Poetry

Would anyone care to share poetry that they've written?

I'm just interested in reading what people have written - not to critique - just to experience new things and to potentially find some inspiration.

I'll share mine if you share yours.

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Sure. I'll post some sonnets I wrote for my girlfriend

Uneased by dark and dismal dawn's, I reach
afar and feel a lonly void each side-
And with a careless grasp i Cease the screech
A Coldness washing over like a tide.

The void, it grows a haunting bitter feel.
Familiar with the scathing burn by now
I give myself a stirring morning speal-
And fight the early freezing chill somehow

The morning fades and brightens just as prompt.
For weeks the golden muse of mine had left,
But within murky depths of love I'm swamped.
For her Returning soon I cease bereft.

And with a golden head of hair at rest.
Departing once again, I shall protest.

Excuse the spelling and grammar mistakes. Need to fix them up. But you get the jist

The master plays and gentle pulls at strings
A humble man i sway at masters whim
To left and right and up and down it brings
Me gently with Until the falling scrim

A thoughtful touch is all masters makes
And with the touch commands a guiding sway
At ease I lay consumed, I never ache
He guides me well, i never Dis obey

The master hides behind a darkened veil
In time I learnt the truth behind the strings
Is love that guides, Abstract but never stale
Embracing love and Everything it brings

For love to guide, it reaks of beauty pure
And love to live by, prompt I shall adjure

Neat. Thanks for posting. Even though I don't write poems with a specific structure I enjoyed reading yours. It was interesting look into something new.

I typically write with a heavy structure.

Usually in iambic meter. Sometimes I delve in more modern resembling poetry but I'm really not a fan

Here's one I wrote 2 years ago

The weekend wakes without a yawn
as someone, somewhere, mows a lawn.
The spaniel in the yard next door
has barked at nothing since the dawn.

The uncomplaining neighbors snore
or wake and try to then ignore
the canine chorus on repeat.
Some check the clock, it's 5: 04.

The floor is cold upon their feet,
they squint and grumble as they greet
The bright and buzzing bathroom light.
The morning air outside is sweet.

The dishes are not done, all right,
and what'll we have for dinner tonight?
There's nothing in the fridge at all,
it stares at me in frigid spite.

It's afternoon, I get a call
about some work I try to stall.
I hear a bouncing sort of sound -
a boy has over-kicked a ball.

I look about and when it's found
I pick the thing up off the ground
and throw it back and feel a pain -
its petty sting is now profound.

I see within all things a chain
to make my every day mundane,
And so I delve into a dream
and dream of walking in the rain.

Of fishing in a moonlit stream,
of snow that falls as thick as cream,
of hiking in the north of Spain,
of things that are not what they seem.

I can't find the poem I want to post, but I did find this. I have no idea where this came from, or when I wrote it. All I know is that I wrote it, and that's it. Think of it as stream of consciousness poetry.

A long furred tongue ran along the curve of his calf, and FFFFF kicked, like a sleeping dog, against the doorjamb.
"Fuck off," he wanted to say, but the lemon was still wedged behind his teeth, furred with grooves used to make a zesty topping. The sopping creature hooked into his ankles didn't bother with a response. On the hallway table, an almost antiquated answering machine shrilled and coughed out:
"I fucking hate you! Why are you doing this to me? Why are you like this, you miserable sack of shit! I raised you, I fed you! I collected your baby teeth in a plastic novelty jar for years and pretended that I gave a shit about your rejected body parts!"
FFFFF bit into the lemon harder and the taste sparked behind his eyes. -Goddammit- the back part of his brain yowled at the front part; the part that was red with rage and frustration, just behind his eyes, but lower.
-Goddammit, goddammit-
-Where's the fucking cat?-
-SiilK is going to gut you like a fish if you lost that fucking animal-
The creature, still sopping, clawed it's way up to his knees.
FFFFF wished, with all his iron ore heart, that he would just choke on the lemon already. From the hallway, connected to the living room connected to the kitchen, connected to the sharp curve of his hip on the curling linoleum, his mother's shrill noise spat itself out at him. The thing, dragging itself up his legs was humanoid. It's eyes black and sightless, and it's tongue was a feather, a moth's antennae, a hundred pointed tips moving as one unit across the back of his thighs.
FFFFF jabbed his finger into the corner of his stretched out lips, hooked his nail behind the lemon and popped it out onto the floor, trailing a slop of spit and damp along behind it.

