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PostPosted: Sun Jul 15, 2007 2:41 pm
by yandee
Hey there. I think got a poem for you

the orange light of the street lamps
floats inside, through the smeared windows
a pale boy asleep on my shoulder
his mouth open wide
soft harmonic gurgle from his throat
every third heartbeat the sea of light floods the backseats
the driver - just a static shadow
inside the empty space, absolute silence
sometimes a faint sound from the girl on the passenger seat
the mantra of the street empties my mind
the constant rolling on the street makes me sleepy
temple leaned to the window glass
before my eyes - night - like never before seen
in a sea of shades of orange and darkness
interrupted by splinters of zivilisation
as exchangeable as extinctable
a lonesome supermarket under a harvest moon
a closed gas station
near a village, car stops
passenger door open, somebody crawls out
throws up with a rattle and a retch
and a wet-cold sound on the concrete
I don’t have to see that
I close my eyes
stroke the head on my shoulder
wait for the car to find the rhythm it had lost
two efforts to start the engine

through a see of houses as far as the eye can see
under monochrome-skies in the stinking heat of the night
gigantic phantasmagories, mountains of shadows
the music of the city raging in my ears
heavy basses come from doorways covered with gelatinous membrans
subsonic metropolis, child of the nuclear cloud
through the contaminated streets, looking for Marie
for days, for weeks
the flickering asphalt in the midday sun
and when I try to sleep on a bench at night
scratching breaths of air and cold eyes
from the gully, lidless and watery yellow
the streets are screaming with madness
free jazz from the cellar doors
the streets are filled with lunatics
a young girl, she steals my purse and eats three coins
fanatics spit sermons in their St. Vitus’ Dance
the crying organ grinder
junkies and drunkards dragging themselves through the dirty streets
where the asphalt bursts open – something oranic
hair growing out of the rugged concrete clods
in mere azur and crimson panic I run away
without knowing where to run
from a basement flat mahler’s tragic symphony
half-faint, I knock on the door covered up in rust
a gathering of people in the twilight
men and women on splintery pews
lonely drifters and lost figures, just like me
the torn and patched up trousers
the dirty coulorless shirts
they want to get away from this place
they split up, take the freight trains
to see if there is still life outside the city
if I want to come with them, there is still
enough roomon the trains to the west
I tell them I have to find Marie first
midnight at the shunting yard
otherwise they are leaving without me

through the crazy streets in the darkness
getting ever more colourfull joyfull and wild
transfor to a collective-unconscious-fair
a beggarman in a soapbox with to pieces of wood to move forward
Lisa comes out of a side street dancing like mad
her sweaty face wet from dew glows all over
around her forehead she wears a bracelet of stars
the polar star in her hair bleeds spectral light
the Southern Cross on a pulsating green necklace
she has to talk to me
inside some desolate barroom
she has not been really happy since...
I simply don’t have the time
bang some coins on the table and leave
the street underneath my feet beats and pulsates and grows narrower
Anna with her spotted umberella
it always rains under it, even when there’s sunshine outside
I hear a cracked gipsy fiddle playing
a sad melody from the window across the street
everything around me roates and bursts in a terpentine-storm
raving feasts on the streets
two young girls lying on a bed of straw
there are snowwhite wings growing out of their delicate shoulders
one of them hugs me and buries me
in a bed of angel downy feathers
without having to say one single word
the other one weeps a tear of pale-blue fire
it runs down her face and burns the palm of my hand
like a beautiful glowing spectral memorial
mausoleum for a memory that has been dead for years
I’ve finally arrived and everybody knows this is nowhere

