The Poets' Society. Death Not Required.
Red Star:
Tenderly fingering monochrome albums,
The starlet of yesteryears lives in her mansion
With no friends to keep her but cobwebbed illusions
Those rusted gray film reels of centuries gone.
Gone is the laughter and all the applause that
Remains as mere echoes resounding in silence.
No more wild parties and lighthearted dancing,
Just yellowing dance cards and creaky old bones.
She looks to those liars, the photos of youth,
With her and Clark Gable on somebody's yacht.
Back then, she hated those flashing eye vultures
But, O, how those shining stars glimmered at night!
(We also accept song lyrics)
Tenderly fingering monochrome albums,
The starlet of yesteryears lives in her mansion
With no friends to keep her but cobwebbed illusions
Those rusted gray film reels of centuries gone.
Gone is the laughter and all the applause that
Remains as mere echoes resounding in silence.
No more wild parties and lighthearted dancing,
Just yellowing dance cards and creaky old bones.
She looks to those liars, the photos of youth,
With her and Clark Gable on somebody's yacht.
Back then, she hated those flashing eye vultures
But, O, how those shining stars glimmered at night!
(We also accept song lyrics)
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Yeats FTW.
Throws down in front of us is not bar
Our passage to our journey's end for good,
But just to ask us who we think we are
Insisting always on our own way so.
She likes to halt us in our runner tracks,
And make us get down in a foot of snow
Debating what to do without an ax.
And yet she knows obstruction is in vain:
We will not be put off the final goal
We have it hidden in us to attain,
Not though we have to seize earth by the pole
And, tired of aimless circling in one place,
Steer straight off after something into space.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Spinster
In her tower of
Sand inside glass,
Listening to the ticking
Of the hearts of her
Windup toy mortals.
Soft, what human mortal
Breaks through the window glass
Upon his valiant 6-string steed,
Belting out the mighty chords
Dmin-Gmin-Dmin-Amaj?
Sweeping the eternal
Spinster off her feet. (Bb! Bb!)
Bosom heaving as she
Strikes him back. (Dmin! Dmin!)
A mere windup man, she sneers.
Watch that I don’t break your key. (Bb! Bb!)
Yet he and she share the inevitable.
Neither of them will cease (A! A!)
D minor, D minor.
The chord rings out as
It is finished.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
And if I gave out Yarrun Points, you would have just gotten 20 of them.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Ave Machina!
Glory to the gears and
Sprockets that propel us
Screaming, confused,
To a glorious new age
Behold!
My left leg is of
Weak human sentiment,
Of flesh and blood.
My right leg pulses with
The strength of something stronger,
The crackling of Prometheus's flame.
Should we not strive to become
Steel and thunder in a human corpse?
Said the doctor to the patient,
Trapped in his prison
Deny your face, you creature,
Deny your birth, deny the things
That seem so familiar.
I will show you what lies
Behind the veil of eyelids.
I shall show you power.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Acolyte (Haven and Haven's Apprentice):
I put on the suit.
The flames begin to ignite as
I put on the suit.
The puns fill my head to
The point of cranial puncture as
I put on the suit.
The blaze within me
Matches the blaze without and
The sirens blare as
I put on the suit.
The cycle waits outside,
Card in the spokes,
Flames in the paintjob,
Waiting patiently as
I put on the suit.
We ride,
Listening to the lame-ination
Of the card flipping in the spokes,
Ignoring the sirens of
The police cars that
Always follow us.
The city remains cold.
The world remains cold.
And she,
Well,
The night is still young.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Burning.
There is no smoke,
Yet the smell is coming,
Shuffling, embarrassed,
From the kitchen.
The waiter looks sideway
Towards the kitchen
As he asks me for my order,
Mumbling, confusing.
As you approach the door,
You sense that
Realtisy stopes at the door.
To cross the thresholed,
You must throew your fears aside
And enter into madness.
Itis their world,
A kitchen, a chef, a waiter,
And proablems.
And the loneliness
Betwaeen two freaks
Who need each other.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
When one walks by the bookshelves,
Vast walls of human thought,
You can see a lizard strutting,
Proudly, deliberately,
Atop the great walls.
It has a hat.
Where does it get its hat?
It makes it from its own soul,
The strength that brought it to such heights
It looks down on the world
From the lofty shelves,
Through its gleaming eyes.