Another

The winter-cold, stone-like sound of the choir
is echoing in the cathedral. I hear the
petal-soft voices rise and fall like the
tide on the shores of Eden. I look
at the candle-lit colours of the
windows, I dream of praying like
a pilgrim in a pew. I picture the
singers standing in robes, I
ogle the Gothic-gold glimmer of
the altar. The night surrounds me -
but the requiem has led me to
the marble-bright throne room of Heaven.
And then the song ceases and
I open my eyes. I'm distracted
by the neon blue blinking of a sign.

You asked for it.

Life is but a prolonged swim in some collective afterbirth
Being is repulsive and over-real, an ocean of organ taste.
To know and to be known, experience is a fluid exchanged mouth to mouth.
Foundering adrift admist our own broth we are listing and lapping,
Sensory sewage secreted and sampled, eyes shut and orifices full,
Sinking and swimming, gullets brimming with the unspeakable.
Sensation is itself a thing vulgar, to share in the stew, to taste you,
Gruesome goop, gruesome group, all I come to rue, naught to know but that undue,
A common yoke these unclean masses, choking, intolerable, and interminable,
Death ever adds to the soup, our world one big vaginal vichyssoise,
Gross.

Why the heavy emjabment out of curiosity?

I think and dare I say it isnt up for debate that nearly all modern popular poetry has ruined any use of emjabment but doing garbage confessional with emjabment for no apparent reason or effect

And another

Strolling over sensual sands
In melancholy Moonlight's hands,
And swooning under inky skies.
The salty scent of sighing waves,
The murky mouths of gloomy caves
Are seen as though in distant lands.

The beauty, greenish blue
Lulled upon in prompt
Now I sit subdued
At ease the sirens song

It took a bold man
To feign from the rocks
I stand a humble man
And to the song I flocked

I understand.
I can appreciate writing within a structure in the sense that there's a blueprint and a process - and the writing is akin to piecing together a puzzle. However for me, when I am writing, I enjoy the chaos of it - as when I am feeling inspired, or passionate, it's usually due to some kind of chaotic or intense emotion(s). I write without structure as I feel like my inspiration ceases when imposed by structure and I also feel like the structure itself may not allow for the poem to be properly written, for good or ill.

Anyways here's one of mine - feel free to just gloss over it if you want.

Australian Discipline (the fly piper)

The fly piper is absent, alone, incorrigible…
(The fly piper is dead)
…
Thought boils and seeps out holey face
Arm is picked up and then slowly dropped
Loafing gracefully lethargic over the sticky forehead
Like a branch of the willow tree bending to the vicious god
Bending over oceans of wailing convicts and martyrs
Tarnished and broken skin transmuted into blisters and bubbles by terrible magic of galactic alchemy…
The imagination is livid and throbbing before quiet and parched under the palpable heat.
Perhaps the arm is a sickly hand
Taking one final slow dance
With burned out stiff-stubborn curtains
Succumbing slowly to sun-stroke.
…
The corpse groans and shifts to the determined side
Innards mumbling and rolling
Twisting around thick fatty tissue
Sloppy thick jalopy
A frying pan rolls along the melting road
Inside are two boiled eggs being weird
Outside a magpie watches the sentimental fool convulsing in slow motion over his sweaty memories weeping from his weathered brow.
The magpie
Looking for birds
Dressed to the nines
Is momentarily captured by the awkward dexterity
Of the savage scene seeping out slowly in the suburban street
(But it was just a naïve engagement of two different lives)
Back to fashion
A La Mode
Magpie choked on a fish hook that was born a wet wriggling worm
And the eerie Australian summer beat on
As the warbling corpse and choking bird
Groaned slowly in melancholic fashion.

An interesting poem, thanks for posting.
I'm inclined to like it as I have a tendency to enjoy things that put forth the mundane but also bring the absurd or unrealistic into the picture (I generally tell people I like 'fantasy realism').

I like the way you described things. It was kind of hard to read though but I got through it. It'll probably pop up in my head again next time I see a lemon. Thanks for sharing.

No reason of any sort springs to mind. I simply spewed out the obscure sensation I had in my head at the time, not thinking of structure or form.

Yeah, one could liken not writing in meter to playing tennis without a net, or feel trapped by it like you do

Look at Ezra pounds criticisms and advice for modern poetry. He pioneered modern poetry and was a champion at giving advice

That it so fine. I do think better poetry is written meticulously as opposed to in a stream

Dreamscape - I like it friendo.

