Feelwell Posted January 28, 2017 Author Share Posted January 28, 2017 Future Monuments Under the skies of our minds they tread/ Standing above us as colossi of the day/ They rivalled the mountains of our world/ Blotting out the sun with their magnificence/ Upon their shoulders we strive to stand/ For they are our imagination’s leaders/ Our path’s conductors/ And our life’s edifice/ Entire worlds built around these beings/ Courses chartered to follow their path/ The world upon their shoulders/ As beacons to our ships they stand/ To every role model out there You shaped those that come after you Whether you realize it or not. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted February 2, 2017 Share Posted February 2, 2017 Gojira how many times have I stood here in the wake of some tremendous force? how many times have I stood here amazed at the endurance of my own life? have you ever seen a girl as beautiful as her? (and for the first time I think back with detachment on all of those anime eyes that haunted me into my waking hours as I hoped to drown myself in my addictions) I had watched reality split open so slowly that I could not feel my body escaping from here peeling back like these papier-mâché streets but I wonder if perhaps at some point I had succeeded, after all, in destroying myself so as I stare up, watching the water of Tokyo Bay stream between those rubber scales I can feel the gaze of onlookers press against me their eyes grasping in desperation for a life whose time won’t be spent trying to escape itself but at the time I could swear that those plastic eyes were more real than anything I had ever seen. 5 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Augmented Husky Posted February 6, 2017 Share Posted February 6, 2017 Oceans Nightfall, descending I slow into the water Clothing reaching from the path it came Washing myself to the shore were azure glows Pierced in my sides from the shivers of frigid air My body is witnessed to the dark land Swept to its allure against the tide of man In waking my heart finds its solstice here Gazing for the moon who guards such a peace This calmness beyond understanding Rooted to imagination the whole of me embraces itself Just as the senses do no less a part of the ocean and land For how can a mere spirit alone contain this fullness And so I wonder out into the forest thirsting for more Running joyous to taste a sweet and moist air In a sudden fall I can only issue a cacophony of laughs Held in the arms of the trees I weep for this ecstasy Tendrils of branch and vine seep through skin all the more reviving Cradling my body as my mind falls to the darkness and slumber For death has truly died, and nature has her reign 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted February 14, 2017 Share Posted February 14, 2017 That Day that day I narrowly avoid stepping in pigeon shit you point toward the offending bird and laugh I cannot help but laugh as well a month later I scrape what is left of myself from that shoe a different shoe I have several something we had in common you told me that when you were a child you strangled a duck to death you told me it was an accident I realize I know almost nothing about you but I would like to know everything I would like to spend my life learning I sit on the cold metal bench waiting for the bus and you stand I listen to the sound of jeweled hearts rhythmically curb stomped your makeup is cracking in the chilled air somehow it makes you look more beautiful I wonder if you’ve noticed that I have not stopped smiling I have not written a single poem since that day until today. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Feelwell Posted February 14, 2017 Author Share Posted February 14, 2017 3 minutes ago, Crow said: That Day that day I narrowly avoid stepping in pigeon shit you point toward the offending bird and laugh I cannot help but laugh as well a month later I scrape what is left of myself from that shoe a different shoe I have several something we had in common you told me that when you were a child you strangled a duck to death you told me it was an accident I realize I know almost nothing about you but I would like to know everything I would like to spend my life learning I sit on the cold metal bench waiting for the bus and you stand I listen to the sound of jeweled hearts rhythmically curb stomped your makeup is cracking in the chilled air somehow it makes you look more beautiful I wonder if you’ve noticed that I have not stopped smiling I have not written a single poem since that day until today. Well, that was an interesting poem, for sure. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted February 14, 2017 Share Posted February 14, 2017 1 minute ago, Feelwell the Rabbit said: Well, that was an interesting poem, for sure. Thanks, that's what I aim for. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Augmented Husky Posted February 15, 2017 Share Posted February 15, 2017 El Machina For there is no thing that only man's hands hath created Merely shape in the image of his will A will enacted on the metal of earth Cybernetic after my death For I don’t really wish to stay merely a man Not tied to these dexterous paws Bound in sight that does not see X rays I want to feel dark matter I want to touch the surface of the fiery sun I want to embrace time till even the stars grow dim And in my thought…..coldness is now dead For if I…...as a creation of man Am in fact…...more human 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Conker Posted February 19, 2017 Share Posted February 19, 2017 Nothing crazy, but I did this Hiaku earlier this week and like it well enough The snowflake city Never sleeps starlight pretty Death is not the ground 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Vae Posted February 19, 2017 Share Posted February 19, 2017 Fire is red. The sky is blue. I'm posting Ludwig, and so should you. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
