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Post by blake on Jul 17, 2007 18:55:35 GMT
BEST. POEM. EVER. I'm laughing so much right now. Don't worry darling, I'll always be your fangirl even if "Men from the north are decidedly gay". I don't think I have a choice anymore. Yes! I've won back my girl! Thats the way to a girls heart boys, tender poetry. Young'uns take note.
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Post by abolishconfusion on Jul 17, 2007 21:37:49 GMT
BEST. POEM. EVER. I'm laughing so much right now. Don't worry darling, I'll always be your fangirl even if "Men from the north are decidedly gay". I don't think I have a choice anymore. Yes! I've won back my girl! Thats the way to a girls heart boys, tender poetry. Young'uns take note. I wouldn't call it tender.. more... EPIC.
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Post by hark on Jul 17, 2007 21:43:09 GMT
I stroke the places Pandora has sat Wearing her jodphurs and riding hat. Goodbye, brown horse. I turn and retreat, The rain and mud are wetting my feet.I have sent it to the BBC. I marked the envelope 'Urgent'. man, I totally loved that poem as a kid. I actually thought it was the best poem ever. "the turn and retreat" bit still strikes as true genius in my heart. My poem Oh, little boy I want your tshirt I have developed a ploy eight year old child to get that shirt that says so proudly 'xiu mutha fuckin' xiu' I may stab you soundly or just tell your parents. Me - pretty much Shakespeare? ps. Inspired by this twat: cms.pitchforkmedia.com/images/image/33528.fans-bergman-2.jpg
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Post by Rebekah on Jul 17, 2007 21:44:06 GMT
Pretty much!
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Post by margot on Jul 18, 2007 0:00:09 GMT
I write rubbish angsty prose. Enjoy!
Parting Parties
It was another deathly dull weather description of an introduction, leading to some scraps of jottings which could be optimistically labelled 'A Chapter' and then abandoned in a drawer. There was a collection now. Nothing lead anywhere.
The messy teenage fumblings in a cramped bottom bunk of a French dorm during the first night of a school trip were the subject of today‘s script. Dwindling justification and a passion fuelled by the weak Belgian beer, procured through an unsavoury supermarche where a bored cashier asked our age in a disinterested manner. "Vingt-deux, bien sur!" Blatant lies, tossed out with a melodramatic hair flick and direct stare, but they afforded us the odd thrill which accompanies law breaking. A moderate catastrophe, bien sur. Tricky avoidance and the awkward meetings. Half-hearted assurances that nothing will change, the knowledge that it would change regardless, doubtless.
The rebound to attempt normality, back home, or someone‘s home, a house, a party, with a boy whose jeans were so tight it was a surprise that things still worked. Alas, they did, but to no significant effect. Bruised on the crown from the headboard, lips taste of Malibu, confirmed by the swirling eyes of my assailant. An idle curiosity about the pattern on the ceiling. “Can’t we just cuddle?”
“Eh?”
Quite the romance. Still people were jealous and asked how it was and I made up some casual lie about how it was ‘nothing special’, with a fluttery nonchalant hand gesture and an eye spin, and they ooohed and ahhhed over this new information like a yawning newborn. I caught you looking at me across the room, and I smiled at your blush at having been caught out. We met in the centre of the living room and acknowledged each other’s social discomfort. Then you kissed me on lips that were stone an hour ago, unresponsive with the rest of my body. Not so now. You told me you’d missed me. “Bien sur,” I replied, and we laughed.
So we left into the cold dark, hands not quite touching, hearts not quite beating, world still quite spinning. Bacardi-breath, a dirty rotter. That night we discovered that it was difficult to break a Smirnoff bottle, and we left it, whole, in a public garden, where it was buried in cobwebs and the glistening trails of slugs and snails, and sniffed at by elderly ladies as they passed.
