Poetry Thread

I'm a vegetarian inmate at the interstate penitentiary,
Colossal corpses mate in intuitive interstices, plenipotentiary
Powers brandished, airborne like Polly cracked out in the aviary
Pre she be selling honey for time at the apiary—
They bridge burnt gaps loosely at odds at each candleless end
Stifled stupid sometimes, others sporting stupendous stipends,
Up down up so quick suffer from the Mercedes bends
To subtemporal selves constantly charging amends
Energizing enervated incontinent constants from sea to shining continent
In order to disassemble disorder and see dreams prominent,
Submissive to the magnetically encompassing predominant
Sense that beyond the senses and pretenses lie the dominant
Overarchnemesis force with which to be trifled
Enemy of the state of mind minding one to be rifled
Through the eye of the I, no matter the X or the Y,
Z a dangling participle and extraneous variable
Each sneeze breathed bleeds venereal
In terms in turn of the ether soaked ethereal
Killing natural born flakes snow melted on cereal
Time to rest the dagger in spear shaken swagger and Ted bundle up the primordial burial
Of sublimated citrus like sublime condensation solidly aerial
Like Jesus with his myrrh maids swimming in heads with crabs like Ariel—
Sylvia platitudinously cursing yah like Ursula, whole life a petty crime like a deaf orchestra,
I was jk rolling dubs when I said this shit was impersonal,
Impersonating an imp with the limp of a pimp to finish the lines like 1 comma formula—
Saying "im good and you" is prime time hyperbola
(Flick my pussy and crack, neck and vertebra)

My net, wide and wiry, casts a prickly shadow
The Mayflies fly through it willynilly
Escaping the whistling thrush
For the most part.
Some entangle themselves with crochet ease
Quasi-deliberately without slinging a please
My grandfather handed me the web down
Like his spongey blood seeping through the gears
The generational twirl marries the pests
Entomologically currying favor with centipede breasts
Save the rest.
I hear a high pitch stiletto squeal from one stuck
"I'm crushed under the gravity of my own existence"
It says and stuff
Tickled pink, I shake my head at the knockoff gnat
And tell him to hit the road Jack, you got that?
He did or he didn't, can't remember
Anything but the porridge like fact that in December
Atlas' butterfly catch is my home—
God forbid when in Rome I froth alone.

Bunnycleaver

Both of these of boring, but I can't tell which is more horrible. Maybe you both could tie balloons animals, except of Gods likeliness, and we could have the children choose which is best - or the best sounding pop.

Monthly poem for girlfriend.

September tones begin up high
as summers green begins to die,
and so now thrown to bitter ground
Coats forest floor with red and brown.
The earth is now created new.
Though cold, painted with warmer hues.

And when you walk on through this wood,
crushing colour underfoot.
For that short time the fires spread,
that crimson world on which you tread,
is held aloft it's heat laid bare,
September tones burn in hair.

its pretty gay 2bh

That's the style I was going for

no it wasnt user, c'mon

You're right :'(

anyway it might not be winning you the nobel anytime soon but i'm sure your girlfriend will like it

When I was younger
before beginning to see
I had a punk-rock band
called Jizz Tissue and Apple Core.

There were three of us
including me
and we sang without singing
which means that we screamed.

We wanted people to hear us
regardless of how;
we didn't care what they'd think
nor do I now.

One night in Darryl's Dad's
damp daytime garage
we hit on something big,
evidently a mirage.

We found our first tune
which sounded like this:
Doo doo-doo, doo doo doo,
now bend over granny
––––and eat my fist!

But my life is like a VHS–
lo-fi and gritty–
so let's fast forward that one part
that isn't really shitty.

It was October 31st–
Day of the Dead–
and also the talent show
(when we peed red).

We stood on the stage–
a super high-wire–
as tensions ran high
and our nerves even higher.

At the drop of a high-hat
the chords began.
Moments melted, shots fired:
marooned in Iran.

The sweet summit swept through us
as lower peeks transfixed,
our lyrics met with much merriment:
"fondle fat chicks with dicks!"

Mid-show, I decided to present to the crowd
my favorite doll–
dressed as the greatest German chancellor–
my third ball.

I made him dance and prance and swing–
sin innuendo–
before putting him back in my pants
come crescendo.

The last note flew like a dove
and the lights came on from above
we could all sense it: the love
until I felt our principle’s nudge.

Yeah, we were xpelled [sic].
But for more
check out our new our self-titled
Jizz-Tissue-and-Apple-Core.
at Datpiff.