FenrirDarkWolf Posted February 19, 2017 Share Posted February 19, 2017 I feel like shit I think I'm dying Gimme some pizza So I won't start crying 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Feelwell Posted February 19, 2017 Author Share Posted February 19, 2017 Ah, national edge week begins. I should get to writing some more. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Sidewalk Surfboard Posted February 19, 2017 Share Posted February 19, 2017 I can't do peoms Or haiku But pay me anyways Fuck you 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Feelwell Posted February 20, 2017 Author Share Posted February 20, 2017 Still There The past and present both collide/ Pushing, pulling side to side/ Another storm without respite/ The future on, coming bright/ The winds have changed/ With currents dark/ They glimmer through the night/ Though the route it shifts and sways/ In the end, home beckons bright/ I’ve seen kingdoms rise, in the clouds/ Swiftly beaten down/ Ideas, hopes and dreams all/ Change with the seasons wind/ But I’ll still hear your call/ I am me, as I’ll always be/ Underneath it all/ The sky may tear/ While the very stars are torn asunder/ Eternally I’m there/ These never do end up as I imagine, but it's fun. Plus I haven't done this in almost a month I think. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted February 21, 2017 Share Posted February 21, 2017 Dead Poets peering between two horizons nailed into place I reached for the fragile contrails of your cigarette smoke as they faded— slowly from here the sunlight swallowing the last of the concrete beneath my feet as I would shroud myself in a cloak of exhaust fumes the loose threads dangling from my wrists have finally snapped allowing the weight of my origin to drop away from me and the man who owns all the dead poets looked at me then like the space between two stanzas and dismissed it all as unabashed plagiarism as if so much of my life had already been written sallow clouds lay scattered across the sunlight like claymores left behind from ancient wars and I shed my days like the loose scales of a serpent as time falls from me in clear droplets but I had only hoped to pull you across the broken seams of our skyline broken moon submerged in daylight the stamp of publication— the ossuary of the dead poets. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Feelwell Posted February 21, 2017 Author Share Posted February 21, 2017 22 minutes ago, Crow said: Dead Poets peering between two horizons nailed into place I reached for the fragile contrails of your cigarette smoke as they faded— slowly from here the sunlight swallowing the last of the concrete beneath my feet as I would shroud myself in a cloak of exhaust fumes the loose threads dangling from my wrists have finally snapped allowing the weight of my origin to drop away from me and the man who owns all the dead poets looked at me then like the space between two stanzas and dismissed it all as unabashed plagiarism as if so much of my life had already been written sallow clouds lay scattered across the sunlight like claymores left behind from ancient wars and I shed my days like the loose scales of a serpent as time falls from me in clear droplets but I had only hoped to pull you across the broken seams of our skyline broken moon submerged in daylight the stamp of publication— the ossuary of the dead poets. I quite liked the topic of that one, and the way you brought it across. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted February 21, 2017 Share Posted February 21, 2017 Finger Fish the sound of water rolling over the polished spines of creek rocks somewhere deep in my fractured self (headphones gripping ears against my skull like a forgotten piece of the Berlin Wall and I am painfully aware of their construction how the cartilage resists slightly) parts of myself have become stagnant, allowing the leeches to breed in what I once was, water rushing elsewhere over the rubble of what I refused to become, I remember lifting my legs close to myself as the creek water carried me, afraid of what might live under the rocks piled one on top of the other, afraid of the rocks threatening to pile over me crayfish propelling itself against my cupped fingers its tiny claw pinches my forefinger as a newborn might wrap its hand around its father’s thumb somewhere far away my mother tells me over the phone that I will find someone if I can only wait and I cry for a long time until I unknit my fingers I once sat cross-legged a blue, threadbare towel separating me from floor tiles stacked like creek rocks writing haiku about the orange light under street lamps (how many bad poems must I write before I am free the New Yorker stops rejecting my submissions) reading wikiHow pages on meditation out-of-body experiences attempting to tear myself free from something as I once tried to pull a hook from the mouth of a bass its cheek like the ruined wing of a moth and I count the reasons for which I have elected to remain alive as if fear did not freeze me to this place (if we were fish we would use a binary number system) and finally I am lost and you are gone with me you who would stay and watch as I slipped away. 