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)
Poetry Thread
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.