
Not squandered each minute

So my worth could be realized
The best way I've found


"What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz

Edited by JarethsGirl on 12/30/06 03:37 AM (server time).

I like funny guys, because they make me feel normal.
I like red-heads, because they glitter in the sun, like golden strands of slug trail.
I like tall men, because being looked down on is a turn on for me.
I fancy Brits and guys who grew up poor.
I like crooked smiles.

French guys, I like, for their cool.
Spaniards, I like, for their hot.
Italians, I like, for they're open.
Prussians, I don't, for they're not.
Aussies, I like, for they're bad.
Germans I like for their brat.

But, I like Irish men more than anything, as they tend to value the very same things I hold in such high regard:
Women, wit, and liquor.

And lanky, bizarre men with art on their bodies...
They're all fucking rock stars who don't care if they do it for me.

I even like dorks who like comics and Star Wars.
I do not like dweebs. They take it too far...

I like any guy who digs girls wearing glasses.
I like guys with mop tops and hair to their asses.
I like tribal men;
Make themselves understood.
I do not like cave men, but I like when more advanced creatures play at it and laugh.

I really like gay men, because they don't like me back.

I like a good challenge.
I like trouble in doses.
I like classic cars. I like aquiline noses.

I like getting gifts; don't care what they are.
I like weathered men, with such callous and scar and scary look in their eye
When I ask lots of questions.
I like playing daughter.
I like being trusted.
I'd like me a Sensei.
Like angular faces. Men of all races.
To be stronger or weaker. I can not stand for stasis.

Like conflict and drama and broodiness, too.

I like to be liked;
Worship me and I'm through
Liking you.

But, love is much more complicated...

"What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz

The Dancer

My hands are black and stained with ink,
My heart is blackened too,
I laughed at death,
I laughed at life,
But could not laugh at you.

So I'll dance upon the stony ground,
I'll dance upon your blade,
I'll jig until my feet are red,
I shall not be dismayed.

My eyes are dark and full of loss,
My mind is darkened too,
I faced my doubt,
I faced my fear,
But I could not face the truth.

So I'll dance upon the stony ground,
I'll dance upon your blade,
I'll jig until my feet are red,
I shall not be dismayed.

My memories are fading now,
My thoughts have faded too,
I danced for him,
I danced for her,
But most I danced for you,

And I danced upon the stoney ground,
I danced upon your blade,
I jigged until my feet were red,
And I never was dismayed.


PORK SCRATCHINGS!!! Art thou insane? Myspace.

This one is a cautionary tale as well as a bit of lighthearted fun...

The Saucy Maid

Long ago there lived a maid,
Whose dreams were lewd in thought,
She'd smile and wink at all the men,
She'd tease, but not be caught.

For the saucy maid had other plans,
She'd land a husband rich,
And when she'd taken all he had,
She'd leave him in a ditch.

Now it chanced that in that very town,
There lived an aging fool,
A man whose gold surpassed the stars,
But stubborn as a mule.

The saucy maid did plot and plan,
And slowly bide her time,
"For once he's had a taste of me,
What's his shall all be mine!"

She slipped into her finest dress,
She pulled her neckline low,
For once the old fool looked within,
He'd surely sell his soul.

She swayed upto the old fools house,
Her lips were full and ripe,
Her skin was soft as buttermilk,
Her hair was blonde and bright.

She knocked upon his door three times,
And struck her sausiest pose,
She smiled until her teeth shone white,
She flashed her legs and hose.

But when the door did open,
She screamed and yelled in fright,
For all her cunning she'd not seen this,
The fool did have a wife.

With a roar of bestial rage,
The wife did heft her broom,
Her arms were large as slabs of beef,
Her face was like a bulls.

The maiden shrieked and turned and fled,
The wife did swing her broom,
She yelped as bristles stung her head,
She ran but she was doomed.

The wife tore at her flimsy dress,
It ripped across it's length,
And naked now did the run the maid,
And run with all her strength.

How the men did cheer to see,
The maiden running wild,
They laughed to see a sight so strange,
A maid chased by a wife.

And so my friends our story ends,
As all good stories do,
The maid had learned her lesson well,
Her wicked days were through.

From that day forth she changed her ways,
A saucy maid no more,
For the wife soon had her well in hand,
And set to scrubbing floors.

PORK SCRATCHINGS!!! Art thou insane? Myspace.

For some reason, I want to sing this poem to the tune of "Found a Job" by the Talking Heads.

meow

"Love is like a cup of tea."

Love is like a cup of tea,
That helps to warm your heart,
It's hot and strong and fills you up,
And aches when you're apart.

But don't be fooled by what you taste,
For love can have a bite,
A too hot cup can burn your mouth,
And turn your love to spite.

But though I have been hurt before,
I know you won't burn me.
So come and laugh and hold my hand,
Lets share a cup of tea...


PORK SCRATCHINGS!!! Art thou insane? Myspace.

I love The Dancer, Percy. The rhyme scheme sounds great, very consistent, and it flows really nicely. Besides that, you've worked it so that the most impactful line falls last in each alternating stanza (before the "chorus," if you will), to great effect.

This one is kind of personal, as poetry often is, but especially so, in this case. I'm kind of embarrassed to post something like this, but I feel it's one of my better pieces, so what the hey...


Keys


Someone once gave me
A black and white row
Of doorways to melody
Chairs to the soul
The keys, with no map

Nothing to choose to ignore

I used it, back then
In spite of my wanting
Something much greater
The things you can't hold
The chords you can't strike
With a thousand small fingers

For her, all I wish was a thing he could give
With a pure, unselfish, and thoughtful motive
That protects much more than a name

And obliges connections that aren't just in vein


I still use the gift
That was handed to me
On the day after Christmas
A black and white summons
To court
Where his honor won't cast any judgements
Won't throw down a stone or a gem from his mind
Where he's seated on high
More a child, than I

Where I'm held in contempt
I'm mired in silence
Silence, still being
The one thing he orders
For, he gave me the gift to make beautiful music
Then, died on the first beat my heart was infused with

I still use his gift
In spite of now wanting
To show him the evils I've deeded his name
To return every moment
Of lonely self-doubt
The gift of regret
And of longing and shame

To use his gift against him


I no longer want
To hold on to this thing

But, it's part of me, now

His music is mine


And, I only know this



From what's been left behind




From a time I'm too young to remember

"What I learned from the future is Sharpie markers will replace facial hair and all men are impotent except Sean Connery. The future looks bright." - T.P. on Zardoz

Avalanche

Time is like an avalanche,
That sweeps away our lives,
Each fresh new flake, a persons fate,
Bound by truth and hope and lies.

