Young and locked and loaded
Skills in tracking you have honed
The meadow is a dance floor
The call of the wild is Patron
Be sure to line up every shot
And Hope to take her home
Another stuffed and mounted
But you're still camping all alone
The brag is for your friends
To see how well you've killed
The sheets there to remember
All the tags that you have filled
Now in the cold of morning
There's no one by your side
Your belly may be full
But your soul's empty inside
Now the game knows you well
Your reputation walks before
They hear you coming from a mile
Soon there's no targets anymore
And then you finally realize
Standing old and in the mist
That the real and honest prize
Is the one that you have missed
hexagonal walls alive,
i can't avoid your compound eyes
entwined portraits of buzzing doves,
melting wax facsimiles of love
but any love's too high a price
for freedom and the virgin's sting
so much to be sacrificed
it doesn't truly mean a thing
that sweet sweet sign of honeycombs
mathematically pure; emotionally gone
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
In my vision, I witnessed you
climb the smokestack
of an abandoned factory
because the shape of clouds
had a way with you, and you
thought it was a machine
that made those sorts.
No one can reach you
from where you are
up above, sitting on top
the cloud generator of the world
looking at the horizon
with love-lost eyes, fawning over
nothing but an idea.
How I imagined
you and I are much alike
and in my vision, I think of you
drawing ghosts on my back
while I sleep, knowing
you don’t exist. How
every city I travel, every street
I run, I could hope
you be there.
But I know the words
you say to me, “We
passed each other along
somewhere on the way. Roads
are always everywhere.” And
if we met, I would not love you
like a man loves a woman,
but as a mother loving a child.
And it is best
how these things are.
I remember you asked,
“take me on to an endless road.”
And we reached the edge
of the street near my home. “Now,
you said, “we’ve arrived
at the end of the world.”
And in a way, you were right.
Late round update!
As of last night there where only three submitted poems. So the submission period for round 253 is extended to next Monday.
Good times!
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
I make words using things
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
a reader once told me
that my poetry was a seismic shift among debris
a heart worn across the sleeve
a nagging and a pet peeve
of his or hers to know that it reads
**** to the highest degree him her and you love me
and with my eyes as a muse and my hands as the sieve
you god damn well should
since it means i'm doing my ******* job right
it means i'm breaking your narcissistic ego and transcending passions
long enough for you to forget about the *****ty reality you lead
and taking a gander at this stranger who is a hundred times fun
a thousand times exhilarating and a million times creative
to make a presumptive musing like this roll some irises
but leaving a smirk across more unwieldly faces
We are the last wave gone by.
We are the dying of the light.
We are the gold; hard held by
nature's failing hands-
A hard edge on soft skin-
An ill wind blown in gentle ears.
We'll try and count the books
while the library burns;
A function of frailty
leaves no stone unturned
I cut all these false feathers
No longer bound to tethers
It's time for distance
I seek for guidance
from those
Whose cables still linger
Far deep in darkness
Still reaching high for the stars.
my brain needed what
it could never make, but now
i can't stop smiling
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
...Ilvaldi. I'm pretty sure you could write a cookbook and make each list of ingredients somehow appear pregnant with meaning.
Instructions For Making PB&J And What To Do With It Afterwards
____________For Sam
The hands talk to each other. They list
the set of ingredients: butter; a knife; a loaf
of bread; jelly; a plate. They go over
the instructions, automated, as if the nerves
running on all fingers, were muscles
carrying a memory of what to do:
lay the plate; lay the bread; dip the knife
into the butter; spread the contents
on one half, as if waxing the moon; then,
pour the jelly on the other; wane
until all becomes dark; fuse them, and hold it
like a child, observing the sum of its creation.
