|
Post by cheshire on Oct 28, 2007 3:07:47 GMT
Thank you! Gosh, you guys are too nice.
|
|
|
Post by Marcus on Oct 28, 2007 3:55:42 GMT
Bravo
You’re always there in my mind, Dancing without moving. Skipping from thought to thought, Each memory is a pain you’ve brought.
I attempt to sweep you into a corner, A symbol of desire. Your shape, your voice, your scent, Adds to my inevitable descent.
An epitaph of my absolute ideal. Plastered upon my mind. An ever-changing portrait of perfection. The mind is the perfect deception.
A deception in to the desirable self-depreciation. Trailing through thick mud, I present myself, dirtied and used. Forever bloodied and bruised, By you.
Limping into your shining light, You, your figure ever so slight. Each attribute so toned and defined. Forces me to toil and grind.
The stage soiled, I continue. Your ignorance feigned against those eyes. I clutch, grab and tear. Yet you carry on, unaware.
I exit stage left. Left, but nothing more. I watch from the shadows, Your inevitable, disgusting encore.
Importance
I am here, listen to me I am a simple man With many ideas and ideals Listen to me. Ignore the media, Disregard your friends Forget your parents Listen to me. I am all that there is And you are here too I come with a message Listen to me. I tell you to look around you, The fertile ground The sky, forever blue Listen to me. I am your mother And all who you ever knew (and some you didn’t) Those who knew what was good for you Listen to me. Never mind your self-importance You call that a fall from grace? Crouch and hear my plea Listen to me. The thing to realise That we mostly think Of nothing at all.
Life and Soul
Why should I Wave and say hi, Hold the door open, And let the awkward silence be broken.
I leave before the party is on. And arrive home before everyone is gone.
Except you. Composed in the corner, Legs bent and crossed. Curled up to your heartbeat, waiting. Collapsed and staring at nothing. Contemplating, With doe-bloodshot eyes, Seeing through the lies.
You strip me to the core, Without moving at all. I am "reduced" to nothing more Than a shivering mess. In your corner. Long after the party, Has left through that door.
Manifesto
I stand by the sideline, The erroneous clap vibrating in my ears. The blind corresponding; a sign That I am wasting my years.
Playing for the wrong team Never felt so good. To be what is, not seem, To create what is, not should, Is something we should believe. Is something we should live. Is something that is truly innate.
|
|
|
Post by feathers on Oct 28, 2007 18:09:39 GMT
For those of you familiar with T.S. Eliot's "Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," I had an assignment a few months ago to mimic its formula but make it our own. So, I became really obsessed with structure and each line has exactly as many syllables as the original Eliot, and maintains the same sort of question pattern. I spent a very long time on it. The Love Song of Plumes et MaréesShall we go now, you and me? away from the dew grass and out to the sea like a heron too shy for banking on the wharf; we will go, traversing the familiar lanes, the cackles of the cranes of picnic mornings in pampered mint parks and children’s boat races with makeshift arks: lanes that follow like a misdirected pilgrim when geography was slim to bait you to an oceanic cage of thought… Oh, do not ask of its use, Shall we spy its hypotenuse? On the shore the naïve watch the skies waiting to photosynthesize. The graying fog that tickles with its fingers on the sand, the graying smoke that tickles with its teeth upon the sand bit its canines into the crevice of the dawn, loitered in the gullies of the swamp land, let rest upon its spine the deft feathers of the gulls, traced the cobblestone, quickened in its width, and finding that the date palms had prepared to bloom bent twice about the dock, and made a tomb. And indeed there will be spells for the graying smoke that serpents up the lane, tickling with its fingers upon the sand; there will be spells, there will be spells to ready a mind to stain the minds that you will stain; there will be spells to ruin and to craft, and spells for each ligament to labor to storm and tip the waves upon your raft; spells for you and spells for me, and spells still for infinity surmises, and infinity guises and disguises after the bathing in the bourgeoisie. On the shore the naïve watch the skies waiting to photosynthesize. And indeed there will be spells to wonder, “Where to go?” and, “Where to go?” spells to overturn the undertow, with a fresh perspective of the puppet show – (They cry: “The stage of man is all a play!”) My neighborhood, my alignment on the panache buffet, My brushes and colors, and the troubadour by the Quai d'Orsay – (They cry: “We all are props in the manmade play!”) Where to go within this pantomime? In an age there is a spell for surmises and guises which infinity will time.
|
|
|
Post by lazy poet on Oct 28, 2007 20:16:23 GMT
gosh you guys have been busy s'all really nice and as thornykins said, i like the imagery, a lot.