PostPosted: Sat Jul 28, 2007 7:08 pm
by yandee
here we go. another one of my odd ramblings

outdoor miner

0:49 churchyard
cigarette-smoke in my hair
like a steelnet of moth’s wings
in the orange-red back light of the street lamps
that vomit the grief and burden of life onto our shoulders
that crazy girl with her whiskey bottle in her arms
she seems stuck somewhere
she won’t come back
I ask her how she feels
“you got to know that, don’t you?”
she smiles and disappears
suicide-green mist is coming up from the river
creeps up my trousers
you are standing there leaning to the wall
you light a cigarette
your tired, weary eyes
silver gleaming shudders of moonlight
and asbestos round your face
get caught on your coat
die in spirals of dirty black
on your cheek a dying star
one more, one less
the way you look at me
fallen rain in a labyrinth
of cracked paving stones
in the ash-pale moonlight
like a mosaic of flowing quicksilver
you look pretty in the cold light
pressed to the wet dirty wall
blinding eyes in the monodarkness
big black centipedes keep creeping up and down my back
you can’t look at me
instead, the faint rattle of your irregular breath
instead, the miserable hum of my voice
failing, again and again
your left leg kicking with the beat
the rolling stones „gimme shelter“
this record should be played loud
a warm wind blows through the streets
the smell of decay and restaurant-air
houses silent and empty
a sad looking youngster
loneley on the corner under a street light
impatiently waiting for his man
had been busy lately
comes out of a dark entrance
walks in his direction
greets him, shakes his hands
tries to hand him the junk without being too obvious
two elementary particles in neutral space
it won’t take long
and both of us are still standing here
pressed into the wet-dark entrance
a meter of safty distance
you, dignified and beautiful
with tired eyes and a heavy heart
me, slumped into a heap on the ground
with wet ass on the cold marble stairs
next week we are going to leave
and there is so much I still have to say to you
there is so much I can’t say to you
remembering things past
angelchildren dancing themselves to sleep to the beat of their hearts
sleep covered in downey feathers
on ragged sofas, parquet floors, bathtubs
lie drunk in the grass that’s wet with dew under the guidance of the sky
talk delirious of a life that is worth living
would die to be dean moriarty and sal paradise
speak at orgiastic vegetetrean midnight-meals
of their latest projects
never realise one of them
put on dylan’s highway 61 and sink into the waves
quote poets and songwriters
in their endless ravings against the world, against life
feel like everything is falling apart
under the weight of the world when they sober up
when they get up, sister morphine on the record player
nobody there to help them
nobody there to find them
not even the chance to find themselves
two o’clock in the morning, stranded on the hills round the city
and one who hasn’t moved for an hour
stands up and asks: “haven’t i warned you?”
“yes maybe we’re hidden by rags,
but we’ve had something they’ll never have”
and you’re still standing there looking at me
and you know what I want to tell you
the wet pavement is glistening strangely
the sound of the wires in the darker blue silence above you
the crimson mist around your head
the ashen cloud covering my face
two young girls stumbling out of a bar together
chiming laughter and ...
the blonde’s face is dissolving into midair
I don’t know what to do
between these millstones you call life
say it loud, I’m lost and proud
I stand up and listen to the sound of my bones, groaning wet and brittle
“I fell in love with you”
“I know”
“and you?”
“let’s go”
“there’ll be some party somewhere”
there is always some party somewhere

PostPosted: Mon Aug 06, 2007 2:32 am
by Miserable Liar

All the things that you said, haunt me from time to time,
waking up in a dream, rather than in my bed,
Now I’m lost in confusion, I wish I was dead,
Or left alone instead.

Now although you were right, I thought that was wrong,
I should be older, wiser and feel so strong.
Now I’m lost in a daydream, asleep in my bed,
after the lies that you read.

You may have the golden spoon,
but I’m sure it’ll wear off you soon.
The inscription reads MD, which must mean that it’s mine,
and the fact that I eat with it, all of time.