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted February 28, 2017 Share Posted February 28, 2017 Rain in the dark walls, a sharp presence out beyond me I can feel someone’s breath collecting on my forearm even though I am alone and it provides a small comfort language like the broken surface of the ocean between us still these thoughts pierce you softly (I wish you would stop inhabiting the second person how you appear even when I do not intend it please, if you could just come out from there— leave me even when this word does not exist outside of you) this room is a prism stabbed into the space above a raincloud if I look down I might see neon signs beneath sheets of floodwater like peering at a distant expanse of the seafloor the words rippling like a school of fish escaping a predator how are they still working after all these years? or does their light move as if across a great distance? as the light from stars reaches us long after their deaths 39 inches of seawater would displace 56 million refugees according to a World Bank economist, the imbalance of these numbers, you once spoke beautifully of such things— Tunisia, Egypt, Mauritania, Suriname, Guyana, French Guiana, Vietnam, Benin watch the world drowning between the last few blinks of your eyes. 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted March 6, 2017 Share Posted March 6, 2017 Pinecone Currency the distance between my window and the world has closed the lake resting its forehead against my glass shoulder pine saplings growing from the windowsill the space where my feet once touched the earth bodies drift around each other ethereal never joined by language lips brush momentarily glance her side fuck before their light fades just as quickly (you reached out, touched the silence that I happily cultivate, am fed by. kneel among the ruined walls of the future I built around you) shrill cries of geese escape from the wallpaper underbrush as the music from the next room shatters another of these walls and I busy myself writing noise complaint letters their words yearning their meaning an expanse stretching between them as the poet’s hand recoiled from the world a crow’s nest monstrous spans the top branches of a pine tree those trunks extending past the pane of light which once held my ceiling giving the air to falling pinecones I remember twisting them from low branches my hands thick with sap struggling in their prematurity I would wrench them free (these pinecones the gold standard for our war economies) I have run out of words I am beginning to repeat myself repeat others would you allow me to fill this space with silence? how many blank pages could I give to you? how many pages have you torn from me? Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
KookyFox Posted March 6, 2017 Share Posted March 6, 2017 Sea Of Ghosts Time, is an ocean And I, a vessel drifting Losing my bearing There is no end to the blue Through the storm or in the clear Haunt me, Haunt me Why haunt me? In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea A cardboard legion At the border of my realm Amass without end Motionless and lost I sit My eyes sinking in the screen Haunt me, Haunt me Why haunt me? In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea The ghosts of the past Resurrected in my brain Torment me at night Telling me, never fear, friend Enjoy life and be happy Haunt me, Haunt me Why haunt me? In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea But I'm lost and sad I fear death may come early If I change my ways I could die as a young man In the twenty-seven club Haunt me, Haunt me Why haunt me? In a sea of ghosts I'm but a ghost at sea 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fossa Posted March 6, 2017 Share Posted March 6, 2017 Groundhogs I’ve come to expect less: This commute over time, 30,000 miles, one way the accidents cleared to the shoulder, twisted masses of steel and plastic, flashing lights. sirens, bodies carried off on stretchers in the next lane over, the line of brake-lights slowing: tiny corpuscles stretching into the distance of this clogged artery where deer lay folded, as if asleep, their blood ticked across windshields, or ground into the pavement like bruises, the bright orange of fox fur sending a sharp scent of decay upwards to circling birds. The groundhogs watch from the sides of the parkway, nibbling tender shoots, laboring against this all content merely to fatten themselves for their long sleep. If I could stop for one moment, I would become them. But instead this need this hunger that is always there pushes me up and down this same grey strip of pavement in this tiny metal box, bald tires, the side mirror knocked off by the plow, the engine misfiring, a tiny vessel, a clot waiting to gum up the works. -© Simo-Skunk, 2016 (AKA, Fossa-Boy) 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Feelwell Posted March 