This is nice as well. I could see the scene in my mind so clearly.

I enjoyed this. Not just because I like 'weird' words but because it was interesting, and similar in concept and theme, to some things I've written/thought about.

That's what I do. Then I may edit the piece to get some flow in some areas, or to be disjointed in others.

I studied lit for 3 years - forgotten so much - but I've gotten to the point where I'm tired of reading about other people saying how one should write or giving tips. T.S. Eliot's poetry is the stuff that I take most inspiration from - just the weird shit he brings up, the way he adds slight obscure references to things, it kinda feels like I'm traversing through a dungeon (like in an rpg game) when I'm reading most of his poems and I like that. Also Kerouac has been a bit of an influence too.

Another one of mine:

Boozing Alone On A Monday Afternoon

Beneath two stories
in beach vicinity
I form affinity
with ethereal muse
with six beers
two cigarettes
& one ego
I write songs
urging the waves onward

Amid growling motorbikes
and coughing cars
busses full of blokes
and sweet chicks on the sidewalk
I sit, almost alone,
with double-man & hollywood home

Two Germans
in new country
earlier we spoke of holocaust
freely,
with smiles on our faces
one small raincloud
dropped tears on those spaces

The company departed
I flew up and down stories
my bowels contorted
ivory teeth eager for speech
but I was left with nose dripping

Snorting
I looked at my dark sunglasses
honestly regretting not throwing them
into the blue
before I spoke to you

Sniffing
I gazed at glazed windows
playing with my thoughts
the sea surged
some one
some where
purged

I am slow like necessary inflation
slow like visionary freedom
slow like temporal eternity

Empty bottles are quick
I am not

Naked, music cannot cover me,
light, old light, covers my young body in illustrations of who I am

Traffic sounds ocean-like,
bladder pushing me into the garden,
people see this.
PublicHolidayPeople,
with time on their hands
to play with their wounds,
looking at me through almost-closed curtains.

I have arrived too early
feeling I shall leave late

Goddamn boozing alone in the afternoon

Above two stories
back on familiar flooring
I relish bladder freedom,
not so empty porcelain,
always a friend.

>I like the way you described things. It was kind of hard to read though but I got through it. It'll probably pop up in my head again next time I see a lemon. Thanks for sharing.

Thank you very much. I really wanted to post that one poem, but I cannot find it. All I know is that it's about a monster that lures people into the woods to eat them, but apparently, I can't remember a single line.

My lit professor was like that. I can definitely appreciate that form, that preference. If it felt right to me then I'd write that way but I write for my own pleasure and for that feeling of "thank fuck that's out of me" - so most of my poems are melancholic and weird. I enjoy reading other stuff though - meticulous and structured - it's just different strokes.

That's funny. Did you write it on a computer or with a pad and pen? I'm 27 and started writing poetry when I was 17 - I've got poems littered around the internet and in old books and pads and stuff. It's kinda fun rediscovering them. I hope yours turns up man.

Ezra pound gives very good advice for the style of poetry that you are writing. I'm writing and consuming a older style.

I do enjoy t.s. Eliot. Quite a bit, the wasteland is a masterpiece. Eliot dedicated it to Ezra pound after he edited it for him

I am not disagreeing, but can genuine emotions be expressed properly if they have to be squeezed into shape by a system of structural rules? On the whole, I prefer structure to shapeless artistic rebellion - just as I prefer Bach to Bartok. But I think there should be a bit of space for stream, just for reality's sake, as human life is sometimes structured, scheduled and orderly, other times chaotic, hectic and nonsensical.

I appreciate the australianness of this.

A little rough, but pulled off well, I wouldn't change much personally. Apt considering it isnt attempting to be high brow

this made me lose my breakfast

a perfectly good pop tart wasted

I think that the structure is part of the art of poetry. Like i was saying before about Ezra pound. He had a rule about not doing in poetry what one can do it has done poorly in prose

That is true. I've read the letters Eliot and Pound wrote to one another - not all of them - but we studied Eliot at college and so I delved into a tonne of that stuff back in the day. I know Pound made Wasteland a lot shorter - and also advised on quite a few other things that added to the poem. Eliot was lucky to have that kind of person to share and develop ideas with. Maybe I'll go-over Pound's advice in the future, but at the moment, I'm content with where I am. I haven't written anything specific in a long time though - all of the poems I've posted are from a few years back.