PostPosted: Mon Aug 06, 2007 4:58 pm
by yandee
I don't know what I should say
I don't know how I should feel
I know that I want to say something
but I don't know what it is
midnight has just passed
I'm still lying awake
my pillow smells like you
in fact the whole room smells like you
the heat seems unbearable
but I don't open the window
we will fall
I know it
it is just a question of time
until we fall
and although it would be easier
to stop right now
we're only just starting

PostPosted: Tue Aug 07, 2007 8:16 am
by yandee
I’m sorry that I’ve confronted you with your lonliness
You say that I shouldn’t feel sorry
after all it is your lonliness
I cannot know how it is to…
I’ve spent half of my life without…
and still words don’t mean a thing
the moment you bite my throat – silence
the radio plays soft and you are talking even softer
I can’t understand you
I’m too far away this time
the sun sets behind the rooftops
when you say
I knew too well
when it is better to be quiet
the inconvenient knowledge
that once more I’ve been to busy dealing with myself
if you could repeat
what you’ve just said
with your broken voice you ask me
if you could kiss me
my head on your chair
your face all blurred
your wet lips on my cracked lips
like two children
holding each other
afraid to let lose
we are the children of a deep sadness
who know that
if they let go
they’ll be alone again
who know that
even in this very moment
they are alone
the both of us
all by ourselves

PostPosted: Thu Aug 09, 2007 4:08 pm
by Miserable Liar
Her Daughter

Her daughter,
one that I won’t forget,
her golden strands sway about,
in the wind, slowly swept.
A mountain surely conquered,
a path on which I’ve stepped,
seduction be our only bond,
a boat I sure will crash.
Many nights we sit or lie,
hands-a-holding side by side,
either way we look up and see,
in the stars no pattern, they’re just floating.
Moon pie, no super for tonight,
this will be our only light,
as we rise and scarper to the sound of wolves,
how-howling in the night.
Crumble, tumble, boulder shakes the ground,
we run and we hide, then head back into town,
for miles we tried, but could not reach,
get me out of this place, you feeling this heat?
This mix of fear, anger and suspension,
lets hold back, save this for later,
I’ll keep it in my jar,
when we’re saved and safer from the caper.

PostPosted: Sun Aug 12, 2007 12:19 am
by OrwellThatEndsWell
Still a lot of great material here, but there's some absolute shite, too.

Chicken, why don't you post more stuff?

PostPosted: Mon Aug 13, 2007 1:33 am
by OrwellThatEndsWell
"....the prototype I have constructed, which I have here, in this box, will completely revolutionise the catering industry. Sir, this machine has the capability to toast, butter, slice and serve an ENTIRE LOAF OF BREAD!"

"And what leads you to believe this?"

"My own exhaustive research."

"How did you conduct this research?"

"I carried out a survey. Of caterers."

"How many caterers?"



"Yes sir."

"And you believe this to be 'exhaustive' research, do you?"

"I do."

"well, I'm sorry sir, but I do not."

"The caterer in question, sir, whom I asked to assist with my research, and whose data has proved invaluable, owns and operates a commercial premise which is situated a great distance from my home. A distance which took me more than 11 hours to travel. Upon returning home, sir, I can assure you; I was exhausted."

"That's exhausting research. Not 'exhaustive'."

"Can I show you my machine?"

"I would much prefer for you to leave immediately, and to never come here again."

"I bought a loaf, especially."

"I don't doubt that you did."

"And the biggest size of 'Utterly Butterly...."

(excerpt from "You Don't Have Get A right Laugh Working In The Patents Office" by Ian Ronco, Itchy Publishing Co.)

PostPosted: Mon Aug 13, 2007 9:52 am
by yandee
Orwell wrote:Still a lot of great material here, but there's some absolute shite, too.

I know, but the problem is that the really good ones I write can't be translated. So I translate the shitty poems and post them. I'm sorry, but I won't stop it. :P

PostPosted: Mon Aug 13, 2007 10:44 pm
by OrwellThatEndsWell
Nor should you, my friend. Nor should you.

I hope you don't think my dozy comments were referring to you, Yandee! They most certainly weren't! They weren't referring to anyone.

By and large, they'd have been better not made at all, I'm thinking. Me and my big stupid gob.

Sorry if you thought I was having a cheap dig, matey.