We stumbled, laughing, dragging each other closer to steal kisses like warmth. I was caught up in your laughter. It hung about me like a pall, and I knew that tomorrow would bring regret on both sides, but it was too delicious to miss. I took another few sips to oblivion, and fell to the floor in a heap. Tuesday’s Child. My blood pumped hard, it resounded in my ears. The bottle of Malibu rolled away from my hand with a glassy noise, and you started to run home. My eyes started to close against my will.
Fade to black, the camera keeps rolling, the page keeps turning, the pen glides over the course recycled paper, bought during a moment of ethical intent. Thoughts turn to that past, revealing the past beneath the past, like the multi-coloured layers of a gobstopper. Slowly appearing, and then, when it turns to white and uninteresting, tired of and thrown into the bin. Besides, it will only sticks to everything it touches, left to it’s own devices.
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Post by Mellifluous Poetry on Jul 18, 2007 11:08:32 GMT
No words are left. - we're studying gestures, not giving the time-thief enough time to do the theft.
S l o w
d o w n.
After the talk, both bond-breaking & barking mad i'm waiting for yet another conversation that has to be had. i question if you could be a soul like flickering air on a bay? and could I ever touch you any better than the heat of a desert or a motor highway?
I bet my hand would go straight through what seems to be your body that's why someone once said: "love is always too intense to study"
so happy i met you: someone who can dance all smiles, giving worlds hard rhythm a chance every inch full of joy and the thoughts of a madman
To love you boy? forever convinced that I can.
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Post by Rebekah on Jul 19, 2007 7:08:37 GMT
I wrote a poem too, you guys. There once was a fruit named dragon, It did not like to drink from a flagon. The taste wasn't very great, As that was its fate. But one day it will triumph, In a mouthfull of... flumph. Oh, dearest dearest dragonfruit, At least you are cute!
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Post by lazy poet on Jul 21, 2007 13:43:55 GMT
not sure if i like this one or not but i thought i'd post it anyway
sprinkling the words across the floor to make the days shorter spraying them over limp hearts, murder in the light spreading the breath of a certain believer, the deciever
you go to cleanse in the pool of deciphered whispers soaking and drying the disease, plague across seas casting out stories from other worlds, inexistance
the purpose of accidental courage spreading love bringing beauty back to heart, saved by the bell blowing out fires across the edge of the land
july the tenth, crowd swarming and teaming and casting and screaming
cast and cast and cast out of etiquette howling from within take yourself home what can not be finished must be begun
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Post by Rhiflect on Jul 22, 2007 9:38:05 GMT
Wow! I love it! 'the purpose of accidental courage spreading love' Such a lovely line
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Post by allison on Jul 23, 2007 7:44:07 GMT
Some shrink told me too keep a journal but I thought journals were lame so he told me to write haikus but i'm not big on nature so i just used the structure (roughly). Randomly selected numbers...
HAIKU #8: Love you promise me love but this girl can't fall in love promise me one half
HAIKU #29: Old Dog stretch, stand, shake, stumble not so stable on his feet starts over again
HAIKU #14: Car Crash Coming round the bend Late at night, got the windows down Eighty miles an hour
HAIKU #25: Camera Subjective third eye Freezes another moment Captured in reverse
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Post by AnneYgerne on Jul 23, 2007 8:31:23 GMT
you could call this an "artistic break-up" song:
Forbidden Room
Walking home by night My hand in yours held tight As you opened your front door I stepped into a better light
You’d prepared me some food and tea You must have felt how I was hungry And as we rushed to the first floor You told me how we must hurry
Ooh to the next floor Ooh but past a forbidden door
So we went on to the attic Where we both felt artistic Mixed our voices and our colours How we were creating frantic
The way I felt was a surprise I had to think of sugar mice I heard a faint beat behind the door Of a heart hidden from my eyes
Ooh and the beat I heard no more Ooh behind the forbidden door
Enjoying the fun tunes we'd shared And how much I'd dared But when it seemed you are the one The time had come to rush downstairs
Although I was slightly feeling slumber You surely gave me "Hunger" But food and tea I saw no more And welcome here I felt no longer
Ooh cradling my hunger Ooh locked outside forever Ooh past the forbidden room Ooh nursing an open wound
Plagued with the weight of some past mess I guess one of us lost interest Had a last glance to that door Still forbidden but for whose best?
