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Post by bridgetbegins on Feb 24, 2008 0:20:03 GMT
Well i love it! I love they way you write, it's so powerful yet subtle. eggsalts for you. x Thanks! Well, I just gotten a rather nice email-- I've been asked to read words/interview on a local public radio. Which is pretty cool. Anywho, so stay tuned for that, possibly.
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Post by bridgetbegins on Mar 1, 2008 13:20:22 GMT
Ahoy, mateys! I'm title-hunting, so if you have any ideas for a title, I would be amazingly appreciative.
"The third time you Leave ten picture perfect Finger sized bruises
On the curves of my hips and After, you will bend your wrists and Fit your callused finger tips
Over them and leak quiet tears, you say I never meant to hurt you again, not like this And the only thing I may possibly do is
Hold you close against Aching hips and whisper senselessly And hum throaty in your ears
And you will shake and Knead at my shoulders, Press fairy kisses to my throat
Later, after you have gone I will wipe the fog from the Bathroom mirror and
Melt my hands so that they Cover the marks you carelessly left and smile at The first tangible sign that
I am yours"
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Post by Rhiflect on Mar 1, 2008 16:40:51 GMT
Marking Your Territory? I dunno, but it's very good. You know I love your poetry
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Post by birdwhistle on Mar 2, 2008 16:55:51 GMT
Sometimes I think the main reason I'd like to be in love is to be able to write poetry in the way people like Katie can.
(It's lovely, by the way.)
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Post by Rhiflect on Mar 2, 2008 20:02:26 GMT
A Couple Of Questions..[/u]
Have I really changed that much In the space Of our space That now you don't feel a thing?
If I broke your heart Why won't you let me mend it? You just need to hand me the glue.
However, You Didn't Say Who You Were[/b]
Snap! The legs of the pedestal you were standing on crack and clatter to the ground bringing you right back Down to Earth. And yes, you bruised your ego.
Looks like you've got some building and mending To do.
Aloe Vera And Tears[/b]
Curled up under the sheet The dents and curves of the bed As familiar as The fabric of the bear I've had Since I was a toddler.
I know where i'm going I know this place better than the back of my eyelid. So why can't I just Close My Eyes?
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Post by bridgetbegins on Mar 3, 2008 1:02:13 GMT
Sometimes I think the main reason I'd like to be in love is to be able to write poetry in the way people like Katie can. (It's lovely, by the way.) Being in love is approximately the best thing ever! And it makes for poetry. Boatloads of it. Thanks for the compliments... I'm leaning towards tangible as the title.
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Post by Rhiflect on Mar 3, 2008 16:52:16 GMT
Haha, i haven't been in love so I just end up writing angsty poems that don't really make much sense.
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Post by the kalashnikov kid on Mar 3, 2008 17:32:05 GMT
Presenting the mighty result of a challenge by my friend, who said to me 'Jonathan, you have no religion in your life. Do you not want one?' To which I replied, 'No. I am happy as I am. But I do love Churches.' My friend was shocked and asked me to prove my love of churches, so I wrote this short poem!
Ha-HA. I don't have a title for it, it was originally called 'Wake' so that is what I shall call it today. (It's a bit dated, I wrote it a few days before Midnight Mass at Christmas)
Wake
A weighty Church, my mother claimed, had once rooted her to her home. And now that I can see those spires I realise she was not alone.
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Post by Lauren on Mar 3, 2008 18:03:11 GMT
Katie, the poem that might be called Tangible, I keep rereading it. The words are very powerful. THe image even more so.
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Post by bridgetbegins on Mar 3, 2008 20:15:46 GMT
Katie, the poem that might be called Tangible, I keep rereading it. The words are very powerful. THe image even more so. Thank you! I tend to preface my poems like that when they are being read-- this poem might be called Tangible or the like. I'm glad you like it, it's very nice to know when people enjoy things that I've written. Especially since I wrote all of these and then I didn't want to show them to anyone ever because they were quite personal and then one day, I read one to someone and they were quite taken aback and enjoyed it very much-- it's a good feeling.