My next poem won't fit in this post so bear with me.

Cheers - all my poetry is really rough. Honestly I don't think I ever get the concept down as clear as I see it in my mind - but sometimes I never fully see the concept in utmost clarity - I still write though, as I just accept nothing will ever be really perfect. That probably pisses some people off but it's not hurting anyone so I don't care too much. Sometimes I write things that I don't fully understand - but it feels right. Sort of like an impressionistic experience.

He sits and stirs amidst the dirt and grime,
A bead of sweat to prompt and glisten fierce.
The clouds to part, to break an awing shine,
The window, lonely, tiny, to cut and Pierce

A golden shimmer slowly crawls across.
It creeps and sprawls, the warm alluring sun.
But falling short, his bench a Morbid Cease
The harrowed shop dispensed him nothing else.
A darkened sullen dysthemic decree.

The chains that gripped his furrowed brow
And snaked and bound a hearty chest
The iron shackles forged, they weighed him down.
Akin the sagging measure kept abreast.

His glimmer dull, the hairless head.
A fade of strength, the youthful plight.
A hope and dream to soring lengths.
The swaying trees an awing Sight

A thought, an ego driven fall.
To hubris sake, a tumbling drop.
The planted boots, the workshop floor
Perhaps perceived an emus flapping flight.

Here's another:

Junkie Birth

I have never been one to share truths.
I have never been one to carve away my skin to show my bones.
I have never been one to purge my soul into words that rhyme succinct.

I have never been one to allow souls to know my own.
I have never been one to embrace those that move into my vision swiftly.
I have never been one to intoxicate those that lack no serious derivation from their course.

I have never been one to start myself from nothing.
I have never been one to know the truth from the past.
I have never been one to differentiate between the reality and the lies.

But,
I have always danced with devils.
I have always taken the darker ground.
I have always written my death to the stars in my eyes
whilst my parents sat idly by and read my soft stories -
I recollected the dreams of my eternal history
and I painted them upon my universal ceiling.

I gouged out my form through my Mother’s wrists.
I pulled my mind from my Father’s guts.
I twisted my notions from my Sister’s ovaries.
I balanced my furore via my Brother’s testicles.

I became the person of my dreams through my endless dreaming.

I endlessly killed my-self in my nightmares.

I nonchalantly masturbated to my most perfect self in my breaking vision.

I blackened my skin in the night to become a part of all that wasn’t meant to be known.

I relinquished my birth-name to begin the most pure and powerful throne.

I gave birth to my dreams through rigid means – describing humanity in my most potent reams – and each man and woman gave birth to my child. Each child gave birth to my soul – each soul brought our womb together.

This womb burrowed and tore into the anointing world – calling Popes and Princes to impart infinite life – but nothing came from it until I realized it was I that held it all.

So I picked, thumped and plundered deep into the bleeding hold of the gaudy world held in my titan hand.

I pulled out the sight of the sound of the bleeding surrounds that I recognised as my self.

And I moulded them like plastic embryos into the tools of my sanity workshop.

I crafted blinding darkness from light – I gave birth to enveloping light from darkness.

I pursued every little fact to the bitter end. I embodied the secrets of the universe in my encrusted rumbling heart.
I turned and turned again,
inwards,
on the inner of my most outer dreaming
over and over again.

That was an impressive piece. Very evocative, captures the serpentine tangle of the flesh and spirit, the bogged-down body and its urges and lusts and the tentative, ever-seeking simpers of the soul. A wonderful mingling of the coarse and colloquial and the ethereal. Very well done.

I think he offers and evidently was succesful in his criticisms and since you are going for a similar style, it could help you out a bit if you wish. Because I'm not really the man to give or lend a hand because older stuff is more my interest


Personally I don't like the raw touch, honestly more of a finely crafted kind of guy, I would rather the words, structure and rhythm be there than the emotions, at the end of the day they are abstractions. But like you said different strokes for different folks

>That's funny. Did you write it on a computer
Yeah, I wrote it on my laptop, but I have the stupid habit of writing down what comes to me in whatever document is open at the time, so everything is mixed together like a trash heap.

But hey! After half an hour, I finally found it! Not finished tho.