7, 2017 Author Share Posted March 7, 2017 The White Rabbit Summer Of the many days, not all are equal/ In inspiring the extent of ecstasy/ And every few years, a time will come/ When the White Rabbit Summer is upon us/ The fields of green will vicious blow/ As the madmen all play tricks/ Upon a storm the crown will sit/ As disease turns to health/ And the very sun will turn its eye/ Away from such a scene/ The winds will come by north and south/ To throw order to the breeze/ The scene flipped, the mirror broken/ Reverse the world, betray the bonds/ In mania find succor/ And excess find release/ Cold tempers the mind like steel/ So let the fire burn brighter, higher/ A castle out of fragments/ And a palace out of dreams/ My garden of thorns/ With a fountain of laughter/ Bring low the banner/ And to shreds with the future/ The past, ill company/ Leaves the present, much sweeter/ A proffered hand waits/ With blood running hot/ Join us in madness/ Abandon all sadness/ All as one in the White Rabbit Summer!/ I quite enjoyed writing this one. The idea of mania and letting go completely is quite interesting. The motif of a white rabbit to signify madness is also a very interesting concept. 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Data Posted March 13, 2017 Share Posted March 13, 2017 Time, what exactly is it? a measurement? or a curse? you can spend your life thinking you are having an impact and taking your dreams into your own hands then it changes. time is a bitter reminder to every single sentient being on this planet that you are just a statistic. three hundred and sixty five days a year, and eight hours spent a day working, two hours a day spent playing on your electronics eight hours spent sleeping and six hours of nothing. out of those hours, how many have we actually spent trying to "fit in" and "be accepted"...? what is the point? time is nothing more than a way to find out how long you have left. and how much you wasted. haunting, isn't it? 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Snagged Posted March 13, 2017 Share Posted March 13, 2017 13 hours ago, Aeon said: Poem here I don't usually care about poems or this thread but this one caught my eye and I must say, it's beautiful. Well written 👍 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Data Posted March 13, 2017 Share Posted March 13, 2017 thank you @Snagged Cub. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted March 14, 2017 Share Posted March 14, 2017 Highway my legs are the battered flank of a buck walking beside the guardrail of the highway morning traffic whispering past what little remains but there are no eyes left to stare out at me disappears car’s frame after the second woodchuck beneath the tire, its body jolts the slightly passing and I can feel its weight through me in grocery stores I listen to the barcode scanners as if there is a heartbeat behind them can a sound be carnivorous? how easy to lose oneself in those sudden, brief reprieves of silence something sharp and enduring embedding itself in me over time (my misanthropic eyes did not flinch from you I sat down beside you began to speak without thinking wielding my voice like a blunt object) refer to figure 1-1 for a visualization of the distance between “you” and “I” linguistically, these two words divided by the impotence of the verb, the space bar the most abused key, the least dust ridden, if only we could avoid the finality invoked by punctuation, notice that the removal of “you” results in sentence fragmentation, “I want” there is an honesty to this I have let you draw too close to me I must retreat into my own fragmentation the weight of poetry has become as great as the inheritance of scientific knowledge as I continue to rewrite the word you endlessly. 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted March 29, 2017 Share Posted March 29, 2017 Numbers there are only short brushfires of Spanish from the bank tellers time stapled to you as you bend forward to sign a check and the feet of my chair balanced on the edge of the carpet pattern somewhere there is another soul wrapped around my own like a parasite the clock taking ragged breaths but I have stopped listening (the night before I stood peeling carrots the metal teeth of the potato peeler digging into the curled larva of a fingertip the heat from the oven still trapped behind my eyelids long after the carrots had finished roasting) we follow a crack in the sidewalk I miss the easy geometry of my room you lead me toward the smell of a bakery your jaw making small movements beautiful sounds that I can no longer hear sometimes it seems you forget that I exist even as I am speaking to you there are the echoes of the human mind and its resistance to Boolean algebra, your contradictions like the workings of an intricate mechanism, as I brush unsolvable equations from your eyes (you do not recognize yourself in my poetry and now I cannot recognize you either— this word as unyielding as rock yet I can feel you stirring beneath it the fading light from my animal eyes snared for a moment in a mirror) at times I remember the wound shards of what I was buried beneath my skin like shrapnel a woman is having a seizure at the back of the bus her husband yelling to the driver to pull over but no, I have stopped listening I cannot turn my head to look back at her you are the one who calls 9-11 turning in disgust from my fear there is only the sudden urge to cover myself always my voice is a moment away from breaking as each poem is always a word away from falling into silence. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