And when the snowmelt starts to slip,
The mountain's echo roars,
We cling together in the rush,
And feel our spirits soar.

Perchance the slide will cease to flow,
And give us peace at last,
For all those flakes have lives to lead,
A future and a past...

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

Persilot, this just goes to show that times of happiness can also bear very bright poetic fruits. Well done...


Here's something I wrote in the last five minutes.


My dog is like a piece of furniture
She picks up all the smells around her
This is comforting
Strange
Like me

Your cat is like a cold, black crow
Perched upon the backs of couches
This is alarming
Strange
Like you

"And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis

I just recorded a cover of Cohen's Hallelujah (so sue me, Buckley) with lyrics of my own:

Be A Lady (Hallelujah)
Us two were known as slightly odd
it took a breakup to find out
that you've been like a bookmark to my story
I thought the sex could use a boost
But other girls have lacked your muse
And I just hoped that you'd become a lady
Be a lady
Be a lady for me

Our lonely hearts dwell in old books
you've read them all and I gave you looks
there's a difference between Plato and his students
Well I may not be as bright as him
but he's not real and I'm all whim
Why can't you grow up for me and be a lady
Be a lady
Be a lady for me

I took a bus and rode to Spain
to see if my hopes were all in vein
I found you like a pilgrim finds his faith
Camino francés twist & bend
And I'm all but an innocent
In my dreams I have seen you as a lady
Be a lady
Be a lady for me

Now caught up in my barren love
I see them stars glide up above
I recall the night we went down to get some romance
The Romans when they built that bridge
Did they imagine us on its ridge
That night I saw that you could be my lady
Be a lady
Be a lady for me

/

and I desperately need help with that first verse where I can't find anything that rhymes with out and has the meaning "odd" or "strange". Help, anyone?

~
Heaven is a place where
Nothing ever happens

I can't think of a word for "odd," but since you talk of faith and whimsy throughout the song, methinks the word "doubt" might be somehow fitting? Although, if and exactly how it is - that's for you to decide.

I normally wouldn't be too keen on the idea of changing the lyrics to a song as sanctifiable as "Hallelujah," but I really like what you've done. When I think about it, I can't relate to the original lyrics very much on a personal level, but these are something everyone can wrap their arms around, I think...


This poem was actually somewhat inspired by the travesty I posted in Monekyboy's poetry forum. You'd think it would be the other way around, but not in this warped ol' noggin...



I'm tearing out each life line
I'm drowning down each drip
I'm tossing back each lifesaver
I thought
Held me adrift

I'll kick at palm-warmed emeralds
I'll kick, to sink or swim
I'm quick to slink below the waves
And, see all
That's hidden

The water kept me starkly numb
The water had been bobbing
With fingers, blue, clinging to you;
With dead
And foreign bodies

I've made it through to morning
Though, I bottled every message
That I submerged, then, with alcohol
To softly ease
Their passage

But, now the sun bleeds flame
And, spills a flicker on each word
So, now I lift the weapon
And, I free it
Like a bird

Your ship is in the bottle, now
The wind foresakes your sails
It's burning to the ocean floor
Where it will grow
More scales

"And don't call us Maltesers." - Marquis

I'll probably stick with "odd" and fake the rhyming with accent. I hope Leonard doesn't mind but I needed to vent out this stuff and Hallelujah seemed like a perfect choice.

And right back at ya, this is brilliant:

Your ship is in the bottle, now
The wind foresakes your sails
It's burning to the ocean floor
Where it will grow
More scales

Pretty evocative.

~
Heaven is a place where
Nothing ever happens

Politics.

Inside everyone... is a dictator waiting to get out.
Watching the mistakes others make, and screaming silently.
They scan the newspapers and whisper in our minds,
Approving their disapproval of the world outside.

Sometimes war erupts,
Two tyrant clash, flinging out their armies of words.
Ideas that blitzkrieg like tanks in icy climes.
And strike at heart and mind.

And though we fight the despots call,
To cease that strident voice,
In the end we're occupied,
By thoughts of strife and war.

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 didn’t see the dawn rise,
As I swung free from my noose,
So I fell into the shattered shards,
Of bleeding naked truth.

And I didn't see the midday sun,
As I dodged the headsmans blade,
So I sank into the wet cement,
Of loneliness and pain.

But then I saw the sunset,
As I stood upon the shore,
So I leapt into the dappled sea,
And heard the ocean roar.

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

Thank you kindly, Sam. I was rather happy with the "scales" line, which happened to echo the "bird" line in the previous verse quite by accident. (By the way, if I were to ever read that poem aloud somewhere, I would raise my fist in the air at "weapon" and give the middle finger at the "bird" word, and throughout the rest of the poem.)

P.S. I don't think Cohen would mind. He'd probably take it as the greatest of compliments (secretly.. and then sue you for every sweet sheckel you are worth! Hahaha ::sigh:: ..Jews.)


"Roulette Weal"


Tonight seems like the perfect night
To quit while I'm ahead
But, I'm not ready

Though, I wouldn't say I'm winning;

I'm on fire

If I thought I could
I'd stop the globe from spinning;
Dive my finger in that shallow,
Muted blue
If, but, to prove
I'm not on fire

Under pressure
It won't budge
To split this glacier
I'll need warmth
There was no sun to melt the plastic
Only artificial light
Only the pallor of my face

They make it out to be a game
As if you're choosing where to land
Without having to make a choice
But, when you're losing
It is still your fault

And, everyone just drifts away;
Dissappointed
Uninvested
In their own desires, tumbling
From your palm
To fall in all the wrong pockets

They ought to paint the continents
All red
The lifeless sea
All black
And, God is green

The one color we cannot see
Nothing could make more sense than that

I wouldn't play this game
If everything
Were blurs of faint, grey hues
And, getting used
Were not my main intention
Is it making sense, yet?

There's a light
In every shade

For, red does cast a roseate, bright sheen upon my face

But, black does then reflect my visage
Deep within the void
Caliginous
And, underjoyed

When the glow of luck has simply
Lost my touch

And, I can see the loss, as such



If guns are made for shooting, then skulls are made to crack.
You’ve never seen a better Faig than with a bullet in his back.