When it comes down, it argues
For the sake of its anger.
It’s mad at the boys who cut down words
The girls who dress without shame,
The children who live in the present
And ignore the past.
It fights out of this anger
To keep its soul alive.
Where does it get its soul?
It was thrust upon it, while it was young.
Why aren’t we so lucky?
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
大學的年同性戀毛皮
aaaaa
Clinically dead
What will happen to me?
My body is property of OCP.
They turn me into
Cybernetic organism
Flesh and bone
Within a metal prison
Programmed to be
Quick on the draw
My prime directive
Uphold the law
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
You're coming with me
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
You're coming with me
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
You're coming with me
Who was I?
Before I lost my life?
Did I live alone?
Did I have a wife?
Within my hard drive
I hear a scream
Computer malfunction?
Or was it a dream?
A colleague passes
She sees straight through
Whispers in my receptors
"Murphy, it's you!"
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
You're coming with me
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
You're coming with me
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
Dead or alive
You're coming with me
Murphy, it's you!
OCP runs the cops! You're a cop!
I am a cop.
You're dead! We killed you!
I had to kill Bob Morton because he made a mistake. Now it's time to erase that mistake.
You're dead! We killed you!
Murphy, it's you!
I'm not alive
I don't have breath
But as long as I'm here
I'll avenge my death
They hunt me down
To the old steel mill
I'm not arresting you anymore
I'm coming to kill
I killed my maker
And those who murdered me
I'm not a machine anymore!
MY NAME IS MURPHY!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
YOU'RE COMING WITH ME!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
YOU'RE COMING WITH ME!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
YOU'RE COMING WITH ME!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
DEAD OR ALIVE!
Your move, creep.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
I search through the catacombs to satisfy my lust
Past the velvet drapes and creaky wooden floors
I search through the graves in search of willing whores
Past the rusty chains and iron maidens around
I await a broken soul ready to be forever bound
Past the maggot scum and the molden limestone
I search for a dismal being to listen to me moan
Past the pointed stars and blood red altars
I await the shadowy being to bind me with a halter
Past the fantasies of what I truly wish dwelled within
I rest my imaginations, delaying my sins.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Ribbons:
We trail paths
Across the mountain ranges,
The stalwart walls of the earth,
Across the waters,
Moats for lesser times.
We tie ourselves together
With strings and ribbons
Strung across every nation.
We're afraid of losing each other.
Ribbons of concrete,
Crisscrossing maps
Like cracks in a painting.
Strings of electricity,
Shocking nations,
Charging the youth.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Love is Patient
Love is Kind
Love = 0 (Tennis Postulate)
Sin(love) = 0
Love doesn’t boast
elove = 1
f has a minimum at x=love and x=love+15
g(x) =ʃxlove f(t) dt
Love is quantifiable.
Love is nothing combined with itself.
Love multiplies everything into love
Love is not quantifiable.
Ln|love| does not exist
Neither does (x/love)
The answer to life is love
The true goal of many is love
The most leftward location of a point of
Concavity for g(x) is x=
Love
Love, love, Love, love, Love
Ln|15((sin(love)cos(love)tan(love))/sec(love))|= love
Love is long-suffering.
Love goes into love eternally ((a/a)= 8 sideways)
Hope, faith and love remain
But the greatest of these is love
(Therefore, Hope+Faith<0)
Finally, absolute |love| is nothing compared to real numbers.
Proven, applied, sent to the MAA
well
I guess it's not so much poetry as it is flowing, see
but the motions breeze by like newly oiled old machines,
I guess, the caterpillar ate the butterfly up again
because with another guy trying to hear you (come again?) I'm much less likely to run again as the sounds of the drums come down again
so how's it then? When the spikes of the old order reprise the sounds again when the boom bap bible remains unquestioned.
Is it really all right to impede natural selection
when the clear choice can hear noise?
The old dear boys breaking out they old Royce and driving again?
I call it silence again,
but if a river has no fish than what is its purpose?
If a flow has no life does its owner deserve it?
If a law is not natural can it even be perverted?
Is there a murder?
And if there is, who's the victim?
Other than the thousands of syllables that never escaped the kids' lips,
so impose if you must, but when you are flushed?
Down the drain? Be a man and take the plunge.
The last thing this game needs is walking corpses,
and this is not Red Dead Redemption so hold your horses.