Love and Rockets/10

There should be a Veeky Forums poetry zine, documenting the amusing, weird, and very very occasionally good poems this place produces. Maybe it could include scathing criticism of the pieces too.

I'd edit it if there's interest.

Fries,
deep-fried
and soggy

the burgers
they call me
those maidens of meat
captains of sodas foamy

and the bun
oh, the bun
the seeds planted congregate
as constellations of craving in my mind

it is the clown who has done this
and it was with the burglar's aid
my rolls shake and churn for another
my neckfat provides mine own shade

Poetic Cessions

Venus of the frame - I took her
pleading for a remedy,
exposed by my camera tilt
for your eye and ear. Peach liqueur
dyes the minor reverie -
piercing male minds with one yelped jilt.

>LivEvoLve

Life is the slowest thing I experience.
The slowest thing I experience is life.
Life is experienced slowest when it's timed.
Life is fastest with untimed experience.

Life slowly changes while it's experienced.
Subtle, slow changes of its experience.
Humble, vague changing of its exterior.
A small face aging from fear and love.

Young, full face gazing for stars above.
Bashful face laughing at their bad luck.
Tear filled eyes masking a betrayed trust.
Near still legs catching layers of dust.

Life is fastest with untimed experience.
Life is experienced slowest when it is timed.
The slowest thing I experience is life.
Life is the slowest thing I experience.

Is this Stephen walking on the beach in Ulysses? I know it's not the exact same but it's very reminiscent of it.

It uses Chapter III of Joyce's Ulysses as a germ and then applies the principle of the mythological Proteus as a god of constant change - Joyce's image is twisted in a number of ways.

I used to start "best of Veeky Forums" threads. You'd be surprised how many stray pieces of other people's work some anons save

Is that good

Just want feedback never really showed anyone these don't think they are anything but emotions thrown sloppily together in hopes to find a productive side of myself .
Every time I am all by my lonesome my heart and mind have a civil war , they battle back and forth on the lack of sleep and lack of food i digest everyday now . My mind argues that it's not healthy and that my body is starting to form a rebellion against me because of the lack of care I am giving to myself , my heart stands tall and refuses to believe this , refuses to believe that someone whose touch once ,took all the protons, neutrons, quarks and quasars in my world to create a boom big enough to start a new universe in my life could be putting such a negative impact on my days. It says " if she's So bad for him then why hasn't she left . My brain replies she is only throwing out life rafts of hope to bring him back into her clutch so that she will never feel as alone as she felt before he stepped into her life. The truth is she is letting other people grab onto those lines only to leave him lost in a sea of her love, polluted waters of her deepest fears, her insecurities and everything he always promised he would never let get to her once she gave him her heart.

New poet here...ill be joining you guys..

That's a fantastic collage.

The poem is not bad, ''pleading for a remedy'' and ''one yelped jilt'' are strong evocations. What's the peach liqueur about?

The sepia tone of the photographs; extending the tilted element; peach is a symbol of female fertility, the heart and immortality; liqueur is distilled - as Dali has done with the photos - and sounds like 'lick her.'

A bit verbose, but this is the first poem of the thread that isn't complete garbage

How do you mean verbose?

Calixte Delmas
Wrestler and Rugger Born 17 [illegible] -1906
Died 5 April 1927
Following an accident
At School of Joinville
His Friends
Champion of Free Styling Wrestling
Champion of Greco-Roman

Walking home, in an attempt to find
a new way home,through a long park, and under
autumn leaves, I found myself on the street.
Before me was a high wall, and the map show
a green square behind it. The lot was clear and few trees
clear the heights, and it was only until I read the gate did
I see the graves.
Where else does one find oneself, alone, wandering on
All Saint's Eve than in a cemetery?
The trees were violently pruned flat on top,
as if a scythe swung down from the sky
once a week, to level any brave, foolish, yearning new buds.

The watering pots were chained to the pole near the faucet,
and flowers were sold by the gate.

And there I found the grave of Calixte Delmas, champion wrestler.
His great iron semblance stood arrested,
and upright, polite even, with his hands in deference
behind his back, though I could detect no sign of shame
for his cold, undressed form.

Calixte Delmas, your name unknown to the
annals of sport, though your death was high tragedy.
Wrestling, pure sport of man against man, armed with only the flesh. An absolute sport, the bare goal of submission
and in some vague accident, in the place of youth, school,
you were robbed of that body amongst friends.

For a moment the axis of the world was balanced
upon a point, somewhere between your hips and
your challengers navel, the hinge between two world lay static,
locked in naked force, and you yielded, to your advantage,
and the world offered herself to you in a harvest of oil and laurel.