The dream

Yesterday time stopped for a bit,
So I watched the pigeons flying backwards,
Whilst hopping on two feet.

I queued at the bus stop,
But three came at once,
So I lay in the road and counted the clouds,
Till the sleeping policeman woke me up.

Down the cobbled lanes,
Old women flashed their legs coyly.
Whilst passers by stopped to wave,
And made calls on their mobile cameras.

So I played by the gutter with a piece of rope,
But it won every game except one.
I didn't like losing so I went back to sleep.

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

You flunked a History degree for this?



You joined up to die - and we'll send you where you can. - Foreign Legion Maxim

Quentin, do you know what's more important than History? Not getting stabbed in the face. Know who deserves to get stabbed in the face? You. Know who'd do it? Me.

I'm glad we had this little talk, Quentin. I hope we've reached some sort of understanding.

"If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX

I really pity mard-ass cyber-bullies who abuse people to boost their inferiority complexes.

You joined up to die - and we'll send you where you can. - Foreign Legion Maxim

Mard-ass? What the fuck is mard-ass supposed to mean? Is it like some hybrid of "smart-ass" and "lard-ass" you invented that we lowly plebes have yet to incorporate into our vocabulary?

Or maybe it's an insult specific to me. In that case, I'm not quite sure what you're getting at. I don't know what or who mard is, or why it would be such an important part of my life (or more specifically, my ass) that it would be such an insult when referenced. Could you care to elaborate, chumpy?

And I know it's probably not a typo because you're like, so over that. [UNNECESSARY EMOTICON][/UNNECESSARY EMOTICON]

"If Australia ever gets a new national anthem I'll insist 'punch her in the twat' is in the lyrics somewhere." - PHOENIX

There's something absurd going on in my brain,
When I sleep I see flip flops,
And donkeys from Spain,
Carrying portable phones,
Which are made out of stone,
(But you can't have a phone which is made out of stone,)
Absurd.

But when I wake up and my heads full of talk,
I see dodgy old women taking cats for a walk,
Or people in hoodies who are talking in tongues,
And I think that I'm dreaming or the worlds going wrong,
But they tell me it's real and I need to get on,
Just shut up, stop thinking and keep your head down,
Absurd.

So now I don't know know where I'd rather be,
Cos your world is grimmer and it feels like a dream,
So I'll keep my head high and take a look round,
And watch all the flip flops that are poncing around,
I know you don't like it, but don't make a sound,

It's all just absurd.

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 wish I had dreams like that, Percy. The last dream I can remember clearly involved Mama Fratelli from The Goonies. It was terrifying...

The imagery makes me think of a cool Radiohead music video or something. Very vivid. I like it.

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

In reply to:

---

The imagery makes me think of a cool Radiohead music video or something.

---

That's probably the greatest thing anyone's ever said about one of my poems. I love you for that comment.

Here's another slightly disturbing one...

Albert Alders doesn't sleep,
He's dreaming, drowning, falling deep
There's muddy footprints on his soul,
Broken bodies, blackened holes.

He wanders through the crowded streets,
Shaking hands, caressing feet,
No touch can wake his deadened eyes,
His head is wrapped in smoke and lies.

He waits for you to play your part,
You still the beating of your heart,
But now he's near, the world seems still
You're only waiting for the kill.

Now Albert Alders follows you,
He sees your mind, he knows your truth,
Hide and seek may be your game,
But Albert Alders never plays.

Albert Alders never sleeps,
He never drinks or ever eats,
Wait and see he'll find you soon,
And then you'll hear his deadly tune.


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

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

You get taint piss, too? God, I hate it.

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

Ha ha! That was funny, although "gueule" and "belle" don't exactly rhyme and the funky characters got all messy.

Oh Sylvian
J'aime penser que c'est à toi que Pulp a dédié
"Oh Sylvia"
Tes cheveux, si longs et doux
Tes mamelons, si mous et roux
Simon Napier-Bell te croyait belle
P'têt' que tu lui as servi d'amuse-gueule
Oh Sylvian
Nous savons tous qu'il te monta comme un Sybian.



Mon Espace

Yeah, that's why when I attempt French in PMs, I omit the accents. My browser seems not to handle them too well.

I will have to practice my French rhyming by watching a lot more Mika interviews, I am afraid, before I can avoid mistakes like the belle/guele one. Thanks for fixing the "lui" part though--"lui" has always mixed me up! I know, I know, direct object vs. indirect, but I keep forgetting until someone calls my attention to it.

But of course we all know (nous savons tous, merci encore) that the real point of this poem was the couplet:

Tes cheveux, si longs et doux
Tes mamelons, si mous et roux

and I am glad that did not require any corrections.

P.S. By the way, I left out the "que"s after "p'tet" and "penser" on purpose to make the meter smoother--are you not allowed to omit "que"s at all, even counting poetic license?

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

Yes, I noticed that your French was flawless only in the lascivious part . Does that tell us something?

You can't remove the "que" after "penser" ; you may remove it after "p'têt", but then it would sound really strange, because you'd have to say "p'têt lui as-tu servi..." and "p'têt" is colloquial and "as-tu" sounds very formal. The correct formal sentence would be "Peut-être lui as-tu servi d'amuse-gueule ?" but then it becomes quite long.

Congratulations on your attempt anyway, it was quite decent for someone who's out of practice. I'm sure one day you'll manage amazing things with my tongue .

Mon Espace

J'enfile mon blouson, c'est un beau cuir Oakwood
Et je mets une chanson, qui s'appelle "It's no good" ;
J'aime bien m'apprêter, être frais, à la mode,
Et pouvoir écouter, sans arrêt, Depeche Mode.



Mon Espace

Yellow Black Boy buzzes fast,
Swoops beyond me, falling past,
Jerking to a hidden groove,
Swirling stinger, slowly moves.

Bouncing headways hits the glass,
Crawling, searching, moves at last,
Buzzing, take off, bounce again,
Lying, waiting, is it dead?

Yellow Black Boy on the floor,
Couldn't hold out anymore.
Flower honey, furry beast,
I hope you've found your sweet release.

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

J'aime les chansons de Bryan Ferry ;
Ses orchestrations sont des féeries
Et ses mélodies sont de vrais délices,
Surtout Grey Lagoons, aussi More than this.



Mon Espace

David Bowie
David Sylvian
Depeche Mode
Bryan Ferry

Mon Espace

Your piano work is very good, Frogs. My kind of style with that Satie vibe going on with "The Future". More people should go to your site.