Then, with the mouth, begin
speaking to it, educating its existence
on the nature of holes. From time to time,
you may have to put it down,
but sooner or later, you will pick it up
and it will never return to you.
sometimes i stood outside at the height of night
the wind would toss my hair in a fit of boredom
once more the air pleaded for spiritual company
but my skin was numb and my mind was locked
i could not join my friend in silent revelry
my mirth was hidden under jade carapace
and i thought she might never set herself free
i asked the sun to lend me her strength
she taught me how to sing in the long days
and with some help i stepped onto the green
singing a lullaby of wispy afternoon clouds
your smile set my happiness free
it was all i ever needed
There are 365 days in a year.
The earth spins on an elliptical orbit.
It spins on an imperfect axis, tilted,
readjusting itself, wobbling on
an invisible beam. It is a wonder
the longest day is almost
the same every year.
When the solstice begins,
it never misses the time.
But the hours we count
on the clock, the extra day
we compensate every four years,
numbers and axioms,
are artificial. I thought of this
when I remembered her. She said
we would meet again
and reminded me the perfection
of patterns: the anniversary
of my birth, my grandfather’s
death, and everything.
If there is a science for this,
do not enlighten me. Lord,
blow the moon over, let me
indulge on this idea that cycles
are fabrications—that she was right
when she meant, “I’ll see you
whenever,” and the universe
will revolve on no law
other than a moment constructed,
or a promise.
If nothing is forever then why doesn't guilt have a ceiling or a floor?
If nothing is forever then why won't forgiveness ever open the door?
We've all got a cross to bear- a torch to bear- lions and tigers and bears and a thousand yard stare
And sometimes god damnit life's just not fair
And sometimes at night you sneak outside and think about crying by the moonlight
But you can't because Buchowski never cried but you can't be Buchowski because you never smoke and you never wrote a thing worth the ink
And all the bling in the world won't give you a name
That doesn't roll around the inside of your mouth
Like a caged rat in its miniature madhouse
Like a bloated blue tinged floater bashing against the rocks
With the letters arranged all wrong for you to ever be worthy of a song
If nothing is forever then when can i stop writing?
Will there ever be a more perfect tomorrow sighting or am I just another chain link
In my own enclosures siding?
Am I an artist or an addict if I just can't stop?
I can't hop trains I can't jump ship
And By self harm do you mean every time I open my miserable lips
Because the ***** that slips through those two,
Man it's like a long corporate letter typed in comic sans
Or a too-long poem written by my shaky hands
It's the banality of being bland
Even my regret is second hand
I am not an artist because art is forever
I am not an artist because I am just a guy whose read too much and not lived enough
I am just a snuff film in real time broadcasting live to your captive eyes
If nothing is forever then what happens when I die?
If nothing is forever then how could nothing be forever
If nothing is forever then when will I reach the end of my lies the end of the line the sublime finish sign that signifies some sort of symbolic retort against my short lived life?
I am less than an artist at best I am lip service to the god of mediocrity on his laminate throne;
I am the bone unpicked I am 3.4 billion slightly below average dicks I am wasted mouse clicks in an ocean of information
I am a reminder that nothing and no one will ever be perfect
I am a reminder that this hollow, stale bull***** is all worth it
green waves of grass and high tides of outlaws roiled in the desert sun,
specks of orange foiling the poseur's statement that they'd conquered nature,
as they all waited for the humidity to get to that specific point
where it was so hot the water boiled up from the sea like steam,
and the Fog covered the town like a blanket smothered in its coziness.
there is a saying that a watched pot never boils,
but the water bubbled, being contained instead by a large crater approximately four hundred feet wide and moving like a pack of animals,
ancient hot springs taking the form of volcanoes,
and all was gray;
we paint in primary colors when we cannot see,
and the emptiness inherent in it caused emptiness
in the people who were out,
emptiness only filled with terrible things,
those who were new to it flailing aimlessly at nothing
while those who knew held their breath
and moved cautiously,
tracing long, swooping paths around the inside of the perimeter of the void
and with a hair trigger snapping -
it was a long time before the smoke started to clear,
moving outwards in a ring of wildfire,
but even then the red of struggle was visible everywhere;
it'd painted faces and chins,
sometimes arms but never legs (on account of the protective clothing),
and more than a couple eyes bloodshot with sickness
far beyond what even wealth could cure;
they gathered, the ten of them,
and as the crimson ocher faded as it spread,
eyes variously gleamed.