Calixte Delmas, a monument to your body,
your pure soul came to shine in this world in your body,
your body towering over the land of the dead, in silent, fixed strength.
Someone laid flowers on your grave, violets.
Across from you rest an old Jew,
his grave scattered with stones.

Explain why the other pieces are trash and maybe someone'll will listen to your opinion. Panning is easy and implies privy insight but is usually a contrarian's first ditch effort

How to Write a Poem

Drag a line across the breadth
of human experience;
garland it with hand-scrawled swag
and petal-blots of ink
which, when they settle, spill beyond
their bounds in febrile veins,
tangle with their neighbours’ tendrils
to make a daisy chain
whose gilded cores gleam with light
of life and truth and pain.

OP's glass dildo
Shattered inside
Of his ass

And the days are not full enough
and the nights are not full enough
and life passes by like a field mouse
not shaking the grass

Actually I liked this one.

Christmas time is fine
All the gay guys dancing
Around the Christmas tree.
I'll never call you back.

The green dog barks and asks me why
I like to spread honey on my nipples
If only he knew how hard it is
When my dog days hits
And i dance around the Christmas tree.

I actually enjoyed this.

It seems as some thing that I know
Will be involved within my soul
Know I try to pull and go
But this darkness does not flow

Now I must show something unbestowed
For I can not know
What comes before

you can have pancakes at night
if you make them yourself
you can eat them with honey or
anything else

Clasp your pillow when it's cold
Or let the wind kiss you, my dear;
Can I help you now? I wish I could
Kill the pain and let you rest now

Vanished, i can't bear it anymore
Another day I roam alone, while I
Grow old and my head heavy:
It's such a pity that I stopped crying
Nothing compares to you with your
Arms clasped tight around me.

Did I do good, guys?

Life, for me so dull
Pull over head, eternity
Happiness awaits

More alive at night
Something about the moonlight
Mind reverberates

and i liked this response

cheers partner

happiness awaits only for those who give themselves entirely to this world, in so doing receiving everything once the suffering ceases

eternity is reserved for the heroes (or anyone wearing a members only jacket, which'll get you in anywhere, even the queen's panty drawer)

Disconnected phones lose charge to the ether
running microprocessed operations in silent duty
shoved upon them by despotic software engineers
who, if I may use the expression, lack the human element.
But once you charge your stupid smart phone
(listen reader, I know this feels like it isn't going anywhere,
but please don't phone it in.
And please don't think I intended to make that pun
because puns are the lowest form of humor
and I would never stoop to such a level
even if fondling comatose war veterans was my thing
which it totally isn't, I swear;
I just really feel like that it's important to be clear
when expressing oneself with poetry
especially on a platform such as this)
the world rushes back into your hands
like a cosmic dam has just collapsed
and the saturnalian sluice of plasmic hydrogen
at once destroyed and restored all that has yet to be.
And then your bitch texts you like:
"I keep my pussy wet for a white nigga like you
and this is how you repay my sweet ass?
Muthafucka [sic] we done af."
And you sigh jumping for joy.

Really? Cock vagina?

wtf is all this? Are you all angsty 15 year old girls? Just because it's poetry doesn't mean it has to be depressing. Write some fun/funny/interesting poetry you little fag bags.

this is my firt time attempting to write poetry. I know It's garbage, but I really enjoyed doing it.
well, here goes nothing.

The Creation

seated on the throne Divine
Yahweh, king of the sublime,
called his Angel host

surrounded by his angels bright
decreed to them with words of light
of what shall come to pass.

'Angels, though your love is pure,
it's simply part of your nature
And I seek something more.

Therefore in Chaos I will form
in th'eternal material storm
A cosmos far and wide.

here I will a planet make
with perfect clime and no mistake
a home for a new race.

Them in my image, I shall make,
with Reason pure he will partake
in th'Universal plan of God.

Though he'll be in endless toil,
after death th'utmost royal
In th'entire heavenly realm.

because their nature shall be free
to choose to worship I shall be
worshipped not by all.

But those of them who'll be exalted,
their entrance never shall be halted,
to this happy place.

they shall sing my praise and be,
most blessed all eternity
And woe to them who don't.

For they shall never enter here
nor any other heavenly sphere,
their Death shall be eternal.'

With this his holy speech had ended
and all the angels he had rendered
in utmost gaity.

with wild ecstacy they wept:
'oh King, thy words are too perfect
we almost cannot bear it!

Thy Words are law, never forlorn!
Thy Will eternal, oh Never-Born!
All shall sing thy praise!'