DrGravitas Posted March 30, 2017 Share Posted March 30, 2017 Hatred is a meme Bitterness deepens the divide from each side A lubricant mess pride does deem 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Snagged Posted March 30, 2017 Share Posted March 30, 2017 I can only create rhythmic poems so hear me out ... A wish for a bullet to the head To the path of death it lead Am I happy now? To life I no longer myself vowed So I don't know For I had hit the point of all time low My head now displaying spectrums of red Because I am on the path of dead 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Data Posted April 4, 2017 Share Posted April 4, 2017 My EBM/harsh electro song lyrics "she shakes she slithers my heart i cant give her for my head has its own odd plans! experience is nothing when money is something oh yes its what our kind demands all this pride of disgust power thats unjust yet you tell me its all just fine >prechorus< no i cant give in but it just will not fade away I will not remove him the Aeons of time he will stay >chorus< the sides of the same coin is this who I am? I chose to do this what was my true plan? these people just like me i see day by day would give up what they chose, to be held tight some day >verse two< insanity, vanity, red mist and fog lies shush the cries of those treated like dogs my jaws lie shut yet as i will regret what happens to those that lose there will >instrumental/ sample from Robzombie "numb"< what have i done, i feel so bad i feel so numb yeah no where to run, i feel so good i feel so numb yeah >verse 3< Poisoned by bright screens that take away our dreams and yet we all keep going on we are all so broken no love, no words spoken and yet we all keep going on our youth seem much older yet have such cold shoulders can you tell me just what is wrong? These people on streets these people we meet when we all choose to just look away how many of them are we today Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted April 7, 2017 Share Posted April 7, 2017 Darknesses that Appear Under Ultraviolet Light still in the process of my disappearance drenched in a web of black lights the lethal angles of this room have always reassured me somehow listening to a single soul bobbing along the ceiling in the midst of its atrophy (tighten fingers around rope rungs that lead away from here this body curled like a dead grasshopper slow cycle of visible light across the back of depressed eyelids the soundless crash back to earth) each day with its imperceptible watermark a trail of fingerprints phosphoresce along every breath leading back into my lungs these walls beaten so thin by your absence that I can feel nervous glances on the other side of the house imprinted on the air like mating insects each return is more damaging than the last, these bones threatening to break beneath my sudden presence above me, the moon lashed into place against my ceiling the colors around your face like soft bruises that fail to register on the scale of visible light I watch a mosquito lay its eggs in a pool of water collecting in some lost artifact the ruin of a discarded pop song holding its palms to the rain contraction (gentle current of blood through a paralyzed limb, the of ventricle walls, the striking stained armored surface against my ribs with its cave paintings) each word is more difficult to dredge from out of this silence I nearly let you slip away never to be revived by black lights I lay watching my voice disintegrate clutching this last word to my chest just as I think of something to say. 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted April 16, 2017 Share Posted April 16, 2017 After the Wicker Constellations Burned Away with the heat came the smell of a dying star like a man’s singed eyebrow coils of lilac made of anime eyes which I had hidden carefully from the sun pupil dilates, forms a horizon line eyelids like the skin of a red giant left alone with the astigmatic eyes of god feral search engines compile the last traces of language I would walk across covered bridges in the brittle silence practicing memory repression techniques the tattered crest of you still stinging my face animal shapes untangle themselves from the untrimmed shrubbery outside I remember voices like the seeds from a kicked dandelion the sunrise swelling into the footprint of an oil spill across one corner of the room constellations of light pollution shatter in their glass carapaces leaving this narrow space carved into the core of a stellar remnant I am tired of leaving these tiny defacements across the face of our silence I am tired of finding pictures of you still clinging to barren social media pages even as the network lines fray and burn away. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Conker Posted April 17, 2017 Share Posted April 17, 2017 "The Quicksand House" It starts with a breeze, a shift, a squeeze, as the walls start churning, turning, and the world starts burning down around me. Falling. It is in the falling I am crawling, scrawling, trying not to falling but falling anyways, down, down, down, down, down. The walls are quicksand. My house is no longer a house but a falling, crumbling structure of mixed bones and broken puncture wounds of debris, of dead mice and unsnapped traps. A funny joke once, but now an echo of screams as I am falling, falling down, towards the center of the earth, the ceiling high above, the only thing left unbroken and unseen. It scorns. Me. I reach for ropes that do not exist. I gasp and grasp and wonder wish. I cough and sputter, choke and mutter, but my mutters are not cries or screams. The sand drowns them out. It is quick to do so. It is quick to fall, descend, fall, descend, fall. Darkness. There is darkness everywhere, a kindly crushing broken despair. My lungs contort and smash and crush, my mind burns and breaks to broken mush. My house has betrayed me, my body has abandoned me, and my mind, well, it’s all in the mind, now isn’t it? It’s a shame how fast the body can turn upon itself; it’s a shame how fast the brain can burn alone withheld. It’s a shame…It’s a shame how the self can fall and fall, and the mind, well, it’s all in the mind, now isn’t it? 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Conker Posted April 17, 2017 Share Posted April 17, 2017 Damn @Crow, your poems are really fucking rad. Love your use of page space, and while I'm normally a rhyme/meter/structure guy, I really like how you forgo most of that. You do it well. Maybe even right. Good work, sir. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted April 17, 2017 Share Posted April 17, 2017 Thanks @Conker, I'm not the biggest fan of meter (nor do I have the patience for it) but I also really like what you're doing. I'm always trying to mix up my use of line spacing but that tends to be what does it for me. Sweet title by the way. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fossa Posted April 17, 2017 Share Posted April 17, 2017 Maybe I forgot what you looked like I rode the same bus for seven years & only knew that skinny, red-headed boy from twenty minute rides in the grey AM light, shoulders bunched three to a seat, legs pressed close by curving river roads, pulled together by gravity as my own small sex strained hidden beneath the backpack on my lap & at night my thighs ground down the memory against the sheets eyes squinted into pillows, his face etched behind my eyelids, orange hair like straw, the sour glue smell, freckles caught like small stones in currents washing away an outline, the struggling upstream motion as I strain to fill it in. 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fossa Posted April 20, 2017 Share Posted April 20, 2017 @Crow and @Aeon, thanks for the encouragement! One more: Owl They don’t see you sitting perched on the branch, eyes still as mirrors until it’s too late and your thick body swoops down through the tangled branches, navigating that leafy maze without sound, the squirrel struggling in your talons born aloft to his death. We don’t see the oncoming headlights swerving over the double yellow lines the figure in the dark the one drink too many the tumor before it forms the flood before it flashes the life running out from us. The owl knows. He waits for you at night as you toss sweating in dreams where teeth crumble like chalk, your vision dims to nothing and none of the lights work. Unable to see or run through the thicket of briars piercing your legs ground giving way to nothing you plunge into the river rising & snapping trees along its bank like match-sticks as the rapids pull you under to drown in the covers of the bed where you will someday die, caught in the talons that have always clenched you tightly in their grip. It is already too late. -© Simo-Skunk/Fossa-Boy, 2014, revised, 2017 (For Anne Sexton, John Berryman, Theodore Roethke and Sylvia Plath. Thank you for all the inspiration) 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted April 21, 2017 Share Posted April 21, 2017 @Fossa-Boy Nice use of metaphor there. I have a bad case of writer's block at the moment, so it's nice to see someone who can actually put a sizable amount of text together. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted April 21, 2017 Share Posted April 21, 2017 Clothes that Kill Virgins cleavage of the rain drops curling against the glass prowess of the heron with its sweeping bedroom legs for a time we courted the vocaloids but soon, they too fell silent the last weather forecast nestles itself against the back of my teeth glacial bones melt in my throat discussing tomorrow’s weather long after the mottled seasons crumple into piles a woman perched on a velvet loveseat cliff of photo filter at her back algal bloom along her forgotten voice low drape of a backless turtleneck avian eyelashes fall from the ruin of virgin eyes. 4 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted May 1, 2017 Share Posted May 1, 2017 Clothes that Kill Virgins (Revised) —your turtleneck smooth as artillery shells sand off the rough edges of afterlife skip the polished stone across boiling creek water… for a time we courted vocaloids with our vapor trail mouths before they too fell silent— (…bitter crystals dissolve along your terracotta tongue like pop rocks… get your drug dealer on the phone but then you remember you are falling— have always been falling) step back from that cliff of photo filter— cleavage of rain droplets, curling