I'll always be like a dragonfly Born in the water, dead in the sky Buzzing to the ears of a one-eyed dog Always in search for the reasons why
Ooh just like a butterfly Ooh dreaming of a star Ooh but still attracted by the gloom Ooh shining from a forbidden womb
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Post by Marcus on Jul 28, 2007 3:30:59 GMT
Don't let that rose tint Take you away, Don't let it Deceive you.
The glazed look, And spit, On your face, Is doing us both harm.
Toss a penny, At the empty stage. Crack the whip, At the empty cage.
Playing this part. Hearing the organ grind. Turning the knife in my back, You wind.
---
Horrible, angsty, drunken bollocks. By yours truly. Flick me a few coppers.
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Post by Rhiflect on Jul 28, 2007 9:41:25 GMT
I have no coppers but i'll toss you an exalt because that is brilliant.
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Post by oldgregg on Jul 28, 2007 9:52:34 GMT
This isn't a poem but I thought I might post it since it's the first piece of semi-decent writing I've done in a long time. It's for a journalist competition (first prize - a VIP pass to the underage festival, hello hanging out with Paddy).
NME-organised gigs are very unique and instantly recognisable creatures. From the huge black-white-and-red tour posters decorating every wall and visible flat surface - and occasional scenester, whose fancies the wrapping of himself in a piece of stiff glossy paper akin to Morrissey’s famous encounter with the Union Jack flag – to the screen above the stage, playing segments of music videos on a loop and burning image after image of a naked Beth Ditto into the audience’s retinas, it is clear where the money spent on tickets is ending up tonight. Good thing, then, they’ve managed to clobber together a decent line-up, featuring four bands who, in their own right, have earned praise from journalists and fans alike. Detouring from the expected line-up, the first band on are local duo Blood Red Shoes. The couple, while being undoubtedly aesthetically pleasing, have all the stage charisma and attitude of the dead fish washed up on the beach a mere 500 metres away. They rattle through their numbers, including the fairly insulting “It’s Getting Boring By The Sea” and the highlight, a song consisting almost entirely of shouts of “No! Yes! Yes! Yeees!” – way more entertaining if you listen with your eyes closed and let your imagination fill in the blanks. Their identical bored expressions on their faces reveal all, giving the impression they’d rather be anywhere, ANYWHERE else than their home town, performing on the closing night of a well-promoted successful tour. Us in the audience response by giving off the exact same vibes of indifference, secretly praying that this particular grungy, repetitive song will be the last. Then, like manna from heaven, 3D printed tiger masks fall from the arms of the three young men onstage, signalling the beginning of Pull Tiger Tail’s set and therefore something interesting. The band could not be further from the dire duo previously gracing the stage, injecting enthusiasm and character into every bar and every lyric, from the opener “Mr 100 Percent” to rousing sing-along ender “Let’s Lightning”. But it is fan-favourite “Animator” that provides the high-point of the set, after many prompts and requests from the crowd, eager to expel energy and burn out vocal cords shouting along. After their all-too-soon exit (and a brief cameo from Little Ones drummer Greg, who jumps astride one band member, adding a well-received dash of homo-eroticism to the set), the stage is still littered with the now dirty and crumpled masks, symbolising what next band The Little Ones have to follow. And don’t they make a good attempt at doing so. Playing tune after tune of mellow Californian sunshine, smiles never leaving their faces, they represent exactly what it is American bands do better than us Brits – easy but not boring, feel-good but not smug tracks that reek summer and good times (see also : The Shins and The Decemberists). The uplifting single “Lovers Who Uncover” received the best reaction from the crowd, each person lost in the nostalgic mood that magically descends – from the delighted buzz that begins as soon as they exit, there were at least a few new Little Ones converts by the