got this little problem
cotton swab went too deep
consonants like vowels
demon clowns in sleep
there's a giant hole in the wall of his room
sucks him in; distorts his features
fingers stretch and teeth pop out
naked and shaking, naked and shaking
a man with no mouth screams in his face
can't close his eyes
they've been taped
can't look away, can't look away
wakes up from the dream
a gurney
and a blood soaked doctor singing gospel hymnals
a cold stethoscope, really cold.
When I'm not inspired I listen to Flamenco music and look at books of photographs. Try Dorothea Lange, Tina Modotti, and Walker Evans photographs. Or I read the lyrics of songwriters I respect, and listen to their music. Or I just give up and watch a movie while needlepointing. I don't think there is anything with being uninspired as long as it's temporary. Long term apathy results in boring party conversations.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
It was my whoa moment. I mean there it is. The image in the print, the image in the imagery, the image in the word loneliness, one leaf falls, one, one, one all over the place. You can't beat that with any stick (schtick).
God bless ee cummings for trumping TS Eliot in my list of best poets. ee is the best for me.
I think it meets your criteria. Maybe. That's for you to decide. I think.
There is no other poet that will ever compare to him in any of my books.
in the end there is nothing but the slavery we live under within ourselves
when the free bird fly's she takes herself to flight
through the clouds and on into the bright new dawn of a new day.
fate is waiting around the corner from the crossroads of her life
direction fails to take control and yet.
hope always finds a way to lead her home.
in the end she has no one but herself
she can live for today or i can die for the right to have a tomorrow
when the starlight falls upon darkened minds
all that she has is the innocence of a childhood
right above wrong .....good above evil
love above hate........life above death
she waits and wonders if its all worth it.
but in the end................she kissed the sky and smiled.
Ok, it's not first person, there's no other people, there's no angsty I hate humanity, pop-culture sucks kind of tone - it's not a great poem but I like it
The civilized basement
A collection of spent cigarettes
gather in the corner of a basement.
They whisper to each other
in the language of ash and footprints.
They speak as the small brothers of volcanoes.
They join a conversation
in the bubbly tongues of beer caps,
a language of beings beyond five cent redemption.
The cigarettes are convinced
in the absence of God
when they build their lecture halls
of dust.
They writhe about like severed fingers
among the mold,
under the savage death throes
of boilers and aging pipes.
The bottle caps grow restless
and steal away ambitious cigarettes for axels.
Two caps joined by a cigarette
roll slowly away,
metal against concrete.
Some made pacts with the bloated spiders.
Others fed eternally,
on their reflections in the puddles
dripped by the water pipes.
They lived immune
to the bursts of dawn outside.
While weeds and vines crept
through the crevices of civilization
they passed stories,
in the languid dialects
of creatures unhinged.
we met as lovers meet in a shadowed moment of deceit,
oars dipped in the mudddled waters of lake pontchatrain,
down in new orleans.
our base desire was king for a time in that time,
she was my despised queen, royalty's bain,
somewhere back in new orleans..
she grasped the moment and clung to me,
as peter instructed in his letters,
she considered herself in new orleans.
i dove into the moment,
the silent lust of lament,
for as soon as it is over,
you know you have no lover..
down in new orleans..
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
Olderman I really like the style of composition here, but I'm going to do what I wish people would take the time to do to my poems and critique a little)
In trying to make the scene mysterious it seems it becomes too confusing.
seriously though this is very close to be excellent poetry, just tweak it and read it to yourself and make sure everything that's in your head is on the paper
we met as lovers meet in a shadowed moment of deceit,
oars dipped in the mudddled waters of lake pontchatrain,
down in new orleans.
our base desire was king for a time in that time, (the two "times" a little too close)
she was my despised queen, ("royalty's bain," this seems a little excessive too)
somewhere back in new orleans..
she grasped the moment and clung to me,
as peter (who, what?) instructed in his letters,
she considered herself in new orleans.
i dove into the moment,
the silent lust of lament,
for as soon as it is over,
you know you have no lover..
Comments
drawing pictures,
Of mountaintops,
With him on top,
Lemon yellow sun,
Arms raised in a V,
And the dead lay in pools of maroon below..."
The person referred to here... is only mentioned as a part of his own design... a part of something he created himself.
He's at home,
He's drawing pictures,
of mountaintops,
with him on top,
lemon yellow sun,
his arms raised in a V
the dead lay...
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
le
af
fa
ll
s)
one
l
iness
by ee cummings
It was my whoa moment. I mean there it is. The image in the print, the image in the imagery, the image in the word loneliness, one leaf falls, one, one, one all over the place. You can't beat that with any stick (schtick).
God bless ee cummings for trumping TS Eliot in my list of best poets. ee is the best for me.
I think it meets your criteria. Maybe. That's for you to decide. I think.
There is no other poet that will ever compare to him in any of my books.
changing 'he's got a problem' to 'got a problem' changes it out of third and into 1st person. The 'I' is just implied.
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
when the free bird fly's she takes herself to flight
through the clouds and on into the bright new dawn of a new day.
fate is waiting around the corner from the crossroads of her life
direction fails to take control and yet.
hope always finds a way to lead her home.
in the end she has no one but herself
she can live for today or i can die for the right to have a tomorrow
when the starlight falls upon darkened minds
all that she has is the innocence of a childhood
right above wrong .....good above evil
love above hate........life above death
she waits and wonders if its all worth it.
but in the end................she kissed the sky and smiled.
maybe tomorrow has her answer.
best wishes
jim
http://www.callisto.tv
-Nast
I write down good reasons to freeze to death in my spiral ring notebook. But in the long tresses of your hair--I am a babbling brook.
It won't be amazing.
But hopefully you all can constructively criticize it...
-D
Some words when spoken, can't be taken back."
The civilized basement
A collection of spent cigarettes
gather in the corner of a basement.
They whisper to each other
in the language of ash and footprints.
They speak as the small brothers of volcanoes.
They join a conversation
in the bubbly tongues of beer caps,
a language of beings beyond five cent redemption.
The cigarettes are convinced
in the absence of God
when they build their lecture halls
of dust.
They writhe about like severed fingers
among the mold,
under the savage death throes
of boilers and aging pipes.
The bottle caps grow restless
and steal away ambitious cigarettes for axels.
Two caps joined by a cigarette
roll slowly away,
metal against concrete.
Some made pacts with the bloated spiders.
Others fed eternally,
on their reflections in the puddles
dripped by the water pipes.
They lived immune
to the bursts of dawn outside.
While weeds and vines crept
through the crevices of civilization
they passed stories,
in the languid dialects
of creatures unhinged.
Unburdened by the destinies of procreation
-D
we met as lovers meet in a shadowed moment of deceit,
oars dipped in the mudddled waters of lake pontchatrain,
down in new orleans.
our base desire was king for a time in that time,
she was my despised queen, royalty's bain,
somewhere back in new orleans..
she grasped the moment and clung to me,
as peter instructed in his letters,
she considered herself in new orleans.
i dove into the moment,
the silent lust of lament,
for as soon as it is over,
you know you have no lover..
down in new orleans..
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
In trying to make the scene mysterious it seems it becomes too confusing.
seriously though this is very close to be excellent poetry, just tweak it and read it to yourself and make sure everything that's in your head is on the paper