|THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016).|
i know you have it in you
it's been so long since you've written
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.
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
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
the new song
sing along with me
this is the next real thing
we are harmony.
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?
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:
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."
they turn off the heat
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
You found me finally
When moonlight’s coolest shards
Fade into silver dawn
Under cotton sheets
Reassuring familiar notes from deep within
The hallowed music of a soul
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
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
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’
Caress me in your radiance
And share in my forest’s gratefulness
For light and warmth and freedom
Repeating mysteries melodious
What we sing to be
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.
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.
no i don't
you seem frustrated, spider.
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.
Think of frustrated as a verb and not an adjective.
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
the Deity of our
Spirit says we
are all People
(Fish, Frogs and
and therefore all equal.
Take God back!
as a personal favor
(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
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
(my all time favorite)
BIGFOOT IS MY DEITY
I have faith oh my possible
Brothers, sisters, and spiritual
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
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)
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.
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
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.