end of the night, I’m sure. With the audience suitably relaxed and soothed, headliners Rumble Strips take to the stage. Carrying the brass instruments that help create the unique pop-jazz influenced sound they’ve become known for, they launch straight in, frontman Charlie Waller supported for a large proportion of the set by various audience members, who not only know every word to every song, but are quite happy to bellow them at full volume. The set includes spiky harmony driven “Alarm Clock” and closer “Motorcycle”, which receives the best reception of the whole night, with us having been tormented with extracts of the video courtesy of NME’s in-house cinema all night. The closing honks and whines of brass layered with the many voices rising in a crescendoing “Fly-HI!” (think a modern John Travolta at the end of “Summer Nights” in Grease), bring what many believe to be the end of a spectacular night. However before the audience can get their breath back, and begin to move to the back of the venue to steal some of those fine posters, every band member is back onstage again, for an encore consisting of an unexpected Thin Lizzy classic “The Boys Are Back In Town”. And indeed, the Rumble Strips boys are going to be back in town soon, playing a repeat headline gig at the Concorde in October. I sincerely urge everyone to go – everyone deserves to see a moustachioed trumpeter and bearded saxophonist perform a crude shambolic jig together at least once in their lives.
Ouch sorry, it's very long.
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Post by jay on Aug 26, 2007 1:36:44 GMT
i'm back.......... sigh, here goes.
lips; ink-swollen and slick. chewing on the ends of pens again. my wardrobe whispers secrets. between the silk and the cotton mix. the wool and the polyester blends. and the weekend is nearly over, before it even began. i wanted to leave a note. i would write: please clean up your shit. the inside of my bin reads the letter i didn't write. but seriously. clean up your shit.
---
we did not write our downfall in the wallpaper patterns, we screamed it. we yelled our tragedy, we beat it in, we bled all over it. we peeled each other apart and pasted each other together again but my fingers are clumsy so there are things missing. you have a button for an eye and my stuffing is leaking. 'you smoke too much,' you said, shaking fingers clutching a mug of coffee long gone cold. i imagined it would taste as bitter as the look you threw. 'you complain too much.' 'you drink too much.' 'you complain too much.' i wanted to pry your hands away but there was no crowbar strong enough or small enough for those delicate phalanges. they scrabbled at my pack of their own accord, anyway. still shaking, still shaking, until a cigarette was between your lips and then your voice matched the tremor as you exhaled. 'i do. and you think too much of it.' the screech was just the chair across the FUCKING fdfghjkKITCHEn floor. it was a better ending than what i could have created. i wanted to say something about the not enoughs instead of the too muches. i bit words back until i bled.
---
there was a time when i could say the right things. before whatever fell from my mouth made you curl your own in disgust. they would gather on my throat, press on my windpipe. pool there, festering together, bubbled and dark. they would wait, wanting to rush up, spill through sharp white teeth with quick clever tongue to glitter brilliant for you. 'love,' i said once, more of a whisper that came out curled and secret like smoke. you curled your hand around it in the same moment your fingers tripped down my spine. a perfect symphony of spaces and shadows for all of your jagged broken parts. your palm was warm. 'i missed you,' i said twice, more bites to punctuate the absence to your collarbone. strange wild heat.
---
one minute and eleven seconds i held myself beneath the water until my lungs crackled in protest. i surfaced, gasping and congratulating myself. average is a minute. i like that. the bend-breakpoint; letting your hand rest out of the window when someone else is driving you both along at 60, that pushpushpush snap. staying awake until you drop to sleep exhausted and then there's no dreams.
just black.
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Post by Rhiflect on Aug 26, 2007 1:40:05 GMT
Ohhhh i love them all!!