My grasp of the French language is embarrasingly crappy, luckily I have a friend who was able to translate for me... very good. Anyway here's another one I came up with this morning.

Old Hugh's lament

Once into the tavern, there walked a lone youth,
With flute, harp and smile telling tales of false truths,
He sang songs of malice, of love, hope and trust
Of high deeds and low deeds and deeds of black lust.

Rising up from the table, came lonely old Hugh,
Wrinkled and crinkled with eyes gummed with glue,
But yearning arose in him to hear with old ears,
The tales of his youth and his faraway years.

“Hum me a tune of yesteryears days,
Of blind broken promises and old empty graves,
Of heroes and heroines, so swift and so strong,
For those are the tales for which I do long.”

And sing did the youth, with his voice high and true,
His hymn filled the soul and it silenced the room,
And men sat and gazed in wonder and awe,
Whilst old Hugh did weep and sink to the floor.

And from that day forward no more would Hugh speak,
For the wondrous song had left his life bleak,
And so my dear readers my warning is near,
That some songs are dangerous for those that would hear.


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

Thanks a lot, dude! "The future" is my latest composition and it's very much in the spirit of Chopin too. At first I wanted to write something funky, but I guess I failed...

Mon Espace

In reply to:

---

That some songs are dangerous for those that would hear.

---

Mon Espace

Is there a thread for drunken poetry? Well, there should be


He says he had a dream
I got ran over by a car
He woke and screamed
Or spoke my name

This makes me never want to cross a street, again

The streets will be
Unresponsive
To my death
Just as they do not mind my feet
Briefly traipsing over them

Who knows, in all the years after I'm gone,
If I will be beneath the streets
If people will disturb my grave
As part of their daily routines
If people will bleed over me
Breathing, bleating, who shall roam?
Among them, who will wake and wonder if
I ever made it home?

"we went to pizza hut after school and lived the rockstar life for the first time that day." - 13athroom

Bravo, mon petit grenouille! You make my silly poem sound so grave and suave.

So this isn't poetry, exactly, but I suppose you could consider it really, really awful "poetry," to the point that it's prose. In any case, I thought you might enjoy it, Monsieur Froggy. Somebody requested a romance story about Mika, and so I attempted to oblige. The catch being that, as I do not want to publically speculate on his sexuality, I had to keep it gender-ambiguous, which was much harder than I originally anticipated, and made for pretty clunky sentences, too.

Oh, and it might help to be aware of these lyrics if you don't know them already.

Breathe

The show had just ended, the confetti barely settling over the forest of applause-reddened hands and breathless grins. Jem snuck out the back door before the first few paper flakes could make their way past the audience's sweat-dampened hair and onto the floor. Crowds always made Jem feel suffocated, and a little bit like disappearing, though with Jem's height and startling cloud of auburn hair, disappearing in a crowd could hardly have been possible.

Jem had never heard of Mika prior to that night. Going to the concert was Susan's idea. She was covering the show for a small local zine, and had a spare ticket, and so decided that Jem should accompany her. "You'll love him," she insisted. "You're kind of weird and you like weird music anyway, so this should totally be your thing." Jem considered protesting that statement, but knowing Susan, decided against it. In any case, she turned out to be entirely right. Mika was the most brilliantly bright thing Jem had heard or seen in ages, and despite the claustrophobia, the music made Jem feel as though the whole world were inside one's ribcage, pushing one's lungs open to eternity in a euphoric burst of energy. However, as soon as the music ended, Jem could feel the crowd crushing in again, and this is why, having briefly ditched Susan, Jem was now searching out a few moments' solitary peace.

Gasping in fresh air, Jem leaned back against the brick wall, and then almost slid to the floor when a side door slammed open suddenly and nearly caught Jem's nose as it did so.

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't see you there," a disarmingly familiar voice said, and Jem was about to brush off the apology and move to a less violent section of wall when recognition kicked in. Mika was staring at the redhead in a bit of flustered concern, equally as sweaty and confetti-drenched and out of breath, but a little less sprawled along wall-plaster.

"Uh," Jem replied eloquently, tongue catching on dry lips. "I was just trying to... get away, but... so many people, and..."

Mika nodded, smiling a little. "Me too. You may want to get away from the stage door though," he suggested. Then seeing how pale Jem remained, he paused. "I didn't hurt you or anything, did I? Do you need to lie down?"

"No, no, I'm fine," Jem breathed, straightening up and pushing messy red hair out of dark eyes. "You were amazing, by the way. Brilliant show."

"Took your breath away, right?" Mika laughed. He fixed his eyes on Jem's. "Look, I have to go, but if you want to stick around..." He didn't finish the sentence, but continued smiling for a while, and then turned to go inside.

Jem thought of Susan and her teasing, and what she'd say if she were to be there now. Of the crush of fans exciting the theatre, of the long ride home, and Susan's chatter about how "weird" they were. Of the fact that Mika, in addition to putting on the best show Jem had seen that year, was disconcertingly gorgeous in person. Of what Susan would say about THAT.

Jem stuck around.

Mika didn't come back out.

Jem left.

It was only to be expected, Jem thought walking to the car. It was silly to wait. Plus for what? An autograph? Not like a scribble on some paper was really worth anything. "Not anything," Jem said out loud to the pavement, studying its cracks with great concentration, and promptly smacked into someone. "Sorry!"

Jem looked up to see the now-familiar haze of curly hair and lanky frame, and blushed. "We're making this a habit, I think," Mika said. He crinkled his nose. "I'm really sorry for not coming back out. I meant to, I promise. I got... things happened." Jem noticed he looked tired, and seemed upset. Jem also noticed that he was, again, entirely alone. Surely that was a little strange. "Are you feeling better? Do you want me to sign anything?" Mika asked.

"Not anything," Jem repeated, without thinking. They looked at each other again. "Do you need to go back?" Jem said at last, awkwardly.

"Yes," Mika said. He didn't move. Another pause. "Do you ever..." Mika began.

Stopped.

"What do you do when you need to breathe?"

Jem looked at him, and suddenly felt entirely at ease. "Sometimes, I go for a car ride. To see a secret. The most beautiful place that no-one ever thinks of."

"Show me," Mika said simply.

Jem nodded. They got into Jem's car, and Jem set out for the highway. Everything was a bit surreal, but then Jem thought that the highway was always surreal. They were both quiet for a while, mutely following the silk stretch of road ahead into the pale horizon. The sun had set a while ago, and the sky was turning a deepening violet. There was no moon and no stars; the night floated like a smooth purple tapestry above the warm road. Jem finally broke the silence. "You're not scared?"