for the gold of the center was upon them,
gleaming like the sun itself (and twice as large again, from this vantage);
the overseers could view them again,
so nothing was evermore allowed,
aside from bathing in the gold and letting it fill you with what some might call knowledge,
and what feeling is ever better than that of a person who has everything they could never get?
Private Mod Note
():
Rollback Post to RevisionRollBack
my mouth is full of winsome lies -
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
I'd give it all
just to take it all back
and I'd throw you a rope
if you cut me some slack
I'm just sick and tired
of correcting the liars
who stoke all the fires black
These feet speak a language
only the ground understands.
They have guided me
to the ends of countries,
and have seen the abandoned homes,
strangers, monuments, and road-
kill in the intersections
of paths. They have suffered
from the earth, negotiating
the terrain. With them,
I have passed flowers
and crosses along highways,
wondering, if I stopped,
would I pray? If I work these feet,
they will make me crawl, turning
bone into dirt. But if I work them,
I can push Earth, change night
into day. I can make
the silent heart sing.
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
~Amory McKeever (IcecreamMan80)
Young and locked and loaded
Skills in tracking you have honed
The meadow is a dance floor
The call of the wild is Patron
Be sure to line up every shot
And Hope to take her home
Another stuffed and mounted
But you're still camping all alone
The brag is for your friends
To see how well you've killed
The sheets there to remember
All the tags that you have filled
Now in the cold of morning
There's no one by your side
Your belly may be full
But your soul's empty inside
Now the game knows you well
Your reputation walks before
They hear you coming from a mile
Soon there's no targets anymore
And then you finally realize
Standing old and in the mist
That the real and honest prize
Is the one that you have missed
Thanks to Xenphire @ Inkfox for the amazing new sig
“Thus strangely are our souls constructed, and by slight ligaments
are we bound to prosperity and ruin.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein
hexagonal walls alive,
i can't avoid your compound eyes
entwined portraits of buzzing doves,
melting wax facsimiles of love
but any love's too high a price
for freedom and the virgin's sting
so much to be sacrificed
it doesn't truly mean a thing
that sweet sweet sign of honeycombs
mathematically pure; emotionally gone
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Against leaden hands;
As hope is plundered
We near the strand-
We take to sea
(Heavy hearts seek
Distant lands-)
On fractured bone
And splintered stone.
A desperate heave
Against leaden hands:
An austere death spiral
Dovetailing into failing fingers.
A flailing mind wrings
Right from wrong
Every dawn was
Snatched from jaws.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
In my vision, I witnessed you
climb the smokestack
of an abandoned factory
because the shape of clouds
had a way with you, and you
thought it was a machine
that made those sorts.
No one can reach you
from where you are
up above, sitting on top
the cloud generator of the world
looking at the horizon
with love-lost eyes, fawning over
nothing but an idea.
How I imagined
you and I are much alike
and in my vision, I think of you
drawing ghosts on my back
while I sleep, knowing
you don’t exist. How
every city I travel, every street
I run, I could hope
you be there.
But I know the words
you say to me, “We
passed each other along
somewhere on the way. Roads
are always everywhere.” And
if we met, I would not love you
like a man loves a woman,
but as a mother loving a child.
And it is best
how these things are.
I remember you asked,
“take me on to an endless road.”
And we reached the edge
of the street near my home. “Now,
you said, “we’ve arrived
at the end of the world.”
And in a way, you were right.
As of last night there where only three submitted poems. So the submission period for round 253 is extended to next Monday.
Good times!
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
Every person has had a moment
when their mother put them down
and never picked them up again.
