Welcome to the THE WRITERS FORUM brought to you by 12ozPROPHET...
You are currently viewing our boards as a guest which only gives you limited access to view our discussions, photos and other forum features. By joining THE WRITERS FORUM community you will have access to post topics, communicate privately with other members (PM), respond to polls, upload content and access other member only features. Registration is fast, simple and free, so join THE WRITERS FORUM today and be a part of the largest and longest running graffiti, street arts and popular culture forum online!
If you have any problems with the registration process or your account login, please contact us.
A nation divided, devils to confide in
Incapacitated conductor
Bush, what do you really stand for?
We have strayed a long way my people
From following an eye for an eye, to jusify
The frustration inside
Morph our directions, vertical mobility
Challenge political propaganda, ie: crafty bribery
Stand up, no cryin' shame in civilian anarchy
To revolutionize the corruption for peacefull means
Political upheaval, break 'em at the fucking seams
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
—Ezra Pound
Sure, the guy was an anti-semite, a fascist, and a misogynist, but damn it all; he could write.
I've been trying to do a poem a day for the past week or so. Maybe I'll post some. More than likely I'll just be a cock and critique everything else. It's the 12oz. poetry workshop.
i think seeking wants to let his inner poet burst happily into the forefront, and announce its brimming joy to tell tales of woe and gayety...but he feels opressed by the jocular stigma of not only being a mans man.. he feels.......he feels that possbly the world isnt ready for such tender emissions to flow from his being as though he were a being of pure emotion. constantly masticating its energy,extricating it in the form on boundless ideal...creating landscapes of heavenly wonders..
i know this much...self suffocation of your own poetic heart...is the same as death by russian roullete alone..
please seeking.......let your inner poet fly free.
There are cemeteries that are lonely,
graves full of bones that do not make a sound,
the heart moving through a tunnel,
in it darkness, darkness, darkness,
like a shipwreck we die going into ourselves,
as though we were drowning inside our hearts,
as though we lived falling out of the skin into the soul.
And there are corpses,
feet made of cold and sticky clay,
death is inside the bones,
like a barking where there are no dogs,
coming out from bells somewhere, from graves somewhere,
growing in the damp air like tears of rain.
Sometimes I see alone
coffins under sail,
embarking with the pale dead, with women that have dead hair,
with bakers who are as white as angels,
and pensive young girls married to notary publics,
caskets sailing up the vertical river of the dead,
the river of dark purple,
moving upstream with sails filled out by the sound of death,
filled by the sound of death which is silence.
Death arrives among all that sound
like a shoe with no foot in it, like a suit with no man in it,
comes and knocks, using a ring with no stone in it, with no
finger in it,
comes and shouts with no mouth, with no tongue, with no
throat.
Nevertheless its steps can be heard
and its clothing makes a hushed sound, like a tree.
I'm not sure, I understand only a little, I can hardly see,
but it seems to me that its singing has the color of damp violets,
of violets that are at home in the earth,
because the face of death is green,
and the look death gives is green,
with the penetrating dampness of a violet leaf
and the somber color of embittered winter.
But death also goes through the world dressed as a broom,
lapping the floor, looking for dead bodies,
death is inside the broom,
the broom is the tongue of death looking for corpses,
it is the needle of death looking for thread.
Death is inside the folding cots:
it spends its life sleeping on the slow mattresses,
in the black blankets, and suddenly breathes out:
it blows out a mournful sound that swells the sheets,
and the beds go sailing toward a port
where death is waiting, dressed like an admiral.
Is love
The highest high
Attainable only after you die
Then when you reach
Reach again,
Your eyes and warm embrace
Can brighten up my darkest face
When I give up, say fuck the human race
You come near and wisper in my ear
Everything I need to hear, "I'm here."
This world was made for you
You have the responsiblity to enjoy and do
Love and persue
Enlighten and question
Love these ever changing blessings
But I have one confession
My breath, I have problems catching
so alone.
pitch black, cold...
lights from passing cars
CRASH
across my window, but...
no one stops.
a train in the distance,
rythmic and pounding
reapeat
repeat
repeat
it never changes
never falters
never notices
it's no different than the people that surround me
always moving, never
slowing
never
stopping
never
ever
realizing the
fucking sarcasm.
it's possible to write a good poem, it just happens about as often as i win the lottery. fuck yo couch nigga.
look, we'll cross the "hesh accidentally shot himself in the ass" bridge when we come to it. no homo
*BLACK OUT POSSE*
Is love
The highest high
Attainable only after you die
Then when you reach
Reach again,
Your eyes and warm embrace
Can brighten up my darkest face
When I give up, say fuck the human race
You come near and wisper in my ear
Everything I need to hear, "I'm here."
This world was made for you
You have the responsiblity to enjoy and do
Love and persue
Enlighten and question
Love these ever changing blessings
But I have one confession
My breath, I have problems catching
Sabe, go read some Ted Kooser, Billy Collins, Marvin Bell, Linda Gregerson, Louise Gluck, or Robert Hass.
Seriouly, bad poetry is like bad graffiti (or photography, or anything else): it's easy as all fuck to pick out and is even worse when the person putting it out there thinks it's the hottest shit going. Learn then write.
Stand on point
No boots straps here
Easy to walk away
When your shoulder already has a crutch
to lean on
Where do i stand?
I collapsed on the grit
Sidewalk all up in my teeth
You're still walking and looking back
But there's another hand around your shoulder
How long will you lean?
How long before that hand falls away
And I can be picked up again?
Talka Talka me no likey
high five banana dive spikey bikey
Talka Talka,
You taste like Chalka --Khan if your nasty
5-0 please don't blast me
Got a pistol in my hips so gangsta
I like peanut butter and shankas
meet me at the god hour, son!
olly olly oxen freeeeeeeeee
louchebonvivant.tumblr.com
03-15-2006, 08:15 AM