Especially the first and second ones.
I think i am going to write a short story soon.
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Post by jay on Aug 26, 2007 1:44:26 GMT
Ohhhh i love them all!! Especially the first and second ones. I think i am going to write a short story soon. i have lots of stories. some of them are a bit fucked up and some of them are a bit dirty, though. probably best to not post them here.
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Post by Rhiflect on Aug 26, 2007 1:46:27 GMT
daaaaaaamn.
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Post by jay on Aug 26, 2007 1:55:35 GMT
K FINE IT PROBABLY SUCKS.
abusing, musing marmalade flesh naked spread am i if today i die, and can't deny the poison chosen for tonight
you miss him, maybe. you don't know what you miss about him exactly, but you can't not miss him, the way his taste still lingers in your mouth. some obscene cocktail of weed, vodka, and camels that you can't quite brush away. even if you wanted to. you weren't thinking; but when do you ever think? you just do, you just go, and you don't stop, and you don't consider consequence. that would entail thinking, and thinking takes time, time you just don't have. not when you've got to concentrate on what's happening right now, in the present. you're not thinking about what you're doing when you slide your arms around his neck and tangle your fingers into dark brown curls. you brush your mouth over his and feel his fingertips dig into your hips as you mumble against his mouth. "hey, you." ambiguous, that. hey, you. could've been to anyone. you don't name names. you just taketaketake and this is no different. he gives relentlessly and you let him. you don't know who that makes the bigger whore.
he has huge eyes. the expression deems them saucers, but you'd never repeat that to anyone. you wouldn't breathe a breath in the direction that shed light on the fact you'd been looking into them for longer than you needed to. he's short, shorter than you. doesn't bother you. short guys have this complex that amuses the shit out of you when you can be bothered to settle and think about it for long enough. he's no different. he carries himself like a little legend; shoulders constantly squared like someone's insulted his mother and he's looking for the next dumb fucker to punch. all because he's five foot four. laughable, really, but when he turns those dark endless eyes up at you and moves his bitten red lips to form "hey, peaches," the wind's knocked out of you like you were the dumb fucker who let him.
hey, peaches. that has some connotation, it must do. nothing ever comes out of his mouth without some second meaning, you know this. maybe you were loose with the "you" but he's onto something with this "peaches". what's a peach? a fruit with juicy flesh surrounded by soft fur? surely that's not any kind of reference for someone you're about to fuck, but you're scrabbling here, trying to find something solid to cling to; something that gives this meaning. whatever this is. when you look deep enough, yeah, maybe you can find something that gives this a background. because you know what you look like; stretched out taut and cream skin, dusting of burnt red along your cheekbones. is that what he's referring to? you don't have time to think about it, no, no time. he kisses you hard, then, sucking all the breath from your lungs and leaving you dizzy with the lack of it. he bites at your lips, draws blood to the surface and you mewl like a slut but you don't fucking care, work your fingers at his belt buckle like you're programmed to do it. sound, violent and crackling, hisses against your ear, and you realise it's him, breathing a soft litany. "i need you i need you i need you."
the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, what an image to behold - old acquantainces! nice to see you again, bed, we've brought another this time! - and you pull him with you, by the hips. for a few painstaking seconds, you merely lay together, one of your hands in his hair, his fingers beginning to curl beneath the hem of your shirt. then you kiss again, and it feels solid, a dead-weight, in the centre of your chest of all things. slow and deliberate, no fighting, no one-up-manship, just kissing. you let him around your mouth, he lets you around his, and you think you're so close that you can taste the amalgam in his fillings, but that's probably actually - fuck, yeah - the blood from your lower lip. the contrast between oxygen and the lack of it is like the difference between black and white; you realise, when things darken around the edges and immediately rush back in startling vividity when you pause to inhale.