In the lower squallor
below high and towering spires
a tiny beating heart
that sings and sings and sings
along the darkened paths
trailing out and out and out

And a bird that came and said to her:
child I will lead you to safety
to warmth and joy and gentleness
but the bird I heard, was a liar
and the child disappeared
her pale hands gripping at the thorny loam

A woodsman came upon the path
had heard the story once before
but failed to heed the warning there within
and the bird spoke to him and sang:
I will take you home to riches and a wife
who will bear you children and a grand, grand garden
and the man, he too, was vanished.

[A king]

And that tiny heart
grew in size and shape
Nails dug into pretty palms
lips sprouted, pouted, split apart
and that trill trilled louder, shriller, higher
and carried farther

The bird was but the tongue
of a great and heaving beast.
who fed upon the waryless
a thing that could, when presented
take a man and tempt him
to play a tune
upon it's ringing teeth

A guy trying to feel better yeah? I enjoyed the read.

Is that so? I'm not sure if you are pulling my leg. But thanks.

I'll definitely look into it again in the future - right now the advice would sort of fall on deaf ears. I'm a bit precious.

I've enjoyed this thread so far - it's been years since I visited Veeky Forums. Do you anons have more to post? I've a few more I'd like to share. As I said my shit is weird - I don't exist in my own bubble and I often cringe at parts of my poems - e.g. the beginning of this feels super edgy but I also feel like it captures the moment, the feelings, and it would be wrong to delete or change it.

If you don't have any more poems to share feel free to share a poem or two that you aspire to or that inspires you - that isn't hugely massive (like wasteland).

This is a poem by Australian poet and author Les Murray, and it's a poem that I aspire to and think is really intelligent and enjoyable - the kind of poem I'd like to write one day.

Shower

From the metal poppy
this good blast of trance
arriving as shock, private cloudburst blazing down,
worst in a boarding-house greased tub, or a barrack with competitions,
best in a stall, this enveloping passion of Australians:
tropics that sweat for you, torrent that braces with its heat,
inflames you with its chill, action sauna, inverse bidet,
sleek vertical coruscating ghost of your inner river,
reminding all your fluids, streaming off your points, awakening
the tacky soap to blossom and ripe autumn, releasing the squeezed gardens,
smoky valet smoothing your impalpable overnight pyjamas off,
pillar you can step through, force-field absolving love's efforts,
nicest yard of the jogging track, speeding aeroplane minutely
steered with two controls, or trimmed with a knurled wheel.
Some people like to still this energy and lie in it,
stirring circles with their pleasure in it, but my delight's that toga
worn on either or both shoulders, fluted drapery, silk whispering to the tiles,
with its spiralling, frothy hem continuous round the gurgle-hole'
this ecstatic partner, dreamy to dance in slow embrace with
after factory-floor rock, or even to meet as Lot's abstracted
merciful wife on a rusty ship in dog latitudes,
sweetest dressing of the day in the dusty bush, this persistent,
time-capsule of unwinding, this nimble straight well-wisher.
Only in England is its name an unkind word;
only in Europe is it enjoyed by telephone.

I enjoy mythological/fantasy monsters so this was up my alley. Enjoyed the read, user.

Here's another of mine... Many of my poems are littered with judeo-christian biblical shit coz I was heavily immersed in that stuff at the time of writing - also heart break and stuff. Anywho.

(posting the poem in my next post).

Res Ipsa Loquitur

I have this recurring ability
to catch the blues like a cold
Darwin’s Metaphor has got me feeling like I’m ancient-old
and I feel like I have returned to the cross
I’m looking icy
because in these dark times
the holy warmth
of a unified and blossoming soul
is slipping away.

I’d like to say something along the lines of
“you drown me with your absence”
but I am afraid to fall for you between the lines that pitter-patter
along this well trodden
melancholic lane
I have a feeling that if I fell
I would never come back up again.

I can see trees looming with more rope then leaves
and guns sitting like death next to notes of soul-tearing importance
shadows tremble and then break into dark stains that splatter
graffiti-glyphs of humanity have been painted here in shades of grey.

I want to send myself to a place that knows no pain
but it is hard to travel with self-destructive packages
so I’ll try to loosen your hand on my heart
I wanted to grow through 700mils of cider
and for one imperfect moment I thought I had found a new provider
but the ciders power was diluted by the sardonic rain
and I was too pathetic to cover the abyss so I just lay there and lied,
telling the passers-by that I am fine; happy; holy; alive.