She probably didn’t notice at the time.
a reader once told me
that my poetry was a seismic shift among debris
a heart worn across the sleeve
a nagging and a pet peeve
of his or hers to know that it reads
**** to the highest degree him her and you love me
and with my eyes as a muse and my hands as the sieve
you god damn well should
since it means i'm doing my ******* job right
it means i'm breaking your narcissistic ego and transcending passions
long enough for you to forget about the *****ty reality you lead
and taking a gander at this stranger who is a hundred times fun
a thousand times exhilarating and a million times creative
to make a presumptive musing like this roll some irises
but leaving a smirk across more unwieldly faces
We are the last wave gone by.
We are the dying of the light.
We are the gold; hard held by
nature's failing hands-
A hard edge on soft skin-
An ill wind blown in gentle ears.
We'll try and count the books
while the library burns;
A function of frailty
leaves no stone unturned
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
New submission deadline is June 16th.
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
I cut all these false feathers
No longer bound to tethers
It's time for distance
I seek for guidance
from those
Whose cables still linger
Far deep in darkness
Still reaching high for the stars.
special thanks to sentimentgx4 for the sig
Pourquoi?
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
my brain needed what
it could never make, but now
i can't stop smiling
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
Instructions For Making PB&J And What To Do With It Afterwards
____________For Sam
The hands talk to each other. They list
the set of ingredients: butter; a knife; a loaf
of bread; jelly; a plate. They go over
the instructions, automated, as if the nerves
running on all fingers, were muscles
carrying a memory of what to do:
lay the plate; lay the bread; dip the knife
into the butter; spread the contents
on one half, as if waxing the moon; then,
pour the jelly on the other; wane
until all becomes dark; fuse them, and hold it
like a child, observing the sum of its creation.
Then, with the mouth, begin
speaking to it, educating its existence
on the nature of holes. From time to time,
you may have to put it down,
but sooner or later, you will pick it up
and it will never return to you.
sometimes i stood outside at the height of night
the wind would toss my hair in a fit of boredom
once more the air pleaded for spiritual company
but my skin was numb and my mind was locked
i could not join my friend in silent revelry
my mirth was hidden under jade carapace
and i thought she might never set herself free
i asked the sun to lend me her strength
she taught me how to sing in the long days
and with some help i stepped onto the green
singing a lullaby of wispy afternoon clouds
your smile set my happiness free
it was all i ever needed
The rain came with the same
Sudden, bitter chill of the first
"No" heard.
A gulletful of denials
Spilled drunkenly
And in waves-
A thing of such
Healing and such
Hurtful splendor-
That the sun covered
Her face until cracked
Soil smiled in surrender-
A small thing,
Resigned to regal
Roilings in the sky.
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
_______For Elda
There are 365 days in a year.
The earth spins on an elliptical orbit.
It spins on an imperfect axis, tilted,
readjusting itself, wobbling on
an invisible beam. It is a wonder
the longest day is almost
the same every year.
When the solstice begins,
it never misses the time.
But the hours we count
on the clock, the extra day
we compensate every four years,
numbers and axioms,
are artificial. I thought of this
when I remembered her. She said
we would meet again
and reminded me the perfection
of patterns: the anniversary
of my birth, my grandfather’s
death, and everything.
If there is a science for this,
do not enlighten me. Lord,
blow the moon over, let me
indulge on this idea that cycles
are fabrications—that she was right
when she meant, “I’ll see you
whenever,” and the universe
will revolve on no law
other than a moment constructed,
or a promise.
If nothing is forever then why doesn't guilt have a ceiling or a floor?
If nothing is forever then why won't forgiveness ever open the door?