See, the only language the boy speaks is Gun,
but you'll find he's quite eloquent in his native tongue,
so if you choose to provoke him, you must run.
And if you trip and fall your days are done.
And we are that gun-toting toddler, but we can walk now, and we can talk now.
So if you choose to rise against your new insect overlords you will be knocked down.
This is for the summer's war survivors, the comets and the atoms in the Hadron Collider.
This is for the water striders
and the fish that eat them, this is for admitting you need a long weekend.
Is this madness and is this evil?
Is this the preacher's son or is this a demon?
Is this Aesop Rock or A$AP Rocky?
Either way, don't lay back cocky.
Because the Blue Oni can only wait so long
before he seeks out and devours all but the strong.
So we need a new song. A song of genesis,
a thesis so strong it can serve as a nemesis.
Because artificial chains have been placed on the natural order
and this is not a restaurant, this is Sparta.
But what if the hierophant returned even stronger?
What if the darkness was cast longer?
What if we could no longer hear?
What if those aren't contacts, and his eyes are just dilated in fear?
Can we the people enter the church steeple and murder the church's evil?
Can we really build steam from a grain of salt after all?
Can this really be the last casting call?
Will the world end? Will we be impaled on the hands of Big Ben?
Is this odd future our own, or just a reflection?
Should we embrace it or should we reject it?
If the punks and the artisans courted, what then?
*ahem*
Is an esoteric blueprint a bad thing or a good one?
Can we fire salvos into the sun?
Are we done here? Or will we just run here? Will we die here or fly here?
I need some damn answers and I ain't gettin' any,
so like I think you should I think it's time for me to get ready.
Beginnings beget beginnings and this one is mine,
a galaxy made of iron and a steel bar sign.
There are no crackheads, just stacked ends,
back again for the end of the milennium.
Two-triple-zero has long since past us,
but I feel like we haven't catched up.
Still mad? Fuck, we're the maddest of the mad ones.
The sad ones.
The flack guns.
The ones they fire in our direction.
Cannons of lightning and mad introspection.
I am the man who lives inside the snare drum and makes the sound when you bang one.
I am the Doctor.
Time traveler. Rhyme raveler.
Unwinder with the sundial.
One trial.
One chance, one left, one hand.
What man? You don't understand?
Lynchian interlockings with mad patterns and stitches like stockings
but when the man on the door comes knocking I'll be reclining on the couch with a shotgun to pop one.
Right in his dome
to send him back home.
Fuck a throwback, the sole skullboy is so picture perfect he's fucking Kodak.
this is the return of the snake men who shake playpens.
Cuz kiddies, this is not the kind of day that you want to stay in.
I get it snappin' like crayfish.
But you and yourself?
You are Kanye West. Gay Fish.
Insane shit. Stained Glass Painting.
But it's not really raining.
At least not yet.
It's more of a drizzle
and I'm here to drop acid raindrops to make your skin sizzle
when I get you wet.
I mean to burn off, cuz I'm turned off by your derp drops.
You burn soft.
You're lukewarm,
I'm hotter than Helios. God of the Sun.
I'm a ghostwriter with no real writer to ghost for,
you're a writer in desperate need of a ghost to make your normal paranorm.
But when you hear the thunderstorm you'll wish for a parasol,
cuz my liquid ichor spittin will leave you with a scattered soul.
The sole skullboy turns on, boy are you fucked.
I will run you down with eight separate forces like two trucks.
The insect overlord, the skull god. So odd that I'm Illmatic like Nas.
You're just a bad fad and a lost cause. So get gone.
So when you decide to bite the food that you're hallucinating
I suggest getting down to the line and stop procrastinating.
If you're going to paraphrase a letter that was never written
you should really stop spittin' and keep it together like a rivet.
Simply? It's this shit.
Jasper attacks bad poems.
Outside, the lark sings.
Does anyone know of good creative writing forums/resources you'd recommend? I want to make my poetry not shit but I don't know how.
(This would not be so bad if I wasn't an English literature and creative writing student.)