Mika turned to look at Jem. "Scared? Of what? Of you?"

"Maybe. You don't think this is weird? That I'm weird?"

A shy smile flitted over Mika's lips and softened into his eyes. "No. I don't know; I was always weird. I don't think I know what weird is. I think normal is weird." He looked back towards the road. "What do you think I am?"

"Beautiful."

Jem breathed in quickly, and felt a flutter of panic as the word slipped out and hung in the air between them. But Mika only kept smiling, slightly wider now, with a child's open grace.

They passed under a bridge, and a grey mass rose before them, set in a field of glittering white lights, as though a duchess' diamonds had been scattered all over. Slender towers and spiraling peaks rose from it into the sky, looking like some fantastic foreign castle. As the car rushed closer, the castle acquired more details, delicate stairs winding round it like laces, and lights sparkling over its silhouette. A shadowy plume of violet smoke rose from one of the soaring towers: the breath of a dragon encircling the castle's parapets.

"There," Jem said. "This is it. It's a factory, you know, and no one thinks of factories as beautiful. But at night, spotted with twinkling lights as though wreathed in garlands of fireflies, it's like... a cybernetic fairytale. It feels like a whole other world, like something between realities. Even in the midst of all its pollution, all the other cars, I feel like I am separated from everything, and all that exists is the beauty and the speed, and I can breathe the whole night in, and--"

"Pull over," Mika interrupted softly.

Jem turned to him in surprise. "Now? Why?"

"I can't kiss you while you're driving."

Jem did as Mika asked.

It was funny how well they understood each other's breathing then, underneath that violet sky and its cloak of purple smoke, smoke and breath mixing together, red hair tangling with brown as though the curls were made of heavy air.

It was dawn when they made their way back to the city, a lazy, rose-colored, yawning dawn. The statue of liberty rose faintly out of the mist that gathered over the water. "I always wonder what she's thinking," Jem confided to Mika as they passed her by. "When I go driving like this, I feel like she can breathe, and I am the one made of stone sometimes. She seems so lonely then, I wonder if she shares everybody's loneliness."

"Nobody," Mika replied thoughtfully, "is ever the only lonely one."

Their hands were intertwined, fingers pressed together. They didn't look at each other, but they breathed in unison.

Jem stopped the car outside Mika's hotel. "Thank you," Mika said. Jem nodded. Mika was going to say something else, but Jem only smiled, and both knew that nothing more was needed then.

"There are always too many people," Jem told him, a little sadly.

They parted after that.


When Mika's next single came out, Susan brought over a copy for Jem. She was surprised to find Jem had a copy already in the car, but even more surprised that Jem refused to listen to its b-side track with her. "Why do you have it then?" she asked.

"I do listen to it," Jem said. "Just by myself, when I need to get away. It reminds me how to breathe."

"I swear, you're so weird," Susan said.

Jem let her keep it at that.



The End.

So yeah... it's kinda crap. And honestly, not particularly romantic, because I couldn't really connect to "Jem" at all. But crap is the point, isn't it?

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

ha, if only all fanfics were that good...

in an excruciating i-can't-believe-she-just-wrote-that way. ;)


re-exposing you.

I think you should post that on Mika's Myspace profile...

Me? Like you? Like that?!?

Haha... post a crap story that isn't even characterized well that I wrote in one sitting? I suppose I might as well, since he wouldn't read it even if I did. I would be much more likely to do it though if I felt the "Mika" in the story acted at all like Mika is actually likely to do in real life.

But then again, I sent around silly photoshopped pictures of Mika being lovey-dovey with a fellow British singer as a joke, so we'll see, I might do that yet.

jareth's tights: I suppose the color must have been inspired by PW, but really I just wanted something that wasn't blond that would contrast well with brown.

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

That was good but I don't believe for a second that you couldn't really connect to Jem . Because that would mean you're not into girlish boys anymore. The only thing I didn't like was the duchess' diamonds part, but that could just be me being too old to enjoy simple analogies.

I'm not sure about posting that on Mika's page, wouldn't that scare him? On the other hand, that would be something to talk about on the 15th : "Hi Mika, I'm the weird poet who posted on your page a while ago and your curly hair and songwriting talent don't make me horny at all!" Or something like that...

Mon Espace

Thanks, Frogman!

Well, I can fancy Mika without emotionally connecting to every single character who fancies him, couldn't I? Jem was entirely a plot device, and a bit annoying: I think I overdid it with the claustrophobia and such. I kept worrying that he/she was coming across as too much the swooning maiden. Unless you mean you consider Jem to be a girlish boy, and think that I fancy him, which... not really, nah.

If you can suggest something else other than the duchess' diamonds, I'd be glad to change it.

If I were to meet Mika and I wanted to be discomfortingly weird about it, I'd have plenty to talk about it as it is! Such as those photoshopped pics I mentioned. Right now though, I think if I were to meet him I would yell at him to take a break. He's been really ridiculous: he's been touring non-stop, with a show or tv appearance everyday, and every day in a different city since May, and he's been looking exhausted lately and his voice has sounded strained at the last two shows, and he recently had an ear infection. But he's continuing with this crazy schedule all through the summer, and he just announced he'll be launching into another UK/European tour through the fall and winter. I am almost angry at him and think he really needs to stay home or take a month-long holiday.

I'd make a good Jewish mother.

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

In reply to:

---

A shy smile flitted over Mika's lips and softened into his eyes.

---

I agree with Froggy about the duchess' diamonds part, but this line is fantastic, and the rest of the imagery is well done.


I can't decide if this poem is crap or not, yet. It needs some work still, but it motivates me when I post my stuff here. Maybe because I don't mind if my stuff sucks when no one else has to read it.