The Pre-Raphaelite dear beast, bring out lucifer the trapped creature your colour so bright your feeling so dark vicious waves flow across your vuluptuous figuire your curving long neck your candlestick legs
dear dreams, i see your sad eyes in the window the flooding outside the greenery gapes longing for the wide plains of the east and west the fluttering wings the lines on your face
underground, the painter works poets and artists, day and night to explode red, orange, yellow the sun ! the sun ! show us your faces and see the beauty of your creativity
dearest beauty, lay down your needle a thread a few drops of blood drowned in mystery hearing voices both low and high calling you a tale from a cage looks to rolling hills
the beasts red har causes sin and trouble amongst community modern antiques line their frills bring me to their height, to their depth of imagination
underground, the painter works poets and artists, day and night to explode red, orange, yellow the sun ! the sun ! show us your faces and see the beauty of your creativity
Hmm.
|
|
|
Post by fashionfauxpas on Dec 15, 2007 20:40:23 GMT
Yay! Writing! Yay! Poetry!
Am I allowed to recommend websites here? If not, please don't be mad! :s Anyway, you guys should set up an account with Urbis.com. There you can put up all your shiz and people can read it and review it and you have to read and review other people's stuff so that you can get credits to read your reviews. It's a lot easier than I've made it sound! But yeah, it's good fun.
|
|
|
Post by Rhiflect on Dec 15, 2007 20:49:14 GMT
When my internet was broken a while back i started writing a story..i really enjoy it and think it's fun but recently i haven't done any. It's only really short, it's going to have 10 chpts and i'm on about 8 but i really should write the ending..
|
|
|
Post by fashionfauxpas on Dec 15, 2007 20:55:05 GMT
I recently put up a novella I wrote when I was like 15/16 (ie 5-6) years or so ago. Are fantasy writers really bad? A lot of people said it was quite good for a sci-fi/fantasy novel but it was really honestly quite bad. Ah well =]
|
|
|
Post by cheshire on Dec 16, 2007 8:02:33 GMT
Feathers, I must demand that you set your poem to music. I think I could read it over and over again and never tire- it's really amazing! I've never read much T.S Elliot but I almost don't want to cos I think I would like your version better. the fourth stanza reminds me of Edward Gorey a bit, too.
This is an amusing poem I thought of while stranded in a Target store. It's almost all kinda true. Also, I think you will like it!
Highschool
the first thing I got asked was What’s your favorite band? I said Final Fantasy and I guess he was a bit confused, but I explained- he must have looked it up online because the next week everyone thought I was gay.
the next time I got asked was during third period one post-it note stabbing the question, What’s your favorite band? I wrote Xiu-Xiu and put in small letters underneath, “It’s pronounced shoo-shoo” and he wrote back. OMG UR SOOO ASIAN.
the third time I got asked I thought it over a minute and said, “Franz Ferdinand.” he didn’t get it, but the guy next to him said they are so Gay, but I like That One Song.
The last time he asked me was before I left school and this time I kept my mouth shut and told him My Chemical Romance and he said, oh, that explains a lot.