Christmas
all I want
is
you

all i want for christmas
is jEeeEeEeEEw
bABY

no u

His eye's demise glimmers in the shimmering ripples ripping a pond's pebbled-splashed mirror, waving a shattering craving--a flattering dream--seemingly seen outside, yet projecting a scene inside.

Looking to hooked fingers shaking, lingers a-waking sensation. Dusty dirt and sand flirt with a lusty hand. The reflecting action lapsing past this obscenity: cracked serenity caused by mindless and lost curiosity.

This speech
Is
My Recital
I Think
That it
Is
Very Vital
To
Rock a
Rhyme
That's
Right on time
It's tricky
Is It's
Title
Here We Go

Why do you guys write this? most that I`ve read are fucking dreadful. And the only people who I have seen irl who like poetry are retards who only listen to black rappers, call """"rap"""" poetry and write poems about how video games are their only escape.
Why do you do it? theres a thread asking the same thing but its being spammed with pleb and shit. I`m curious though, poetry has a fucking terrible name and in the mainstream you dont hear of successful poets, even decent writers struggle to make ends meet never mind poets. As for expression most seem to be shit.
really at a loss for why.

I tried to apply for a job
At a video game company
When I went to the interview
I tripped and fell
Could it be?
The patriarchy.

Poetry is really fucking hard to do well, and even if you do it well then there's only a small subset of people who'll be able to recognize it.

Clearly none of us here are too good at it but I don't see any issue with just trying. It's fun to play with words and images.

Do you write prose?

It's fun, dude. I usually treat it like doodling

Today was a mild day for so late in February.
Spring sang early by a windy tributary,
and played away the cold decay of December.
There was a green leaf applause for all to remember:

All the red-breasted robins chirping wildly,
in hopes of calling new love blindly.
And all of the dogs who's lonely, friendly barking
echo into the falling curtain of night.

While in my house seat I preside
by the window open wide
as the distant rushing wind
and bellowing train blend
into a calming orchestral static.

I watch the street with vague intent,
hoping to notice nothing at present,
while a cool air gently plays
with my hair and brightness
of my marijuana cigarette.

With the grace of a corpse
In a riptide
I let go
And I slide slide slide
Downriver
With an empty case by my side
An empty case
That’s my crime

And I sing (Say Valley Maker)
To keep from cursing
Yes I sing (Say Valley Maker)
To keep from cursing

River Oh
River End
River Oh
River End
River Go
River Bend

Take me through the sweet valley
Where your heart blooms
Take me through the sweet valley
Where your heart is covered in dew

And when the river dries
Will you bury me in wood
Where the river dries
Will you bury me in stone

Oh I never really realized
Death is what it meant
To make it on my own

Because there is no love
Where there is no obstacle
And there is no love
Where there is no bramble
There is no love
On the hacked away plateau
And there is no love
In the unerring
And there is no love
On the one true path

Oh I cantered out here
Now I’m galloping back

So bury me in wood
And I will splinter
Bury me in stone
And I will quake
Bury me in water
And I will geyser
Bury me in fire
And I’m gonna phoenix

t. capitalist

why do you do what you do, questioning faceless peers in futile fury?

successful poets are far more successful than successful bitter online demotivators

bump?

I have never liked shaving my neck.
Having to graze the sharp metal blade
against the very sensitive skin of my adam's apple
is, I must admit, one of the most terrifying parts of my life.
All it takes is one wrong move,
one slip of the hand,
and the blade will dig into the skin
and draw blood,
making it impossible to breathe again.

must I be the one to mention
every time you claim you're brimmed
by cosmic intuition
how oft you leave the stove on, or
perishable goods out overnight?

and I shout across the table
while our guests shuffle silverware
and rush the intermission
must I be the one to ground you
every time you think you're right?

my medicine
makes me
sick
in the morning

wild anonymous masturbation
centers the universe
in a cosmic gaze
only stopping
for a spectacle
as mundane as you

someone read me out
i cracked my back opening my window
and cold air flew through
i thought of all the high school girls
and the blonde and black hair
and someone read me out
and i felt nude, naked in a bath
sprawled out, too big for frame
a small pine coffin
with a veil over top
and the over yonder boys
and the part time mop
we gave wes a ride
and smoked in his car
he had two kids and his dad owned a bar
i think its all trash, new age ass fiction
new garbage, baby, new trash addiction
like burroughs to junk
holden to phonies
dont hold me to what i wrote
that day you read me out

the prelate
the prelate
high like a blue glass window
smoked like an old sports bar
the smell of the body
in an oaken frame
the carving in stone of a whole mans name
the prelate
the prelate