| THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016). |
|---|
i know you have it in you i'll start.... it's been so long since you've written your name gets further away in my inbox. ok, that was it. now it's over. please don't hold it against me. |
|
|
no no, this is good. i'll contribute! "Untitled" (hee hee) how can this love the kind that has no motive that makes you smile while driving ocean roads that loved long before you met and found it's rest in every quirky trait an unreasoned love that is simply because it can be how can a love like night a depthless well of inspiration be this easy destiny a reason to feel alive again with light and laughter someone who needs what i must offer how can such a love cause veils of shame burnt desire into ashes making endless shades of grey how can it be wrong to want your one true when he does not belong to you. i wrote that when i was like 14. ha! |
|
finished retching yet? ready for more? this one is also untitled teen poetry, but i'll call it ... "We Are Harmony" just for added barfiness. alone in the car with the music singing along to your memories i grip the steering wheel too tightly it's hard to turn off the past it doesn't sing to you now not as sweetly as me this is the next show i will give you the score for free i am the blues the lick the jazz riff lose your self music swirling your body peeling loose the destiny come with me into the rhythm find the lost dance i believe in music in the space between lyric listen the new song sing along with me this is the next real thing we are harmony. |
yes now that's poetry i wrote mine with the intention of its pathetic nature, but now i wish i had access to those early teen notebooks. "horrible, yet charming in their naivete" |
|
would you like me if i looked more like a boy? so there's some 4 o'clock poetry (o'clock--- what kind of word is that? some pretty archaic stuff) |
I wonder if she'd let me borrow it to post to the world? |
|
what IS IT with boys named Michael anyway? jeeezis. get your hands on that poem Moonie. |
miguel, ma belle, these are words that go together well, my miguel miguel, ma belle, son des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble I love you, I love you, I love you that's all I want to say |
I think Michael was a popular name in the 70's. |
the first was my uncle, my mother's brother; he died of a respiratory disease at at 12, so i never got to meet him. the next died of multiple sclerosis when he was 24. then there was me. i almost died at 19; luckily, an undertaker (shit you not) found me in the alleyway in a pool of blood. do not name your child michael. do not name your child michael. dave is a nice name. |
|
I wrote this when I was really interested in watching "Dallas" reruns. They used to run these commercials all the time with a clip of JR saying the title. "I Don't Think That's Funny" Lucy was a naughty girl When Bobby first brought home Pam. She slept with her uncle Ray, And never ate her spam. Sue Ellen didn't like her But Pammy didn't care. She had enough to worry about Trying to fix her hair. Cliff was bound and determend, To stop the Ewing clan. But Ol' Cliff wasn't too bright And couldn't think up a plan. Cliff would cry: "Oh darns!!" While JR exclaimed: "That termite Barns!" If anyone ever got in his way JR would flash some money And grit his teeth, and staunchly say: "I don't think that's funny." |
|
coldcoldcold here they turn off the heat it sucks you have found the too early morning bad poetry rant channel. now go away |
|
# To Lay On Top This Spirit Music In this morning’s rattling From night’s rich flesh of slumber I dreamt You found me finally When moonlight’s coolest shards Fade into silver dawn And Under cotton sheets You crept Whispered Trembled Reassuring familiar notes from deep within The hallowed music of a soul And As you laced your legs to mine Crescendos musing over sleep triumphant Slid close beneath and holy I heard more the cadence clearly Your hands around my arm Your teeth upon my skin Your shadowed face one mirror mine Your touch your warmth a silken shirt to weave And Felt the solid chant Of cello and piano resounding From beneath, within, around -- reminding me of laughter like Italians paint the sunlit sea in Tuscan scenes – Then with each wave wash over me A thousand drums in a silent grove A canvass yours to paint I woke a little more to sense Your truth as it surrounded me Strong winds in the dead familiar wood And now Singing tone on tone as if to me alone A brilliance you deny yourself to grasp Yet mingled here midst arm and lip And chest to breast, hair tangled fierce Like some impatient lovers’ You Caress me in your radiance And share in my forest’s gratefulness For light and warmth and freedom Laughing, full Repeating mysteries melodious We wonder What we sing to be ### |
[deep breath] Bewitchery Oh, that these wearying days were quick to pass! So I, with an empty heart, am apt to take The hearts of others and turn their eyes to glass, Though they think it but a dream and pray to wake. Speak, lovely child, and tell this thief of souls Where one could go to find her hunting ground, That I may hold in mine own hands live coals Of human minds, and feel them die like sound. Hold fast, my lamb! Why do you fly so soon? Be it, perchance, you quake at my remark? O no! Sweet babe, do gaze at yonder moon. Why, would she shine had she a fear of dark? Come, gather near, and bring your derring-do, For I shall whisper more than you'd like me to! God. But that's what an 8th period geometry class will do to you. I don't remember it ending like that. I remember some line about "you dive into my flame out of despair, for you see nothing in the world that's fair" or something else as bad as that. I wonder when I changed it. |
Note that this time my iambic pentameter is PERFECT, and there is only one end-stopped rhyme. I admit to being proud of my technique. Past midnight - rainy, bloated hot: you coast down ruined city streets. Beneath the gaze of yellow lights, you find at last the ghost of one you used to love amidst the maze and tangle of debris. Still pretty, she reclines inertly, poses as you left her - head thrown back, arms folded, legs crossed, three or more contusions on her neck. Bereft of life, she still retains the quiet grace that drew you to her from across the black and barren city. Kissing her white face, you leave her, confident, while walking back and climbing in your car, you leave no clues as you embrace the midnight city blues. Oh, yeah! |