We've all got a cross to bear- a torch to bear- lions and tigers and bears and a thousand yard stare
And sometimes god damnit life's just not fair
And sometimes at night you sneak outside and think about crying by the moonlight
But you can't because Buchowski never cried but you can't be Buchowski because you never smoke and you never wrote a thing worth the ink
And all the bling in the world won't give you a name
That doesn't roll around the inside of your mouth
Like a caged rat in its miniature madhouse
Like a bloated blue tinged floater bashing against the rocks
With the letters arranged all wrong for you to ever be worthy of a song
If nothing is forever then when can i stop writing?
Will there ever be a more perfect tomorrow sighting or am I just another chain link
In my own enclosures siding?
Am I an artist or an addict if I just can't stop?
I can't hop trains I can't jump ship
And By self harm do you mean every time I open my miserable lips
Because the ***** that slips through those two,
Man it's like a long corporate letter typed in comic sans
Or a too-long poem written by my shaky hands
It's the banality of being bland
Even my regret is second hand
I am not an artist because art is forever
I am not an artist because I am just a guy whose read too much and not lived enough
I am just a snuff film in real time broadcasting live to your captive eyes
If nothing is forever then what happens when I die?
If nothing is forever then how could nothing be forever
If nothing is forever then when will I reach the end of my lies the end of the line the sublime finish sign that signifies some sort of symbolic retort against my short lived life?
I am less than an artist at best I am lip service to the god of mediocrity on his laminate throne;
I am the bone unpicked I am 3.4 billion slightly below average dicks I am wasted mouse clicks in an ocean of information
I am a reminder that nothing and no one will ever be perfect
I am a reminder that this hollow, stale bull***** is all worth it
Join the Poetry Running Contest!
green waves of grass and high tides of outlaws roiled in the desert sun,
specks of orange foiling the poseur's statement that they'd conquered nature,
as they all waited for the humidity to get to that specific point
where it was so hot the water boiled up from the sea like steam,
and the Fog covered the town like a blanket smothered in its coziness.
there is a saying that a watched pot never boils,
but the water bubbled, being contained instead by a large crater approximately four hundred feet wide and moving like a pack of animals,
ancient hot springs taking the form of volcanoes,
and all was gray;
we paint in primary colors when we cannot see,
and the emptiness inherent in it caused emptiness
in the people who were out,
emptiness only filled with terrible things,
those who were new to it flailing aimlessly at nothing
while those who knew held their breath
and moved cautiously,
tracing long, swooping paths around the inside of the perimeter of the void
and with a hair trigger
snapping -
it was a long time before the smoke started to clear,
moving outwards in a ring of wildfire,
but even then the red of struggle was visible everywhere;
it'd painted faces and chins,
sometimes arms but never legs (on account of the protective clothing),
and more than a couple eyes bloodshot with sickness
far beyond what even wealth could cure;
they gathered, the ten of them,
and as the crimson ocher faded as it spread,
eyes variously gleamed.
for the gold of the center was upon them,
gleaming like the sun itself (and twice as large again, from this vantage);
the overseers could view them again,
so nothing was evermore allowed,
aside from bathing in the gold and letting it fill you with what some might call knowledge,
and what feeling is ever better than that of a person who has everything they could never get?
and eyes are full of death besides
but luckily the soul is wise -
it sees beyond my blindness and
forced failure makes a better guise,
so as i come again alive,
it feels like life's a decent plan
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
I'd give it all
just to take it all back
and I'd throw you a rope
if you cut me some slack
I'm just sick and tired
of correcting the liars
who stoke all the fires black
like pen pencil computer
sometimes prolific
sometimes a neuter
______For my legs.
These feet speak a language
only the ground understands.
They have guided me
to the ends of countries,
and have seen the abandoned homes,
strangers, monuments, and road-
kill in the intersections
of paths. They have suffered
from the earth, negotiating
the terrain. With them,
I have passed flowers
and crosses along highways,
wondering, if I stopped,
would I pray? If I work these feet,
they will make me crawl, turning
bone into dirt. But if I work them,
I can push Earth, change night
into day. I can make
the silent heart sing.