I know I should leave this place
but I won’t be beaten by this wretched feat
that is performed in anguish inducing ignorance
No, I won’t leave.
In order to survive I’ll keep the dream-time alive in my brain
even though this means that late at night our distance is painfully bright
and my eyes are starved of comfortable darkness.

I’ll imagine your fingers missed mine like lovers often miss lovers and lone-lovers leave tear drops over tear stained streets – drifting hunched through the steamy city or ambling slowly with arms held open, eyes searching for angelic stars under the bulging-dark that protrudes and groans like a beaten up old pillow soaked to the soul by a deluge of misery.

There might be certain hours when I would let your lightning linger longer
just to burn the feelings stronger.

Sometimes this is the best way to realise that most pain will always fade – or the mind will cave and delusions might save.

The Eternal Paradox is becoming the only Truth

In the end I can’t move on
without cutting away the detritus in the mind
unlucky anchors caught on reefs of despondency
and force myself to drift free until I catch
that powerful thought of the Great Deluge washing away the lonely
that thought makes me wonder
makes me ponder
makes me want to live longer
to surf the Great Wave which will come from yonder
and to live to tell the story to the younger
a story like that could live forever
freeing those trapped under the thunder
and then they may look up to the bluest sky and say:

Viva
la Vida.

A grassy mound of no real name
Rises up a river valley.
It's mounted by a maple tree
With wildflower just below.
Yellow, red and purple petal
Bead on wind-spilled grass so green,
As their perfumes gently flow
By hungry sparrow on their wing.

Falling to a bed of verdure
Stirs to life a puff of moth
Congregating undisturbed
Underneath the maple shade.
Licking wings and swaying grasses
Brush against what skin's exposed,
While sinking sunlight pins the earth
Through leaven cushion just above.

Whirlwind sight to drifting clouds
Top of heaven's undercurrent;
Where vulture swim like sharks on prowl
In and out a nimbic shelf.
Diving in the troposphere
Jets a vessel all alone,
searching for a trenchen-valley
to disembark and call their home.

Deeper, darker drips the sky-blue
Into black with hue of violet
Filling the horizon floor, while
From the depths a giant squids-eye
Phases into sight all moon-like
As some tiny-lifeform-stars
Glitter round the glowing disc like
bioluminescent algae.

Does the moon too sit in place
Atop earth's atmospheric plates
Drifting down through breathing lungs
Top tectonic, grass covered mounds?
Does it watch its planet's cycles
Through its times of light and dark;
And does it know that oceans bow
for each and all of its arrivals?

As the stars careen to land,
calderas arise magma--
So it is, so it breathes, so it seems--
birthing islands of rock and shore
as meteors crater future seas.
Then river valley, tree-topped mound-
Leaves will rain as drop and stone,
Before tires carry on for home.

Hey user, thanks for posting. I really enjoyed this. Very atmospheric and precise. Super enjoyable to read. Reminded me of Redwall stories.

Will I make it Veeky Forums?
drive.google.com/file/d/0B9HbcH0ICUbBZmpaS1BqLWNCNkE/view?usp=drivesdk

Confessional as in Plath? She is purposeful. Confessional as in Kaur? She won't affect anything.

i don't know why I stopped to read your poems user but you are actually good. My only wish is for more arrhythmia for symbolic emphasis, but more of a personal preference i guess. U have some chops :)

Breach-
Far above in the land of gold
The Father in his gaze does hold
The end of man for which he waits
The last soul to pass through the gates

Mastered mind and soul contrive
The spear of Antioch man will drive
To stop the hell of fire he'll fly
To pierce the silken veil of sky

To mount the blazing chariot
Mount the burning son and marry it
The last man so becomes enlightened
And in His throne He becomes frightened

Hand of mortal did overthrow
And thus, my heaven dissolved so
The last man did defy his fate
And now he's master of the gate

>To mount the blazing chariot
>Mount the burning son and marry it
I really like this

thank you user, I was actually inspired by the story of Elijah for this line

Thanks, that poem took a few days of work. Still uncertain of the end. Glad you enjoyed it.

This is an abuse of adjectives no matter the century

This is analogous to asking, "can genuine emotions be expressed properly if they have to be squeezed into shape by a system of grammar and words?"

What you call genuine emotion is nebulous and opaque. It's only by writing that you make yourself understood. The conventions of poetry, like the conventions of grammar, serve understanding. And yes, conventions may be broken, but in doing so you only create a new convention and a new system in which you ask your readers to participate. So yes, there is room for experimentation, but you can never truly escape the burden of comprehensibility into the purported freedom of the stream.