a groan rushes from you before you even know what you're doing. his lips are twisting into a smirk against your skin, pinpricked with blood where his teeth have sank beneath the surface slightly. his eyelashes tickle when he turns his attention back to the welt and you wriggle down on the mattress happily. then he stops. he looks up and you look at him as his hair falls in front of his eyes, and you wish you were above him so that you could do that. you want to hide from his stare. the dead-weight in your chest is unfurling, quickly, too quickly. it feels like fire, an explosion within your ribcage - an implosion, then - and each time your heart beats the aftershock rings in your ears. it's too much, so you pull his head up level with yours and suck at his lower lip, try and pull his tongue into your mouth to stoke the flames. they licklicklick into your bloodstream, and you melt into the bed, limbs pooling off and dripping away somewhere far, far away. he crawls on top of you as your hands slide up his shirt, his thighs at your hips and his lips now on your jaw. heat, blessed heat blooms there, everywhere. everywhere his body connects with yours. you drag your nails over his skin lazily, and when he hisses, you picture steam rising into the air as if you'd thrown ice water onto hot coals. the shirt slips up and then off, his arms raising above his head. your palms slide over his chest, silky tan skin with wiry muscle beneath. they twitch under your touch, like coiled promises trapped beneath marmalade. the soft click of the door echoes like a gunshot, and you play dead.
---
so you sit there getting cold with only camel lights to keep you warm in a great big car now, polluting that coffee cup has never looked so good
there's a fat smear of blood across your knuckles; it reminds you of war paint. red is such an angry colour, but it's perfect right now. it's perfect, the way it stains your skin and reflects your mood back at you every time it flashes back into your field of vision. you'd shut your eyes from the onslaught because you hate being angry, but it doesn't work. every time you blink you see him on the inside of your eyelids, lip busted, telltale tidbits of information that betray you to the scene of the crime like how his incisor fits perfectly into the cut on the back of your hand. like how you don't know if it's your blood or his blood on your fist, but when you clench it in recollection the wound weeps and you realise it must be both. only he could hurt you as you're trying to inflict pain on him. passive aggressive retaliation, his tooth scraping across your hand as you punch him in the mouth. the pain is sicksweet, a slow soft sting that blooms bright every time you flex your fingers, but it's got nothing on the dark, throbbing hatred pooling in your gut.
why didn't you hit him? he was obviously the catalyst for all of this. he's younger, prettier, sharper than you, probably more so than you could ever hope of being, so perhaps you should've punched him out of spite; out of jealousy for all the things you wished to be. but he didn't know. and therein lies the difference between them. you've got his blood drying on your fist instead of the other guy because he knew what he was doing all along. the mental image of the kid flying up and off with wide eyes in contrast to your boy's sleek and resigned expression is one that is never going to go away. you understand that one "sorry" is laden with guilt and the other is only because he got caught.
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Post by bridgetbegins on Aug 26, 2007 1:58:37 GMT
Two Bit Poetry...
Does anyone dare disturb the poet? Breathe down his back, mispronounce his syllables Stumble over crisp lines marching over White paper, bold marks of punctuation and exclamation Doting on ends that might- than again, might not rhyme.
Does anyone dare disturb the poet? Not I.
Someday, after we have fallen in love, I will take you to my house and serve you Big Mugs of imported tea in cracked mugs Hastily stolen from Starbucks on a late hazy Sunday Feed you poached cheese and tomatoes In the way of my grandmother and Biscuits made with Sour Cream in the way of my Mother. Later, after we have Fallen asleep, dirty dishes waiting in tepid, scummy water Well fed faces sore with laughter, your dirty nails will no longer Enchant me, and, as quickly as we fell in, we will suffer Awkward goodbyes and the exchange of nightshirts in the foyer: The bitter remembrances of early love seem oft enthralling, More frequently; loss of feeling, naivety pared down quickly: Palms sweat and the cracked mug stolen and previously cracked Will drop and
Shatter.
/end strange emo poetry.
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