He gouges out a portrait in his mind;
A rounded arrowhead,
Ressurrected from the red clay flesh,
Made blunt by learned indifference

Foreboding form in window frame
His chugging breath contends against grey sky
Pulsing dappled fingerprints into his
Deep-set eyes

Unseen,
He stalks the rumoured silhouettes
Against a dull, nickel horizon
They ne'er desist
Buffalo relics, with
Their tongueless heads in mist

He swivels at the door in silence;
Offers the rough translation of
A smile
The void like antiquated, rust-red pattern;
Unintended space in tile
Between the bare, buffed slabs of white linoleum;
Shiny-smelling of petroleum jelly

The holy drum inside his throat drowns soft
To dulcet quietude
For now, laying to rest the lonesome quest;
That which he can't emote to me or you

Flush to the surface
Of a cold, archaic coin
Austerity condemns his soul
Handled so much, it's come to be
Incomprehensible

"we went to pizza hut after school and lived the rockstar life for the first time that day." - 13athroom

I always like your poetry, JG. Here I really like the imagery of a "dull, nickel horizon" and "dappled fingerprints." I also enjoy all the throat/tongue imagery--you use it well and not in the usual way. The only thing I might change is the use of "ne'er," since it doesn't really fit stylistically with the rest of your diction.

Thanks for your compliment on the story. ;-) Honestly, I agree with you both on the duchess' diamonds part. It's not really my image, but I gave Jem the fireflies line. If you have any suggestions, I'd love to hear them. Otherwise, are any of these variants better?

"as though an elderly heiress' diamonds had been scattered all over"

"as though a chest-full of diamonds had been scattered all over"

I am mostly bothered by the "duchess" part, though I recognize that "diamonds" are cliche.

By the way, that factory is real and is indeed that beautiful. I would take Mika or anyone else there in a heartbeat, though it's about a 40-minute drive.

My own description of it in my journal went something like this:

Cyborgia is when...

When the night-road is the same color as the sky, and the Newark airport brings forth its crop of a field ripe with lights, heavy golden bulbs spreading their pollen in the ionic breeze.

When the pollution-spewing factories rise up in sharp spiraling magnificence like star-spackled castles wreathed in their purple plumes of smoke.

When the slender lines of bridges and wires cut up air and road like lace garottes.

Driving home at 2 am in a post-thunderstorm haze, that is Cyborgia.

I like this description better, but that's my description and not the story's.

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

What about "as though a block of frosted semen had been scattered all over"? That would sound fresher.

The most beautiful words in the English language are not 'I love you,' but 'It's benign.' | Mon Espace

Yeah, I was iffy on the ne'er, but I tried loads of other words and I just did not like the way anything else sounded. I was thinking the word usage might be justified because I'm talking of archaic things throughout the poem, but it probably just comes off as pretentious. I'll probably change that.

Anyway, thank you for the encouragement. It is much appreciated.

"as though a chest-full of diamonds had been scattered all over"

This certainly sounds better to me. Though, I'm afraid I'm in love with your original description and nothing about the diamonds will please me now.

The Cyborgia vignette is incredibly inventive, and there's an elegance in your manner of describing the factory that doesn't seem as forced as Jem's. Then again, this makes sense as you said you can't really identify with the character.

Of course, it's not to say the story's description is bad, it works rather nicely.. I just think your personal version is quite clever, in particular.

"we went to pizza hut after school and lived the rockstar life for the first time that day." - 13athroom

Everything hazy,
World is blurred,
Things you've said,
Have never been heard.

Try to walk straight,
Crooked path,
Sky is spinning,
Drunken wrath.

Dirty smells,
Noisy chat,
Can't take much more,
Your endless crap.

Wish I wasn't drunk...

Me? Like you? Like that?!?

Something to try and make up for that drunken crap I posted...

Oh summer days, where have you been,
Still burnished from your winter sheen?
Do you quickly hide from fat old men,
Who shirtless, drink their tepid beers,
To sounds of barbecues and cheers?

Oh summers lost, where did you go?
I knew a person long ago,
Who bounced on pogo sticks till late,
Then climbed a tree, too tall by far
And fell and laughed with boyhood aches.

Oh summer nights, oh starry fields
For you I cannot think, but feel,
Those hazy staggers home so late,
To bumble clumsy at my gate,
Such happy wordless silly groans.

Who knows what summer now will yield...?


Me? Like you? Like that?!?

The Sun rose;
Supercilious
He bared his golden sneer
It glistened;
Sanctimonious
There haloing his sphere

Undaunted,
Delicate,
And, new;
The Moon hung to the day
A dry white stamp
Upon the blue
That still clung to the gray

The Sun,
Punctilious and proud,
Grew weary of her presence;
The crescent,
Slight,
Upon his cloud;
His sky host to night's peasant

So,
Night by night,
He gave twilight
To slake her mighty thirst
Then,
Crumbs of sun
To gorge upon;
Enough that she might burst

And,
Still, she lingered into morn
To drink the honeyed dawn
But,
Sun contained his fiery scorn
To fuel her embonpoint*

A fortnight passed,
And, then at last
His efforts were rewarded
His joy, begot;
The Moon stayed not
It seemed she had been thwarted

But,
To be sure,
He wanted more
Evidence of defeat
So,
In the skies,
He'd leave his eyes;
Most cunning and discreet

When nightfall came
He saw the Moon
Her face, voluminous
Her visage made him
Sob and swoon
So fair and luminous

Lamenting
All his spitefulness
Resenting only he,
He figured, "What delightfulness,
Repenting for my deeds!"

So,
Every night
He leaves her light
Until she is replete,
And,
When she's full
As virgin wool,
Allows her to retreat



*Dictionary.com Word of the Day. Better than using it in a sentence, I guess...

I wish I knew how to quit you...

An old man dribbles down his sleeve,
He stinks of piss and rotten leaves.
Spoilt children cry cry their fuss,
Please someone get me off this bus!

The window sill is dripping steam,
These seats are damp and wet, unclean,
My head is spinning, I feel rough,
Get me off this bloody bus!

The driver laughs manically,
As drunken bastards whoop and scream,
I honestly don't give a toss,
JUST GET ME OFF THIS FUCKING BUS!!!

Me? Like you? Like that?!?

It's good, but it could be great! Come back and work on it once you're pissed.
So good to see you back, sir! I may have to start frequenting T-dubs again sooner than I thought.



Today,
I'm pondering seven ways
To say that I am all alone

Monday
Calls me on the phone
Her voice is just a dial tone
I can't escape her vile drone
Mm hmm, mm hmm, mm hmm?

Tuesday
Stalls out on my street
He wonders how I'm still asleep
How many beeps before he creeps
Away, away, away?