☭
B̤̺͍̰͕̺̠̕u҉̖͙̝̮͕̲ͅm̟̼̦̠̹̙p͡s̹͖ ̻T́h̗̫͈̙̩r̮e̴̩̺̖̠̭̜ͅa̛̪̟͍̣͎͖̺d͉̦͠s͕̞͚̲͍ ̲̬̹̤Y̻̤̱o̭͠u̥͉̥̜͡ ̴̥̪D̳̲̳̤o̴͙̘͓̤̟̗͇n̰̗̞̼̳͙͖͢'҉͖t̳͓̣͍̗̰ ͉W̝̳͓̼͜a̗͉̳͖̘̮n͕ͅt͚̟͚ ̸̺T̜̖̖̺͎̱ͅo̭̪̰̼̥̜ ̼͍̟̝R̝̹̮̭ͅͅe̡̗͇a͍̘̤͉͘d̼̜ 
⚢
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
We are the living dead,
The stalkers of the night,
Go and rest your head,
Knowing the sun has fled,
And we have not its light.
We are the living dead,
Knowing we cannot bend
To the bed’s siren might –
Go and rest your head
Knowing time will not mend
The scars caused by the night,
We are the living dead
Knowing our eyes grow red
By artificial light,
Go and rest your head
Still, our hearts have dread
For the morning’s brilliant might.
We are the living dead
Go and rest your head
there once was a racist old bigot
who was cursed to the form of a spigot
he was then gifted to hippies
who found the whole matter quite trippy
who said "it's not ironic, but okay, I can dig it"
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Psychedelic Squid:
3 – Poke of Gods
It’s silver and exact, with no limitations
Whatever it swallows, it spits out decisively
Exploding sharp and precise. Messiness
Is found in the newfound, flailing tentacles
7-Leanne Leaving
Footsteps creeping, like mice
Knowing the cat is awake. Am I
So frightening? The beak is rough
On her bosom, that heavenly chest, but
Am I so frightening? Is my bleeding stare
So rough on her? The needle holes on
The tentacles make me hideous, I know.
But I love her. Go, take the taxi,
Return to your mother and date a lawyer.
I’ll still be here in my castle. I’ll still be
The last of my kind.
1-What Was Once
Listen to the
The
Streets. The boy with the carapace for skin,
Formed from the father’s guiding hand.
…Listen. The boy with the tired eye,
Hiding from home in the alleyways,
Passing his father’s inheritance to anyone
Looking for trouble. Please, for his sake,
Listen.
4-Beauty
Beauty is
Her breasts
Her
Her breasts, of course, and then
Her gargling laugh in my cove,
My deep lair, where visitors
Are not common. “You’re hilarious
When you’re high, mate,” as you
Look her eye to giant eye,
Nuzzling her with a tentacle.
“Nice beak. Name’s Leanne.
Call me when you’re good for another
corkscrew,” as I twirl into solitude.
She digs the beak.
2-Escaping (Drastic Measures)
Something that can pierce armor
Is loosely what was needed. A bullet
Through the skin of his existence.
The tried and true way out of being
Substandard, low-life, nobody.
You can’t be nobody if you’re someone
Else, the man behind the eyes when
The chemicals start boiling.
Ah, the ancient method!
May it hold true even now.
5-Punch
First off, the guy had freaking
Red( patchy pactchy) patches on
His ginger face, like globs of blood
Creeping across his nose. Second,
(dude’s hair kind of looked like twigs
Like a bird dude. Caw caw) He was
In this ugly blue outfit and hat,
No style. Hendrix would be freaking
Flipping him off in his grave, and that
Shiny…
…shiny thing on his chest was giving me
A headache. So, I laid him out!
And now I’m stuck here with no E
What a freaking world.
10-Ascencion
They spoke of the ultimate high
The peak of the diamond in the sky
I wanted to see it once, before I died.
So I went to go see it, packed up
All the pills and needles and loaded up,
Started climbing, all day, all night,
And by the time I got there—
My corpse was waiting for me!
8-Wandering
Squids can travel anywhere, you know.
Stronger, more resilient than you bipeds,
Only need a sip of water now and then.
The bus takes us anywhere we want,
And the nuns always give us extra fish.
So, fine, send me away.
I’ll be fine.