PostPosted: Mon Aug 13, 2007 11:01 pm
by chicken
Orwell wrote:

Chicken, why don't you post more stuff?

'fraid i've been living in the Gobi of Poetry as of late. everything i try is utter rubbish...and i'm starting to get concerned because this is one of my longest personal doldrums in writing. i'm hoping the new term at the uni will get my juices stirring again....heh...<evil grin>

i'm still sitting at the revision desk for lack of something better; currently focusing on "Neptune's Trinity" which i was told is a cornerstone of my current body. trouble is, it's seven parts; some parts long, some short (shorter ones are always harder for me to write) in a way it is akin to working on seven poems simultaneously. the latest draft from last week is the best yet because i detected a hidden theme that deserved a fabulously bold stanza in one part--which lengthened an already long part--which meant one of the short parts needed to forget a few words.... :ph34r:
gad i make my life complicated!!

otherwise, orwell is right, yandee. never apologize to your audience--at least that's part of my philosophy. if your audience expects every single thing you write to be some epic monstrosity of creative genius, your audience is loopey.

from the very same meatloaf, some bites are better than others ;)

PostPosted: Tue Aug 14, 2007 11:49 am
by yandee
Orwell wrote:Nor should you, my friend. Nor should you.

I hope you don't think my dozy comments were referring to you, Yandee! They most certainly weren't! They weren't referring to anyone.

By and large, they'd have been better not made at all, I'm thinking. Me and my big stupid gob.

Sorry if you thought I was having a cheap dig, matey.

Well, don't worry. I didn't take the whole thing serious. :D You should never apologize for the things you've said and done. I was just joking.
Plus: I love to tell everybody how bad my poetry is. Ginsberg did the same thing when he was young. Just telling the crowd what a shitty poet I am and still I am better than most of those fuckers. It makes me laugh! :D :D :D

PostPosted: Wed Aug 22, 2007 2:15 am
by Miserable Liar
A Red Hot Chili Pepper's Way of Thinking

You know sometimes I look at the time,
then I eat some slime, then write a line,
make it rhyme and eat some limes.
Monkeys swing from tree to tree,
then they stop, and they turn and they look at me,
one time y’know I got a haircut,
then I sat down on your big butt,
nice y’know, this drink of tea,
get a biscuit come dip with me.

Crunchy biscuit, ice cream lick it,
pizza pasta, Jamaican Rasta,
creepy crawly, swirly wonky,
sausage coleslaw owns a chainsaw.

I call him up every now and then,
I say hairy man where have you been?
He makes weird noises like it’s a reply,
I go to his house and spit in his pie,
which he eats with a spoon but he leaves the room,
then he comes back later with Christian Slater.
Loves my mummy, loves my mummy,
I’ll hit him later with a piece of paper,
love your daddy, love your daddy,
I have fingers, 5 on one knee.

PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2007 12:56 am
by OrwellThatEndsWell

A coin I'd spun, twenty years at very least before,
I found it! There, lying on a ledge, perhaps a hundred feet below,
The ground within the deep deep caves of Mercy.
An idea I'd discarded, but wrote down, as well,
I found, a few feet further down, the words unchanged,
As if I'd never climbed out of the deepest cave of Mercy.

I was far too young to know how deep the depth of Mercy goes,
Or all that happened deep below, and there's a chance I'll never know,
For every visit finds me older, less wise and sturdy.
The B669 still hums it's distant mile or so away,
Newer and faster and I'm two foot taller,
Chewing gum and adjusting my belt in the deep deep depths of Mercy.

The walk back to the road is shorter than it was,
Back then, in the golden days of Mercy,
And turning back, I wonder how I ever found the caves,
When I was small and Mercy was enormous,
And I would sit in there all day.

PostPosted: Tue Sep 04, 2007 1:58 pm
by chicken
very nice.

edit: i'm currently transfering the master "poems" file from my pc at work to my home machine...we'll see what comes of this ;)
i want to get something up here soon. :D