He asked me out a few weeks later but I said no because the mix cd he made for me sucked.
|
|
|
Post by allison on Dec 16, 2007 8:14:26 GMT
|
|
|
Post by Rhiflect on Dec 16, 2007 11:01:05 GMT
ahahaha, this is going into my list of chesire favourites I would post my story but it's huuuge.
|
|
|
Post by sarah on Dec 16, 2007 15:31:07 GMT
haha, oh Chloe (that is your name yes?), that's a fun poem
|
|
|
Post by Lauren on Dec 16, 2007 15:59:25 GMT
Cheshire, that is wonderful!
|
|
|
Post by obeseguy on Dec 16, 2007 17:22:42 GMT
SNOW FALLING EARTHWARDS FROM SHIMMERING HEAVENS. WHEREFORE COMETH THOU? MAKING MY PASSAGE SLIPPERY
|
|
|
Post by stationtostation on Dec 16, 2007 18:12:58 GMT
MAKING MY PASSAGE SLIPPERY ............. There is no words.
|
|
|
Post by abolishconfusion on Dec 16, 2007 20:38:42 GMT
It's the return of classy Josh!
|
|
|
Post by stationtostation on Dec 16, 2007 20:47:14 GMT
I like to think of myself as more Kenneth Williams than Beavis and Butthead, erm..
|
|
|
Post by stationtostation on Jan 2, 2008 17:03:14 GMT
So right lamer that I am I wrote a poem for the first time in ages. If anything its more lyricy then poemy which is annoying given my marked lack of musical ability, well and quite probably lack of wordsmith skills but I'll leave you lot to judge that. I'm surprised how colloquial my thoughts came out on paper, it appears my abstract self consciously poetic days are over, thank fuck.
Pathos Lifeguard
I need a pathos lifeguard to carry my home In my gaudy cheap and cheerful sea I ride the surf of sitcoms and magazines Smokey waters of passive irony Yellow my eyes like cancerous chlorine I cough up the notion that being pitiful is Somehow funny and cool like phlegm But phlegm will never be marketed By television executive nor ad-men.
I need a pathos lifeguard who will conceal The piranhas in her rubber ring I’m the unreconstructed modern loser No smackhead, no gambler, no boozer Bringing out the maternal instinct In phone sex operators Because my only lover, made me a facsimile Of her transsexual mother And burnt me in effigy Promptly at nine on the dot each day
I need a pathos lifeguard with stories to tell Of saunas and gadgets Protected by the Great Wall of expensive tat Expensive tat that makes all seem well I would like my days to be neon Like a tacky little illuminated cross But take away the pathos And swimming in illumination is lost.
|
|
commonkid
Libertine
Ocelots, Ocelots! God Clive you're so bald...
Posts: 115
|
Post by commonkid on Jan 2, 2008 17:23:39 GMT
i really really really like that.
honestly.
that is brilliant.
She
she drops her bags beside the fire and slumps upon her favourite chair. she used to be full of desire, now she is full of despair.
she loved him and, although he knew, it was as if he never cared. the time they spent together, through. their hearts they'd never shared.
his violence had begun it all, with broken bones and broken pride. she tried, but then let herself fall. she kept all - locked inside.
how months had passed and still no word, not a whisper, none to know. til one night a strange thing occured. she'd ne'er again sink low.
after a busy day shopping, she came home to find noises above. it seemed her husband had been drinking and with a young girl making love.
quiet, she moved to the FUCKING fdfghjkKITCHEn, and pulled something out of the drawer. her husband now seemed quite fetching, his body stretched flat on the floor.
the girl lay there naked, screaming, scared, not knowing quite what to do. not forsaking the ill-being, the girl soon lay quite still too.
she dropped the contents of her hands, the sharp, the bloody knife. she reached out for her shopping bags, and then carried on with life.
she dropped her bags beside the fire, and slumped upon her favourite chair. she used to be full of desire, now she was full of despair.
|
|
|
Post by stationtostation on Jan 2, 2008 19:03:06 GMT
i really really really like that. honestly. that is brilliant. Thanks, one of my friends said "It's a bit Nicky Wire isn't it?" which killed my soul a little bit. So nice to have some praise to balance that out..
|
|
|
Post by lazy poet on Jan 2, 2008 19:13:11 GMT
i really enjoyed reading that Josh, twas fantastic infact, i haven't had a very exciting day, but it did made my day reading it
|
|