Wednesday
Finds me on the bus
Where people stare and people cuss
I would, but I'm too tired to fuss
With you, or you, or you

Thursday
Sits with me at lunch
Nothing to say, hum drum and hunched
He hangs on my self-conscious crunch
So long, so long, so long

Friday
Is a thing of wonder
Fast and fierce like waves of thunder
He always splits my heart asunder
In time, in time, in time

Saturday
Is soft, like rain
She helps me wallow in my pain
She washes all my sinful stains
With tears, and tears, and tears

But, Sunday
Sunday cannot rest
She kicks inside my hollowed breast
She writhes as though she were possessed
With nothing, nothing, nothing


P.S. I wrote this a couple weeks ago. I just thought it was weird we both rhymed bus with fuss. I've been posting at a "proper" poetry site, but I'm getting tired of sifting through all the poems about peoples' pets to find the good stuff.

"The darkest of these objects is fecal excrement, which Sade advocates that we consume with relish, (no pun intended.)" - Douglas B. Lynott

Dans ces grottes
Des gorgones polyglottes
Ont pris nos atomes
Pour en faire des concerts de rock

Et des spectres phosphorescents
Sourient et glissent doucement
Au dessus de nos sens.

Sortons ! Sortons vite
De cette haunted house !
Je veux voir Mickey Mouse.

I started with two enemas and a moan
I was a fartiste

Women are afraid of mice
But, Mickey Mouse is very nice
I'm afraid of Donald Duck
And, every other Disney fuck

"The darkest of these objects is fecal excrement, which Sade advocates that we consume with relish, (no pun intended.)" - Douglas B. Lynott

Me, it's Pluto I'd love to devour
'cause waterfowl I find too sour
Then Ratatouille'll be my dessert
O, how I love to feel the rodent juice squirt!
(Shirley I am not a pervert?)

I started with two enemas and a moan
I was a fartiste

There was nothing usual about the setting of a haunting
No thunderous lightning around an antiquated residence with a wretched past

Just the intermittent pounding at the front door

It wasn't even dark

She'd overdosed on heroin and I'd put her on the steps before the police arrived

I arrived at the foothill and was instantly disappointed

It bared no resemblance to a foot whatsoever

And then my closest friend told me that's where base camp was going to be

I asked another friend who was further away "Is this true?"

He said "Yes - but don't worry - you can borrow my snow shoe - I would lend you both - but it's not a feethill, you cunt"

Stay with me baby

I have your best interests at heart

You're making far too much

Of my covering your head with the duvet when I fart

Mind-blowing.

I started with two enemas and a moan
I was a fartiste

In reply to:

---

A Shortcut To Meryl Streep's Bush

---

That would make a great sequel to Being John Malkovich.

God's footballer hears the voices of angels
Above the choir at Molineux

I really like this one, Mardell. Interesting to see the bluer side of your expression (aside from off-color remarks and morbid humor.)

The word choice is very cold and detached, a light in which I find very human. Well done. Many people would cope in this way with a memory as wretched as this.

I'm not sure I like the word "antiquated," though. It's almost too quaint and lovely for the atmosphere you've drawn. I'd go with either "dilapidated" or, ideally, "decrepit," as both would add to the already present assonance you've built in the line (and in the previous line, with "setting.")

Over all, I find it appropriately terse; it engages the reader cleverly with a sort of reverse psychology.

Don't ask me why I'm being so generous to you, you prat.

"The darkest of these objects is fecal excrement, which Sade advocates that we consume with relish, (no pun intended.)" - Douglas B. Lynott

In reply to:

---

In reply to:
--------------------------------------------------
A Shortcut To Meryl Streep's Bush
--------------------------------------------------
That would make a great sequel to Being John Malkovich.

---

That film's already been made, it's called Adaptation. The shortcut is the orchids and some of it is filmed on the behind the scenes of the actual BJM set!!

(spooky!!)



my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,
standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,
that i must above all things love myself

This was a great movie.

I started with two enemas and a moan
I was a fartiste

It was a great movie. I started a real nasty Orchid Dust habit after watching it.

As for Nick Cage's acting abilities, most of the time, I think he's annoying but there are a few of his films that fit his persona well, like "Adaptation". I liked him in "Bringing Out the Dead" and "Lord's of War", also.

Nic Cage is so pricelessly brilliant in Raising Arizona that it took me a full 10 years to realize that it's the only role I really liked him in.

That's genious and you're stupid.

Nic Cave was great in his day (Raising Arizona, Wild at Heart) but his day was a long, long time ago and he's made way too many poor movie choices to be taken seriously any longer*. Adaptation was a wonderful - albeit all too brief - return to form for him in a really interesting, entertaining movie.

* Can I just say that as much as I loathed Face/Off, I think he and Travolta acted each other beautifully!

Now I'll stop hijacking this thread and you lot can get back to your piss poor poetry

my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,
standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,
that i must above all things love myself

In reply to:

---

Nic Cave

---

You sure he was in those ones?

I liked him in Leaving Las Vegas, which also had those cool jazzy tunes by Gordon Sumner.

I started with two enemas and a moan
I was a fartiste

LOL. Got Cave on the brain and he won't go away.

You know what I mean

my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,
standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,
that i must above all things love myself

Midlife crisis?

I started with two enemas and a moan
I was a fartiste

I think it's actually a Bowie crisis.... I can't get Nick Cave out of my head. Bowie's just not doing it for me... I even listened to Low, "Heroes" and Lodger in a row yesterday but was yearning for Grinderman.

Nic Cage has done some great stuff, another two faves that spring to mind are Rumblefish (jeez I loved that movie, haven't seen it in a long time, very cool cast) and Birdy.

my face is finished, my body's gone and i can't help but think,
standin' up here in all this applause and gazin' down at all the young and the beautiful with their questioning eyes,
that i must above all things love myself

You're not a true fan!

I started with two enemas and a moan
I was a fartiste

I don't think I'll ever have a Bowie Crisis, but there is so much stuff out there that strikes my interests that I would be covered for life if Bowie would retire or whatever. Albums like Low and Kid A will always be revisited and enjoyed for my listening pleasure but I've got new stuff all of the time to sipher through and love, via the internet and recommendations from my friends.

It's all about the mood, I guess.

And the mood...She is like an angry sea twisting and turning o'er and o'er through an expanse of millenia of life and death. As the great waters wash to my shores, the sounds crashing against the craggy rocks and smooth, sandy beaches, I stand, just a man, feeling the breezes and sounds as they come.

(bad poem for the purpose of this thread)

Gadgie

Tonight I cry a little bit,
To only weep once more.
For broken wonders found and lost,
And startled skeptics laws.
If not to learn here how to live,
Perhaps to live to learn,
And not to breathe forgotten dust,
Which falls down through the floor.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

I really, really like that, sir. It's not often I come across poetry that has both emotion and importance of meaning in equal amounts.