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Post by Rhiflect on Mar 3, 2008 20:26:21 GMT
Aww! Lucky you. But to be honest, anyone would be taken aback, lol, I love them
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Post by jay on Mar 5, 2008 0:24:40 GMT
the first time i was in love i wrote angsty poems about me falling into her eyes (think bad metaphors about mocha) or trying to drown her in a river.
good times. oh, while i'm here i might as well post something. this isn't related to the above. and it isn't really poetry either.
there are pictures inside of my head i want to translate to words and put them on a page, or at the very least be able to type them so that i can show people. i saw them in flashes today. it's a collection of things. textures. sounds. tongues clicking against teeth and heels against cement with the rain soaking into fabric because you walk too slowly. i sit lax with dry mouth because my jaw hangs slack and my expression is vacant but behind my glazed eyes there's more than you'll know. what do you do, now? wait. i wait. and wait for the next day to come because it's another chance to get fucked up. it's a good way to be, it's a good way to be. but it isn't, not really. eyes closed on the way home and i saw two skinny legs pale like chalk sticking out from the shrubs, no feet. i don't understand. do you? i can hear what i want to say inside the cage of my brain but nothing ever comes out as intended and it makes me look dumb. i know the smile of someone humouring me and i don't know what is less comforting, that or the absence of empathy. apathy has set in and i feel like it's rotting me from the inside out. that's what it tastes like, anyway. death. thick on my tongue, dry as leaves. unfold, unfold. this is all i got from the day away from my bed and i'm beginning to think it wasn't worth it at all if this is what it shows me. grey skies that swell with secrets that only spill when the dagger is slid beneath the belly to tear them open. is this? this is. losing grip, coming apart, the stitching is loose.
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Post by bridgetbegins on Mar 5, 2008 17:22:43 GMT
the first time i was in love i wrote angsty poems about me falling into her eyes (think bad metaphors about mocha) or trying to drown her in a river. good times. oh, while i'm here i might as well post something. this isn't related to the above. and it isn't really poetry either. there are pictures inside of my head i want to translate to words and put them on a page, or at the very least be able to type them so that i can show people. i saw them in flashes today. it's a collection of things. textures. sounds. tongues clicking against teeth and heels against cement with the rain soaking into fabric because you walk too slowly. i sit lax with dry mouth because my jaw hangs slack and my expression is vacant but behind my glazed eyes there's more than you'll know. what do you do, now? wait. i wait. and wait for the next day to come because it's another chance to get fucked up. it's a good way to be, it's a good way to be. but it isn't, not really. eyes closed on the way home and i saw two skinny legs pale like chalk sticking out from the shrubs, no feet. i don't understand. do you? i can hear what i want to say inside the cage of my brain but nothing ever comes out as intended and it makes me look dumb. i know the smile of someone humouring me and i don't know what is less comforting, that or the absence of empathy. apathy has set in and i feel like it's rotting me from the inside out. that's what it tastes like, anyway. death. thick on my tongue, dry as leaves. unfold, unfold. this is all i got from the day away from my bed and i'm beginning to think it wasn't worth it at all if this is what it shows me. grey skies that swell with secrets that only spill when the dagger is slid beneath the belly to tear them open. is this? this is. losing grip, coming apart, the stitching is loose. Drowning... and mocha...? Well, if it works. I rather like the bit you did, Jay. I used the same line as you "tongues clicking against teeth..." to describe a once-upon-a-vacation-time screw-- a ginger with a fondness for glitter. The poem is... interesting. It gets read, if anyone cares to know, in a very distracted manor, train-of-conscious style. it is sounds of tongue clicking teeth and teeth sluicing skin from dried-out lips the clack clack of practical stacked heels scattering hard on icy harsh tarmac spreading drop of toes and balance, tenuously, tediously, hands held out wide, impersonating the swoop of the intoxicated phoenix, strutting feathers and rebirth
observe him in his natural habitat, see how he woos the others with the coy tip of her head, that surprisingly-intoxicating swoop of submission and coercion abound I’m nervous and unbound and all other means of things but this is only the first train of life and there are many more to come, as many as I please and wonder and wander
