post some poetry

I died. The sycamores
and shutters
along the dusty street were teased
by torrid Aeolus.
I walked,
and fauns walked, and in every faun
god Pan I seemed to recognise:
Good. I must be in Paradise.

Shielding her
face and to the sparkling sun
showing a russet armpit, in a doorway
there stood a naked little girl.
She had a water-lily in her curls
and was as graceful as a woman. Tenderly
her nipples bloomed, and I recalled
the springtime of my life on earth,
when through the alders on the river brink
so very closely I could watch
the miller’s youngest daughter as she stepped
out of the water, and she was all golden,
with a wet fleece between her legs.

And now, still
wearing the same dress coat
that I had on when killed last night,
with a rake’s predatory twinkle,
toward my Lilith I advanced.
She turned upon me a green eye
over her shoulder, and my clothes
were set on fire and in a trice
dispersed like ashes.
In the room behind
one glimpsed a shaggy Greek divan,
on a small table wine, pomegranates,
and some lewd frescoes covering the wall.
With two cold fingers childishly
she took me by my emberhead:
“now come along with me,” she said.

Without inducement,
without effort,
Just with the slowest of pert glee,
like wings she gradually opened
her pretty knees in front of me.
And how enticing, and how merry,
her upturned face! And with a wild
lunge of my loins I penetrated
into an unforgotten child.
Snake within snake, vessel in vessel,
smooth-fitting part, I moved in her,
through the ascending itch forefeeling
unutterable pleasure stir.
But suddenly she lightly flinched,
retreated, drew her legs together,
and grasped a veil and twisted it
around herself up to the hips,
and full of strength, at half the distance
to rapture, I was left with nothing.
I hurtled forward. A strange wind
caused me to stagger. “Let me in!”
I shouted, noticing with horror
that I stood again outside in the dust
and that obscenely bleating youngsters
were staring at my pommeled lust.
“Let me come in!” And the goat-hoofed,
copper-curled crowd increased. “Oh, let me in,”
I pleaded, “otherwise I shall go mad!”
The door stayed silent, and for all to see
writhing in agony I spilled my seed
and knew abruptly that I was in Hell.

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>>7884000

My what wondrous trips thine OP has wrought

Doth ye think that this man be the tripgod we sought?

Bought they were not

As I jot this post will I have got the dubs I have thought?

that first poem was good

>>7884167
why?

because i liked it

Canto 1 by Ezra Pound 1/2

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly seas, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end.
Sun to his slumber, shadows o’er all the ocean,
Came we then to the bounds of deepest water,
To the Kimmerian lands, and peopled cities
Covered with close-webbed mist, unpierced ever
With glitter of sun-rays
Nor with stars stretched, nor looking back from heaven
Swartest night stretched over wretched men there.
The ocean flowing backward, came we then to the place
Aforesaid by Circe.
Here did they rites, Perimedes and Eurylochus,
And drawing sword from my hip
I dug the ell-square pitkin;
Poured we libations unto each the dead,
First mead and then sweet wine, water mixed with white flour.
Then prayed I many a prayer to the sickly death’s-heads;
As set in Ithaca, sterile bulls of the best
For sacrifice, heaping the pyre with goods,
A sheep to Tiresias only, black and a bell-sheep.
Dark blood flowed in the fosse,
Souls out of Erebus, cadaverous dead, of brides
Of youths and of the old who had borne much;
Souls stained with recent tears, girls tender,
Men many, mauled with bronze lance heads,
Battle spoil, bearing yet dreory arms,
These many crowded about me; with shouting,
Pallor upon me, cried to my men for more beasts;
Slaughtered the herds, sheep slain of bronze;
Poured ointment, cried to the gods,
To Pluto the strong, and praised Proserpine;
Unsheathed the narrow sword,
I sat to keep off the impetuous impotent dead,
Till I should hear Tiresias.
But first Elpenor came, our friend Elpenor,
Unburied, cast on the wide earth,
Limbs that we left in the house of Circe,
Unwept, unwrapped in sepulchre, since toils urged other.

>>7884189
you liking it didn't make it good. it being good made you like it. what made it good?

Canto 1 by Ezra Pound 2/2

Pitiful spirit. And I cried in hurried speech:
“Elpenor, how art thou come to this dark coast?
“Cam’st thou afoot, outstripping seamen?”
And he in heavy speech:
“Ill fate and abundant wine. I slept in Circe’s ingle.
“Going down the long ladder unguarded,
“I fell against the buttress,
“Shattered the nape-nerve, the soul sought Avernus.
“But thou, O King, I bid remember me, unwept, unburied,
“Heap up mine arms, be tomb by sea-bord, and inscribed:
“A man of no fortune, and with a name to come.
“And set my oar up, that I swung mid fellows.”