|
There should be a comma between "bloated" and "hot" in the first line. There may or may not be a comma at the end of the penultimate line. |
|
|
|
|
|
bloatedhot hotbloated badothoelt no i don't |
|
|
|
|
|
you seem frustrated, spider. |
Pronunciation: (")fr&s-'trA-sh&n Function: noun Date: 1555 1 : the act of being frustrated. eg: by a lack of commas. 2 a deep chronic sense or state of insecurity and dissatisfaction with commas arising from unresolved rectal problems. |
|
|
Never mind. |
|
|
|
Think of frustrated as a verb and not an adjective. |
|
Robert LongFellow, In an island paradise I miss your hard love. |
|
you need to email me about august. |
Back from beach. C4 a success. Wonderful as always. |
|
Life is a fire. The ostrogoths have their time and place, but sex is as worthy of brain time as anything else. Gets the good hormones flowing. |
Actually, some of it I think is halfway decent, but I will begin with the worst and work my way up to my favorite. (This one's a stinker) And I will dance in the course of reflecting abstract eyes and you will attend to every verse I chant I will collapse into your ever-outstretched arms And caress your pallid moon-kissed lips Though you never speak Though you never dance My passion will always be yours And I will brush the dew of morning From your waxen orbs And I will sweep the leaves of Autumn From your paralyzed tread Misstress of chill stone Vigilant unto Extinction My absolute Psychosis. (this one is real bad, too) Take back God!! Take Spirit back From those that would anthropomorphize the Deity of our Once-fair world Spirit says we are all People (Fish, Frogs and French-Canadiens, too) and therefore all equal. Take God back! as a personal favor To Mom. (Bleah. this one is a little better, based on a dream I had) Once I was on an island or perhaps a peninsula with my family (this is a dream) we were on top of a wooded hill there were snakes in all the trees and the ground was like huge thick scales we walked down a trail to a ridge the trail split at the ridge, which overlooked a great sheltered bay the bay was hugged by two opposing crescents of land and beyond them lay an ocean (similar geography has featured in other of my dreams) The path to the left crept along the middle of a long cliff People were on the trail little dots Following the trail with my eyes I could see it ended at a huge pit on the tip of the crescent of land in the pit was a giant black bear angry and roaring it wanted to be let out of the pit I felt drawn to the bear I wanted to help but my parents took me down the other trail which lead down towards blocky houses and other buildings to the right where nothing ever happened. (this one I like.) Still I listen to the music of the dead, haunting like the promise of an echo ringing softly through a small quiet place. I try to make out their voices. They are struggling to be heard. They are not content to fade into the fires that consumed the hands that plucked the strings, that ate the voices once lifted in joy, that quenched forever beautiful souls. The music ripples and sways and will not go. Listening to it is like looking through old photographs. I can almost see them, the flash of white teeth through black bristle, the flickering feet of the women, the eyes that astound me with their clarity and passion. The eyes even now are sorrowful, burning like candles in memory. Of all that is said or written or painted to not forget to teach to grieve perhaps this music is the only thing to truly bring the loss home when the words and images fail this is what brings the understanding of Holocaust. (my all time favorite) BIGFOOT IS MY DEITY I have faith oh my possible Brothers, sisters, and spiritual In-laws. I have a god who also holds Many mysterious powers. (it can materialize anywhere And create a really bad smell Like many gods he cannot be brought in for Questioning) It is the quintencencial Trail-maker how better to say "Follow me" then to leave Intrigue-laden footprints? Some of you choose to dismiss My deity's reality. But their Only proof for their own are 1700 year old words. Do they have plaster casts of Their messiah's hole-y feet? Is there a Patterson film of The Nazerene striding purposefully Into the woods of Oregon? Does Jesus pick up logging Machines and hurl them against The hard bones of the earth? (well, the FIGHTING JESUS would, But the "kick-me-while-I'm-down, please-nail-me-to-a-board" Jesus? I think not, Ma'am) Yes Heed my words for SASQUATCH Shows the way to true ex-static Blissing in the gene pool. The one your children play in when it Gets too hot to be humans. PRAISE THE YETI!! PRAISE "BOB!!" AI! NA-GH*-SHUGGOTH! NHGH!! (at this point, subject runs out of change for the payphone.) |
It turned out she just created some of the text that was used to bridge scenes. So I sat through an hour of hearing appallingly bad poetry being recited by its authors in ridiculously staged dramatic settings...all for NOTHING. I didn't even realize the text bridges were Holzer's until I saw her name in the credits, so I didn't get any pleasure from that, either. Why is so much of modern poetry utter shit? Look, here is one of the poems from the video, complete with screenshot. This is horrible. This might be worse. |
my friends' grandma found it in his car once and had some weird freak out about it possibly contributing to his cousin's onset of schizophrenia. jesus. |
I have a book that's a collection of her work, but it contains only excerpts from each of her series. I got excited when I visited the Museum of Fine Art in Boston and saw a single LED screen of hers on display above the doors to the museum's movie theatre. |
I wonder if my old roommate is writing any of his lovely sad penis poetry these days. I used to like Sharon Olds, but I haven't read any of her new stuff. |
it reminds me of me |
oh my god I wanna know who that poem is about ;) |
i had coffee instead. |
|
|
|
|
i wrote a poem today. it's called: Fuck The French it goes like this: Fuck the French oh fuck the French pass me some brie and then i'll be happy to fuck the French. Fuck the French oh fuck the French the Eifel Tower should be used to deflower happy to fuck the French. thank you. thankyouverymuch. |
|