6-Court Transcript
Why do I feel bad for Psychedelic Squid? Because he is a broken shell of a man, sustained only by an intake of ungodly amounts of psychotropic drugs? ...nah. Does he do anything but smoke drugs? And so it was that in the year 1981 of Our Lord (praise Glenn Magus Harvey) Psychedelic Squid did roam the outer spheres of the cosmos and return with a rich bounty of wisdom and dubious substances which did bring forth from the deep slumber of 10,000 years the forgotten work of the ancients. Psychedelic Squid sez you should try LSD. What is the truth? He's high? He's you? He's not real? He's my real father? Or take part of the Elizabethan era and have it intrude into the Warring States period of China. Or have the post-Apocalyptic 22nd century start to intermingle with the late Middle Ages. You dig? Groovy. Giant axon. He's an aging hippie who lives in somebody's basement, doing lots of drugs, listening to 60s rock and imagining he's a squid that can warp time. Time is in for a rude awakening. IT'S GROOOOOOOVY, MAN. 1969 NEVER ENDED. Yeah, I think Psychedelic Squid was having a bad trip. Or maybe he is the bad trip. Psychedelic Squid knows his drugs. What's that you say, Tiger? You wanna be WARPED INTO THE MINUS WORLD???
9-Contemplation
I have lived a full life,
Even though I remember little of it.
Also I took the name Leanne from Leanne Crow, a very well-endowed porn star type person, so this is appropriate I guess.
SQUIDS CAN TRAVEL ANYWHERE
this is long but it is worth it to read
gregory corso - "marriage"
Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-
When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?
Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?
O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce-
But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-
Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon
No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-
O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and-
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!
Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
I didn't even bother spacing this one out, most of the rhymes are so slant they're impossible to see.
--------------------------
this one is for Minnie, simply cuz she's the quickest to ever get me, let it be--The Beatles--cuz she's a cheater and a schemer, more importantly psychopathic with a ratchet or more like a knife so you'd better watch it,
look, they would've welcomed you to the NHK anyway but conspiracies are for freaks and pussies so for one last time lock your looks, please. Stop talking and start walking take a stick around the outline and start chalking. Turned out to be the girl of my dreams about dying, felt like I was flying, but she was just lying. Conniving, trying to stab the butterfly's wing, so if you see a two foot tall stick sickly bitch with thick black hair I'd suggest running rather than stopping to stare, the girl's not what she looks like especially not when she pulls out a big knife. So think twice. I recommend booking a long flight before you end up sleeping a long night.
so when you're lookin to turn the conniver crooked while she's trying to write a book on what she's doing with her hooks in your lips, well....that's your prerogative.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
You can’t change the present ~
Bombs falling softly, like snow,
Like ~ airplanes, merchants of death
With one lucky human ~
Weeping in light of existence bereft
Of purpose, that magic fingers will not
Mend ~ The past is set in stone ~
What were they like, the all-knowing
Plungers, the specimens who know
They are trapped in amber? ~ And how
Was it, seeing the gem of Germany
Cleansed with fire? ~ The future
Cannot be changed
in my deepest being,
a snow of sleep, a snow unending.
When I see the blur of snow
falling over distant pines,
I feel a subtle peace, a reassurance.
When I watch it blowing
over the stubble, over the stalks,
a kind of serenity fills me.
My friends have warned:
the death wish is symbolized by snow.
I know. I know.
Torn apart by its citizens' pity
They wallowed in their sorrows and fear
Until the fireworks went off that year
It never really occurred to me
How lowly I'd found this place to be
I thought I'd leave and never come back
But the revolution took me off that track
Someone always said it would happen someday
They'd take the "grey" out of Greyson Bay
But what they didn't realize
Was that it was in them the whole time
Suddenly everyone was happy again
The writers took to their paper and pen
Inspiration flowed, inside and out
Without a limit and without a doubt
There was no reason to keep on feeling
Lowly and down, I'd rather be peeling
The shell from the person I used to act
And so I made myself a pact
That I would try to open myself
to
the
world
I woke up with this in my head today, don't really know what it means:
we spoke one last time
sniveled last goodbyes
before the blinding flash
that infernal light
set us all afire
we lived long
we lived well
we had no regrets
except maybe one
that we never found
a way to survive
being razed by the morning sun
"Myth Over Miami"
This one's for the children who tell secret stories every day
of a God who fled screaming and exiled angels in the Everglades
of a Devil who resembles a silver-gold snake
but turns demonic burgundy when touched to a lake
this is for the children who really believe in demons
swear by their very souls that they've actually seen 'em
this is for the kids who tremble in fear of Mary Bloody
whose eyes drip the black ichor of the underworld or something
and these kids will tell you that the Mary from which they run
is the very same Mary who once bore God's son
then violently murdered him and was cursed to become
a demonic horror story that doesn't wither in the Florida Sun
through it all these children have exactly one ally
one single soul who is always on their side
a woman in a blue cloak with blue skin
who physically cannot even help them
and yet the children love her like a mother
spurning the advances of any would-be corruptors
--
and right there is where I stopped writing
yay
So anyway, here's my current obsession, 'Travelogue of Exiles', by Karl Shapiro.