against glass— deny the nature of your avian feet return them gently to nests cobbled from ceramic twigs —the last weather forecast nestles itself against the back of my teeth as these mottled seasons crumple in our waxy palms but in this world training montages cannot save you and I am afraid as you run your eyes across the sharp ridges of my starvation …I retreat into my stanza-severing bones… I retreat into my condemned fingers like covered bridges I retreat… 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted May 4, 2017 Share Posted May 4, 2017 Advertisements from the Unraveled Dream wield shards of crashing billboards (first mistake: opening my eyes) suture pierced atmospheres with strands of impact craters (snagged dance music loops, swells into fossilized sound…) —we were the slum lords of the coiled dream built ghettoes from discarded marketing slogans you left me collapsed in the freezer aisle (smell of your perfume: another ellipsis) plastic immortality clinging to me like a pack of dogs —your symbolic adoption supports WWF's global efforts to protect wild animals and their habitats… there could be as few as 3,890 tigers in the wild, most in isolated pockets spread across increasingly fragmented forests[1] —the need for a vessel for my soul… the dying, (…) forced to sponsor starved vermin by startup animistic foundations— … even now I persist in my goldfish etchings fragile language encircling the end. [1] https://gifts.worldwildlife.org/gift-center/gifts/Species-Adoptions.aspx 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Crow Posted May 17, 2017 Share Posted May 17, 2017 Malware Petals Underfoot debone these plucked continents draw strips of gristled infrastructure from the planet’s spinal column —I don’t know how to continue (never knew) head swimming with your gasoline fume footprints… jagged cityscapes lip sync against cloaking wind thumbs caress hip bones of ash— shake the seeds from stone-edged wolf howl sow them along your jaw like a row of teeth… —there is a species of solitude, a liquid thread of tomorrows, the world caught mid-step over our petal feet (the hollow-sprawl in my chest rising sternum carved into winging arrow head— when did I realize you would never speak to me again?) 3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Data Posted May 23, 2017 Share Posted May 23, 2017 Warfare comes in many forms from the daily taunts to the repetitive degrading. to the threats of abandonment. questioning my loyalty and desecrating who I am, and yet the pressure, that fear of being a failure in your eyes, is strangling the very being I am, for the sake of you being in control. I spent my life saying "I wont give in," "I would rather die" .... now the message is an echoing nag, "what do I need to do" or the hollow, uneasy fears. "Am I a good person anymore?" It's crippling me, like the crooked wings of a once broken hawk, you are a hunter. I, the prey. you've broken my wings once more, along familiar lines of solidarity. Mirrors show a shell of what once was. What Should of been What has been given up, and in many cases Forced away. I don't believe it, but I don't know just who I am anymore. but, You to, have forgotten "you" 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Conker Posted June 9, 2017 Share Posted June 9, 2017 Wrote this at work while waiting for something to download The Hollow Girl The hollow girl She swallowed a fly It buzzed and buzzed And tickled her eyes The hollow girl She swallowed a spider It spun a web Goss’mer inside her Caught the fly Drained the fly Found her heart And began to bite her The hollow girl She swallowed a rat Drooled its rabies Twitching and scratch Caught the spider Ate the spider Found her lungs And began to attack The hollow girl She swallowed a snake A hissing venom Rattling quake Bit the rat Ate the rat Found her stomach And began to serrate The hollow girl She swallowed an owl The fiercest bird Tallons that prowl Ripped the snake Tore the snake Found her brain And began to afoul The hollow girl Fed up and torn Swallowed a human A screaming worm Humans die Girls they smile For the hollow girl Was no longer hollow 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Mandragoras Posted June 14, 2017 Share Posted June 14, 2017 Secret Crawl over to a window. Circulating movements define the outline of the encroaching chasm. Stare at the sky. Stare at the floor, scattered with stardust; stare at the ground. Stare at the ceiling, speckled with spyholes. Who would want to watch little old you anyway. Little old you, and little new to speak of. They move in the dark: you can hear them. If you could see better, you could read their motions, as you once did. Shamblers. Nightwalkers. Treaders on broken windowpanes and corpses' teeth. Hollow things. Things that slurry slip one into another and vanish gradually into the fabric of the lonesome evening. And every night you are alone— save for them. They are unaware. Always. You crawl away from the ruin of the window that once, some time ago now, afforded what you would have deemed "a nice view of the park." You would laugh at that self, maybe, or shudder involuntarily and shrink back shivering— were your mouth in any condition to laugh at anything, your body in any state to cringe and to cower at such short notice, without enduring immense, unrelenting pain in every extremity, each one seeming to stretch, interminably, in every possible direction, up and down and sides all covered by the vast expanse of misshapen limbs. What hole could this body have tortuously crawled out of in times primeval, you could not say, even if you were so intent upon doing so that you willed open what sufficed for a kind of mouth to speak, except that now it was yours and yours alone. Like everything else, you could guess. Exactly like everything else. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Augmented Husky Posted June 16, 2017 Share Posted June 16, 2017 A Lovers Rest The mist beyond the lie too much to resist Even if it be a cup with no bottom...the soul will rest These feet lead on their own accord trained by time To move where else but forward….even if a mind dwells in the past Take hold of these musings dearest if you trust me Just as the lustered metal on our fingers is sought for its rarity In that trust for how seldom is given….holds more glimmer than you can know 2 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Augmented Husky Posted June 17, 2017 Share Posted June 17, 2017 An Artists's Eyes Surely cling to the dark as the thing of peace...yet perverted depravity for light…..rightly so Duality built this vision out of my very eyes….for the soul to seat in the present moment Philosophy fools the prideful into a race for death…..of imagination no less Dreaming the stuff of pure taboo in the everyday…….yet an all the more core craving Both ears always hear from birth…..to listen takes purity of heart Mist rises for above and beyond the senses….just as hope ought to For truth allows us to see...and escape the great lie That sight is essential For what is essential is invisible to the eye Amazing is what we know Beautiful what we don't know And perhaps most wonderful that which we know nothing 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Conker Posted June 18, 2017 Share Posted June 18, 2017 Solid work, @Augmented Husky I really like the slant rhyme in, "Philosophy fools the prideful into a race for death…..of imagination no less" And your last stanza hits well. 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Augmented Husky Posted June 18, 2017 Share Posted June 18, 2017 16 hours ago, Conker said: Solid work, @Augmented Husky I really like the slant rhyme in, "Philosophy fools the prideful into a race for death…..of imagination no less" And your last stanza hits well. Why thank you for taking the time to notice man :3 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Fossa Posted July 13, 2017 Share Posted July 13, 2017 (No my own, though this feeling I have been fighting, so long) Wanting to Die Since you ask, most days I cannot remember. I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage. Then the almost unnameable lust returns. Even then I have nothing against life. I know well the grass blades you mention, the furniture you have placed under the sun. But suicides have a special language. Like carpenters they want to know which tools. They never ask why build. Twice I have so simply declared myself, have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy, have taken on his craft, his magic. In this way, heavy and thoughtful, warmer than oil or water, I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole. I did not think of my body at needle point. Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone. Suicides have already betrayed the body. Still-born, they don’t always die, but dazzled, they can’t forget a drug so sweet that even children would look on and smile. To thrust all that life under your tongue!— that, all by itself, becomes a passion. Death’s a sad bone; bruised, you’d say, and yet she waits for me, year after year, to so delicately undo an old wound, to empty my breath from its bad prison. Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet, raging at the fruit a pumped-up moon, leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss, leaving the page of the book carelessly open, something unsaid, the phone off the hook and the love whatever it was, an infection. -----Anne Sexton Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
VGmaster9 Posted July 20, 2017 Share Posted July 20, 2017 There is a girl standing She is very beautiful A tear rolled down her cheek Then another on her other cheek More tears streamed down her face Little streams of tears flowing down her cheeks They drip off her eyelashes Whenever she blinks big amounts of tears pour out They trickle and drip off her nose Her tears touch her lips and she licks them She feels so relaxed by the taste of her tears More tears start dripping off her lips They flow down through the bottom of her face They drip of her chin rapidly The tears now trickle down her neck Now they flow down to her cleavage Then they stream onto her chest She makes no effort to wipe away he tears She just lets them stream on Her tears touch all parts of her face Streaming like little rivers Dripping like little raindrops They drip ftom all parts of her face at once They aren't even close to stopping Just an ongoing series of streaming tears She never enjoyed shedding so much silent tears She'll always enjoy doing it time and time again She let out a sigh 1 Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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