endlessly and fruitlessly-- we’ll cobble down this street into a land further away than we ought to be able to reach on foot in that stretch of time even if you click those wingtips together and close your eyes and wish for a taxi or a bus or a friendly stranger in a car is that even legal here? Is asked, too loud and they are hushed, it’s more whatever we please
see no one knows your face here and the boy that I’m touching will in mere moments be pressing against a boy or another girl or maybe just another pretty being and I will chat up another ask him back to yours for tea and biscuits and then-- wait for time to pass and we will be clawing backs and leaving bruises carelessly, letting fingers scrabble uselessly, endlessly in
already tussled bed sheets and I don’t do this normally, I don’t do this ever is shushed heavy and fast with those fingers that moments ago pulled useless on unfeeling fabric mutual something or singular pleasure is some sort of goal, communally achievable if we just push a little bit faster and a little bit harder it won’t hurt, really, it’ll be fine-- I’ll go slow
earnest face-- you know he’s lying-- there’s no way a boy so pure could be so real, there are: dirty fingernails and callused finger tips that rough up soft skin and trip over freckles black roots showing through acrylic red, you knew it was too good to be true and the glitter that is everywhere ,that scratches your skin as it flakes onto the sheets, is just
hiding something, a pervading sense of doom and blackness and by the time his face starts to twist itself into pained grimaces, I’m no longer a part of this-- it’s been over for a while, push his face away from yours when those mashing lips come in to meet my tongue —I don’t think I really ever wanted this-- I don’t want it now, it’s nothing you did, it’s nothing you can do
it’s probably best if you go, I’ll just pull away and you can find me in your bed much later katie, what did you do now? It smells like sex and broken hearts and tea that has been brewing for many long hours, become sharp and stale and wrong on many more levels that I can understand and you strip down until there is just glitter and you and sharp teeth, crawl into your bed and wrap yourself
around me heavy and light and dark breathing words and syllables and quiet noises of: discontent and worry and other things into my ears, katie you know I love you right you’ll be… fine deep breaths I’ve got you just deep breaths just keep on breathing, there you go, tomorrow, it is coming faster than you want to realize
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Post by mimicry on Mar 5, 2008 17:55:26 GMT
Being in love is amazing. It's like the after effects of being hit in the head particularly hard, or the feeling of having a really high fever. In the best way possible. It's also driven me to poetry, and I haven't written anything in such a long time (thanks douchebag high school creative writing teacher! ) and even when I did it was hardly ever poetry. ahem, with that in mind, something untitled that still needs work: i want to navigate around your body like a grizzled sailor, with no need of a sextant up to my eye, only guided by constellations of freckles to safe harbor against your collarbone.
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Post by Rhiflect on Mar 5, 2008 19:07:49 GMT
Aw! Melba, that's so sweet
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Post by Clare on Mar 5, 2008 22:58:23 GMT
I didn't write love poems. I've always written anti-love poems about hopeless cases and murder and high rises and rape. It's been a cheerful journey, haha. Love just made me go weepy quite often!
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Post by birdwhistle on Mar 6, 2008 11:58:08 GMT
Fer crying out loud, Rhianne, stop mistaking people for other people!
!!
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Post by ihaveanego on Mar 6, 2008 12:28:28 GMT
It's like the after effects of being hit in the head particularly hard, or the feeling of having a really high fever. When I feel like the above examples, I usually wish I didn't.
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Post by Rhiflect on Mar 6, 2008 17:02:09 GMT
Fer crying out loud, Rhianne, stop mistaking people for other people! !! Sorry! I can never remember who is Melba and who is Meryl, even though Meryl has her display name saying 'Meryl'. I'll get used to it eventually.
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Post by jay on Mar 6, 2008 17:40:20 GMT
Sorry! I can never remember who is Melba and who is Meryl, even though Meryl has her display name saying 'Meryl'. I'll get used to it eventually. but mimicry is neither meryl nor melba...
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