----
Look and remember. Look upon this sky;
Look deep and deep into the sea-clean air,
The unconfined, the terminus of prayer.
Speak now and speak into the hallowed dome.
What do you hear? What does the sky reply?
The heavens are taken: this is not your home.
Look and remember. Look upon this sea;
Look down and down into the tireless tide.
What of a life below, a life inside,
A tomb, a cradle in the curly foam?
The waves arise; sea-wind and sea agree
The waters are taken: this is not your home.
Look and remember. Look upon this land;
Far, far across the factories and the grass.
Surely, there, surely they will let you pass.
Speak then and ask the forest and the loam.
What do you hear? What does the land command?
The earth is taken: this is not your home.
One face looks out from all his canvases,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
A saint, an angel — every canvas means
The same one meaning, neither more nor less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.
Christina Rossetti
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Heck if I know
Why are you here?
Nothing better to do
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
She walks in another world, alone,
Though it’s like she’s in arm’s reach,
Close enough to—touch, even,
Her steps are out of sync with yours,
Her trail tells a different story,
And she has learned to struggle,
On her own, and fight and live.
There is nothing you can give her
You want to be the hero, the
White knight on the horse, smiting
Anything standing between her and
Happiness. How romantic. And foolish.
She will not accept a savior
She will not allow herself to be victimized
She is herself, she needs no man
To be the wind beneath her wings.
I don't really know what this means, but I wrote it so...I don't know. I get weird when I'm sad.
----------------------------------------------------
to the lady we have lost tonight
who I have seen by the river
I hope by day your soul has thawed
and come from shivering winter
on to heart, on to heart
never be my love
on to heart, on to heart
a kiss, from above
we the sung ones now do see
the way the ones forgotten 'nee
to soul, to stab, to live, too long
for one more day, thine angel's song
for yet another than the light in the city
my lady has come and gone
for yet another
come too long
by day, by night, by one moon's light
by night, by day, thy passed away
left alone one night....
please come home....
The slash of the rain?
Go face them and fight them,
Be savage again.
Go hungry and cold like the wolf,
Go wade like the crane:
The palms of your hands will thicken,
The skin of your cheek will tan,
You'll grow ragged and weary and swarthy,
But you'll walk like a man!
Yeats - The Collar-Bone of a Hare
Would I could cast a sail on the water
Where many a king has gone
And many a king’s daughter,
And alight at the comely trees and the lawn,
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
And learn that the best thing is
To change my loves while dancing
And pay but a kiss for a kiss.
I would find by the edge of that water
The collar-bone of a hare
Worn thin by the lapping of water,
And pierce it through with a gimlet and stare
At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,
And laugh over the untroubled water
At all who marry in churches,
Through the white thin bone of a hare.
Eleanor Wilner - High Noon at Los Alamos
To turn a stone
with its white squirming
underneath, to pry the disc
from the sun’s eclipse—white heat
coiling in the blinded eye: to these malign
necessities we come
from the dim time of dinosaurs
who crawled like breathing lava
from the earth’s cracked crust, and swung
their tiny heads above the lumbering tons
of flesh, brains no bigger than a fist
clenched to resist the white flash
in the sky the day the sun-flares
pared them down to relics for museums,
turned glaciers back, seared Sinai’s
meadows black—the ferns withered, the swamps
were melted down to molten mud, the cells
uncoupled, recombined, and madly
multiplied, huge trees toppled to the ground,
the slow life there abandoned hope,
a caterpillar stiffened in the grass.
Two apes, caught in the act of coupling,
made a mutant child
who woke to sunlight wondering, his mother
torn by the huge new head
that forced the narrow birth canal.