Here's another predictably dreary poem from me.



You said yes
And, the word was made flesh
And, dwelt among us

But, all at once, things seemed to go
Down into the dust

That moment splinters my memory
The crack of the bough like bone through skin
The snowiest blood, unconscious of agony,
Where our hearts poured over
And, filth filed in

We shed disbelief
Braved the gateway of grief
And, the brambles bare

As the frost clouded our veins and
The rain plowed our hair

That morning pendulates in my mind
The crumble of dirt as the spine of my soul
The faintest of light sloping over the pines
As the dark leaned into us
And, took its toll

Days pressed on
And, the pain was made one
And, knelt upon us

And, both at once, we seemed to break
Down upon the dusk

Dreaming laughs left bitterly bereft
Our deadness permeating pre-dawn’s cloak
In wordless, windless scapes utterly cleft
We freed our fragile howls
And, hollowed croaks

Hi, this is Grape-A-Don’s Dad. Well, the members of Grand Buffet were right about one thing. Your flesh is burning, and you are going to Hell.

Dreary my arse! I particularly enjoyed the imagery of your last poem... wish I could write so well. Here's some more crap from me.

Ethics

If life were a one track mind,
Unfettered with curious happenings,
Or already broken beneath the yoke of time,
Like lonely fragments of dust.

Then like some ghastly timer,
How each momentous minute,
Would sear across my spirit,
And smile to see me mock.

And so, lay down or lie,
Upon uncertain confidence,
To soldier on through each dull tock,
And watch the graying hairs grow older.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

Yours & JGirls poetry is good, but I would personally prefer less in the way of noun usage.

I always feel happiest when swanning sideways through the murky miles,
And across the heady hills the green smear of land slides swiftly beneath me.
Could this vertiginous variance of foliage and fauna,
Lost in a creators venomous eyes,
Really be home?

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

That reminds very briefly of the four days I spent recently at Mardale Green in Cumbria.

The birthplace of my Anglo-Saxon surname no less.

In reply to:

---

That reminds very briefly of the four days I spent recently at Mardale Green in Cumbria.

---

Well it's a small world... I actually wrote that a while ago in a notebook I took with me when I climbed up the Old Man of Coniston! So not far off.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

Do you ever struggle with loathsome doubts on those cool spring nights,
Raging silently whilst the mournful moon makes such dark faces at an unhappy soul?
The enchanting destruction repulses me, but I boil to fight back,
But I don't care enough to win as the bastards pull me down...


Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

Yes.



We knelt at the delicate feet of dilection;
........Groveled at the cloudy skin of our fate
When the shapes of the stars were embodied before us
........In the precipitancy
........Of divine electricity

........They held twinkling vigil in the blackest of hours
........As our dreadful hearts
........Were wholly proselytized
Humble hands
Were unfurled as flowers
Like petals in moon
........Grey veinulets
........Wicking up light through our fingers
We knelt
........At the delicate feet of dilection
........We wept when our wavering spirits were stilled
As the seraphs of sky broke before us and shimmered
........Through the stratus
........Of somber uncertainty

If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.

The Crunch

The present past can never last,
A future often lingers,
You cling to minutes by the hour,
Which slip down through your fingers.

And when you hear the grinding crunch,
Which cuts down to your soul,
Take up those bronze illumined gears,
And pay the weary toll.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

I never knew illuminated could be truncated like that. Good to know.

The metaphor of the clock gears as the two coins for Charon - brilliant. Unless you meant something more general, but I love the connotation that if you don't ante up, the memories of the time that you so clutch at will be lost forever. This is mercurial and short, but rich, and that's what I tend to like in poetry, so nicely done. This is a new favorite for me.

If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.

It’s on the edge
Not really there
It’s like a glance
Not a stare

It’s not quite in
But not quite out
Not in the centre
It moves about

It is, it isn’t
It could be maybe tho’
It agrees, disagrees
It’s very so-so

It comes it goes
You’re never really sure
Out the window
Thru’ the door

Periphery, periphery … artfully aware
In the shadows
Or in the open
Tho’ never really there.


Conversation Piece

I like it Strawie. Good to see you posting here again.

This is about the only thing worthwhile I've written since last I was here.




Further than
Two souls can ever be
I am in the peaking morning light
And, you are in the place no one can see

I’ll imagine it for you

The sun never burns your eyes
No terror permeates the dark
No tears need be cried
In your glory, your freedom

Nobody’s going to hurt you anymore

Your traces will be swept up in a zephyr
Of mystery and longing
Sorrow and regret
Silent fury
But, the lines of your face will be kept
In the most hallowed memories
Campfire lit
Pyretic flurry

Finally, raised up in flames

Yearning palms will well remember
Those hard wood-chopping hands
That buried themselves in burnt sienna fur
And pined to plant themselves in distant lands

The horizon always was your home
Sought from early dawn into the night
Broad and bright, I see your easy smile
Sprawling in the peaking morning light


If I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.

Oh my lovely poetry... I thought you dead and buried,
But now I find you here again,
Decayed and somewhat smelly.

Like a Nun on the Run, I'm terrible fun.

With a clever smile
And a clean anus
You took me for a ride
On a purple platypus
While weird lover Wilde
Rode home on a bus

Satie's Faction

I really don't like doing this "dot dot dot" thing, but this works so much better with the indentations. Thinking of adding another stanza to square things off...

A Royal Welcome


Have I indulged unseemly
................In feasts of blushing terror?
................................Apples shining on the cheeks of
................Abdicated dignity
For, here in my confinement
................There is no sash to tear
................................No grappling with the robed façade
................Nor powdering of hair


A fool, I’ve trebled troubles
................For want of trophied shoulders
................................Not mantling a violet heart
................Nor, violent flowers of fervor
But, damascened refinement
................A silent, silken weave
................................No burden of simplicity
................Upon the sterling sleeve


Do diamonds rain from tear ducts?
................Do roses reign the core?
................................Is Venus deigned the precious pearl
................Of adoration’s smile?
For, I have never mined them
................Nor, boasted their décor
................................Nor, do they shower upon the shroud
................Of death’s unlittered shore

Fairy stories in the penny arcade.
You bought my love and I paid.

A tad old-fashioned, but very well written. You're pretty articulate for a fatty.

When Bowie Meets Satie