>and
>and
>and
>and

This is seriously weakening the piece. Really ask yourself if you need two verbs or two nouns instead of one. Because every time you do that, my attention is split between the two, and i end up finding neither interesting. "x1 and x2" is also a verbal tic that gets annoying after 2 or 3 repetitions.

Love I find you smoking,
making faces you know I'll understand.
With you I have a house of plenty.
Let to side all affairs, and I,
I have all the world in your mouth,
I have all myself in your mouth
which confesses my sicknesses I must be honest.
I have all the stars kissing stars in my god-damn constellating.
Oh bastard photographer who is in no way capable of catching smoke,
where is the light in your exhibitions?
Why must you cloud the negatives?
And for all the world in your mouth I pay sorrow ohgod
thank you for sorrow without which I would have no poems
to grind molars to a blind bare nub.
Love I find you smoking and I confess I want to be healthy.
Love you love the addict, love you are incomprehensible
and this I find reprehensible. What gay songs of the month
or year could cover but a fraction? What happiness could include?
Here I make compositions and number them on the corner
to keep track of untraceable and your mouth is
my year of greatest fecundity, my life of poetry distilled
to equinox. Eclipse.

dear mom and dad
I know this guy that knows another guy
he shrunk his girlfriend
so his dick would seem bigger
now they moved together
on the moon where they do
graffiti
it has been five months
since i saw him
all he does when i call him
is go into video mode
and show me pictures of moon rocks
i had to believe him
what the hell
we live on saturn
and all i can see is
pictures of saturnalia
downloaded off my old modem
work has been great
still trying to populate mars
via bluetooth we recently had problems
pairing devices such as fem.1 to their port
mal.2 but my boss said that after these storms pass
wețll be able to
quote: make them fuck their brainwaves out:unquote
when this letter reaches you
i will be lightyears away
i just bought a condo
on pluto
prices have gone really low
since they made it a star.
wishing you the best
mail sent from Sun 25th of december
1996.

I don't feel like asking
questions seem futile
sponges of metal
clearing the railway
oh what a wonderful feeling
sitting at 130km/h
i bet there will be
flying cops in the future
beating at my window
asking for your papers
do you legally own
this small person?
sing to me like ray charles
does in blues brothers
don't get romantic
i am too small to be loved
i will jump inside your belly button
and drown in lint
rub me against your breasts
me the bar of soap
feeling liberal?
i will conserve that.

The woodmouse scurries underfoot,
unseen, makes in this leaf litter
a home for itself through winter
until it falls into torpor,
a self-induced delirium,
to ward off every horrible night
of the clip-clop monsters
stomping overfoot,
trudging through his woods.
Sometimes, on cold days,
you see them rubbing paws
praying next summer is better.

I go to the toilet
With a broken heart
I try to shit
But all I do is fart

At times when lost in reverie
attention falling into a whirlpool of memory and fantasy
finds itself being walked along a trail
as it looks up from the page of its thoughts
the head, looking in all directions, seems its own vehicle and pilot, moving ever toward the object of its attention
and every new point it lingers on in its endless darting around
imprinted on one long scroll, being unraveled before the mind's eye
as the soft hues of memory and the vivid blue reds of fantasy blend together
identity losing its fixed points of reference amid the ocean of experience
after a long wandering arrives at a village
you ask a man where you are
he merely laughs, tosses you a lemon, and continues tending to the wheat

Everon's Key

recall the frail thrills of a done day, now dead
morrowhat like then, again, a planck's pace
your carryon head over her heels with misery
whistling the tune of the black tar coil

"the ward of everon holds the key!", it hissly sings
lifetimes overdue, the ear you lent to serpentine tongues
naught but dustmeal interpretation of dreamwakery
from the tome-filled tomb of abstractions

already unfathomable fathoms in dante's depths
from decepticore through fictimantle you must climb

your perfection is immanent? yes and for all
there is none much work to be done yet, and you
are a finished product, ever-finishingly
fishing for thrills, ever-fishing with false bait

o fake-bait frail-thrill seeker
give up this post-mortem journey
there is but one thing to do, you see
and not a single riddleknot
to untangle in sight
see in, everon's ward
the key

"gets it"
regrets it

*grets it