As if compelled to repetition
and to unearth again
white fire at the heart of matter—fire
we sought and fire we spoke,
our thoughts, however elegant, were fire
from first to last—like sentries set to watch
at Argos for the signal fire
passed peak to peak from Troy
to Nagasaki, triumphant echo of the burning
city walls and prologue to the murders
yet to come—we scan the sky
for that bright flash,
our eyes stared white from watching
for the signal fire that ends
the epic—a cursed line
with its caesura, a pause
to signal peace, or a rehearsal
for the silence.
Assassin poems, Poems that shoot
guns. Poems that wrestle cops into alleys
and take their weapons leaving them dead
Psychedelic Squid:
3
It’s silver and exact, with no limitations
Whatever it swallows, it spits out decisively,
Exploding sharp and precise. Plunging into
The armflesh, it tastes the filthy blood.
The madness begins. Messiness is found
In the newfound, flailing tentacles
7
Footsteps creeping, like mice
Knowing the cat is awake. Am I
So frightening to her? The beak is rough
On her bosom, that heavenly chest, but
Am I so frightening? Is my bleeding stare
So rough on her? The needle holes on
The tentacles make me hideous, I know.
But I love her. Go, Leanne, take the taxi,
Return to your mother and date a lawyer.
I’ll still be here in my castle. I’ll still be
The last of my kind.
1
Listen to the streets.
The boy with the carapace for skin,
Formed from the father’s guiding hand,
Has long since overturned the desk,
Flung the books into the drink.
Look for him. The boy with the haggard face,
Walking the streets, always hearing
That drunken drawl, his breath,
The calluses of the guiding hand
Against his face. There he waits,
Passing his father’s inheritance to anyone
Looking for trouble. Please, for his sake,
Listen.
4
Beauty is
Leanne
Her breasts
Her—
Her breasts, of course, and then
Everything else about her.
Who else could dive into
My secret lair, buried under the haze
Where I’ve secluded myself,
This, my glowing, colorful fantasy.
She nests within my tentacles,
The pearl of this shadowed basement,
Where I tripped and fell forever.
She talks, but all I hear is
Beauty is, beauty is
2
Something that can pierce armor
Is loosely what was needed. A bullet
Through the skin of his existence.
The tried and true way out of being
Substandard, low-life, nobody.
You can’t be nobody if you’re someone
Else, the man who erupts behind the eyes
When the chemicals are catalyzed.
Yes, the ancient method.
May it hold true even now.
5
The world is red and blue,
Flooding out the other colors.
Even the darkness seems to flee,
And I open my eyes and the ugliest,
Foul-tempered beast ever to walk
Around with a badge, seven-horned
And spitting fire eyed me with a grin.
What was I supposed to do? Run?
How was I supposed to know that
I was punching a man under that visage?
10
They spoke of the ultimate high
The peak of the diamond in the sky
I wanted to see it once, before I died.
So I went to go see it, packed up
All the pills and needles and loaded up,
Started climbing, all day, all night,
And by the time I got there—
My corpse was waiting for me!
8
Squids can travel anywhere, you know.
Stronger, more resilient than you bipeds,
Only need a sip of water now and then.
The bus takes us anywhere we want,
And the nuns always give us extra fish.
So, fine, send me away.
I’ll be fine.
6
Court Transcript:
Why do I feel bad for Psychedelic Squid? Because he is a broken shell of a man, sustained only by an intake of ungodly amounts of psychotropic drugs? Does he do anything but smoke drugs? And so it was that in the year 1981 of Our Lord, Psychedelic Squid did roam the outer spheres of the cosmos and return with a rich bounty of wisdom and dubious substances which did bring forth from the deep slumber of 10,000 years the forgotten work of the ancients. Psychedelic Squid sez you should try LSD. What is the truth? He's high? He's you? He's not real? He's my real father? Or take part of the Elizabethan era and have it intrude into the Warring States period of China. Or have the post-Apocalyptic 22nd century start to intermingle with the late Middle Ages. You dig? Groovy. Giant axon. He's an aging hippie who lives in somebody's basement, doing lots of drugs, listening to 60s rock and imagining he's a squid that can warp time. IT'S GROOOOOOOVY, MAN. 1969 NEVER ENDED. Time is in for a rude awakening. Yeah, I think Psychedelic Squid is having a bad trip. Or maybe he is the bad trip. Psychedelic Squid knows his drugs. What's that you say, Tiger? You wanna be WARPED INTO THE MINUS WORLD???
9
I have lived a full life,
Even though I remember little of it.