And Anticlea came, whom I beat off, and then Tiresias Theban,
Holding his golden wand, knew me, and spoke first:
“A second time? why? man of ill star,
“Facing the sunless dead and this joyless region?
“Stand from the fosse, leave me my bloody bever
“For soothsay.”
And I stepped back,
And he strong with the blood, said then: “Odysseus
“Shalt return through spiteful Neptune, over dark seas,
“Lose all companions.” And then Anticlea came.
Lie quiet Divus. I mean, that is Andreas Divus,
In officina Wecheli, 1538, out of Homer.
And he sailed, by Sirens and thence outward and away
And unto Circe.
Venerandam,
In the Cretan’s phrase, with the golden crown, Aphrodite,
Cypri munimenta sortita est, mirthful, orichalchi, with golden
Girdles and breast bands, thou with dark eyelids
Bearing the golden bough of Argicida. So that:

Rhyme Scheme AABBC

I watched my life go by
It's a shame I was so shy
For everyone I tend to meet
Only saw me stare at my feet
I wish I was loved

Tear stains cover all my pillows
As I think of my time under the willows
Alone in solitude would never work
I was like the wine stuck behind a cork
I wish I was loved

I don't think it will all end
Life keeps taking me around the bend
The world looks so tall from up here
Hopefully today I will get to see her
I wish I was loved

I was light as a feather during the drop
I didn't realize how fast a heart could stop
The pain still lingers in my heart
It won't go away now at the end or the start
I wish I was loved

I wish I could say I was shoved,
But I'll never be loved

sparknotes for Ezra Pound poem? too much jargon

>>7884316
dogshit

Poem


Lana Turner has collapsed!
I was trotting along and suddenly
it started raining and snowing
and you said it was hailing
but hailing hits you on the head
hard so it was really snowing and
raining and I was in such a hurry
to meet you but the traffic
was acting exactly like the sky
and suddenly I see a headline
LANA TURNER HAS COLLAPSED!
there is no snow in Hollywood
there is no rain in California
I have been to lots of parties
and acted perfectly disgraceful
but I never actually collapsed
oh Lana Turner we love you get up

-Frank O'Hara

A swollen red tongue
hangs like an apple:
nearby the chapel
and looks like a lung.

Crowd cries: "watch the hung,
him and his couple,
now without troubles"
The wind blew, he swung.

some prose poetry i just freestyled. tell me if its too much

The sun lay comatose on the sky's ledge, an empty halogen for those subject to it. Ghostly late summer breezes swim like schools of fish covaled to the odor of fresh mulch, spread and sauntered, lining the aged garage. The neighbor's lawnmower cuts a carpet of uniform grass atop a pampered dirt, asking the Earth of its faculty, coughing gasoline. A seething and still gravel road cuts through the surface of the crust, imparting a passageway to an island swallowed on each side by efficient and mass distributed cathedrals of carpentry, drafted by architects and subsumed by engineers. The buzzing industry of the lawnmower has given way, the only energy remaining is fluted by the symphony of blue jays and house finch.

gross x3

I don't like you
I don't find you breathtaking
and I certainly don't daydream about kissing you
about the way you bite your lip
I don't even find you attractive, all curly hair and blue eyes
no I don't like you and I can't say I ever would
in the same way
I can't say I cry on occasion
I can't say I'm tired of the charades
I wish you'd never found me, inches away from a ledge
God help me I'll never like you

>>7884527
Well, fuck you too, I don't ike you either.

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I'm tired
And the tip of my dick hurts.
In choir the day,
Rick squirted water all over my pants
And all over this chick's shirt.

I hate Rick.
I hate that my dick hurts.
I hate that I had to walk around with wet pants for the rest of that day.

(Don't worry, this doesn't mean anything. ^w^ It's just soundsies!)
Fuwa-fuwa fuwa-fuwa fuwa-fuwari
Kuru-kuru kuru-kuru kuru-kuru mawaru no
Fuwa-fuwa fuyo-fuyo fuwa-fuwari
Kururu kuru-kuru fuwa-fuwa tobidashita no
Yaho-yaho fuyo-fuyo-fuyo fueri atama
Poyo-poyo fuwa-fuwari tobidasu yo
Fuyo-fuyo-fu wafu-wafu fuwa-fueri atama
Fuwa-fuwa fuwa-wafu-wa tobidasu yo

Fuwari-fuwari fuwa-wa fuwa-fuwa fuwa-wa fuwa-wa fuwa-fuwa fuwa-fuwa
Atama ga fueru fue atama fue-fueru fuyo-fuyo yo fueru fue-fueru
Eru-eru fueru fuwa-fuwa fuwari-fuwa atama atama tobidasu
Pyon-pyon-pyon
Koro-korogaru korogaru korogaru-taru tarura tarura yura-yura-yuraro to

Puku-puku-puku puka-puka-pukari atama puki-puka-pike-kapo samayotte
Mimi tsutsukarete itai no choi-cho-cho-cho
Puka-puka chiku-chiku pururun’-furun’ furueru no
Pukari pukari fuwawa fuwa-fuwa fuwa-wa fuwa-wa fuwa-fuwa fuwa-fuwa
Atama ga fueru fue atama fue-fueru fuyo fuyoyo fueru fue-fueru
Eru-eru fueru fuwa-fuwa fuwari-fuwa atama atama tobidasu
Pyon-pyon-pyon
Tobi tobidasu tobidashi tobidashimasu fuwa-fuwa fuwa-wa fuwa sora tobu

weaboo trash

>>7884459
awesome. who is "his couple"?

>>7884550
I'm worried to read this out loud and accidentally summon a demon or something.

>>7884254
rhyming is really hard in the age of hip hop music imo. there's like nothing that hasn't been done.

>>7884023
you fell for the oldest trick in the book bro, got no one but yourself to blame for eternal agony.

here's some bullshit from an old notebook:
I woke up this morning because there was nothing else to do
but gravity's grasp on my head
pulled my thoughts like a tidal shift
so I remained looking at the light
that squirted through the narrow slits in the blinds
like a gaping hole on a ship set for the floor
I watched with squinted eyes
as the water continued to charge in
He splashed around with garbled laughter
as we were pulled to the bottom of the sea

I saw a fish and he said boy don't be afraid
soon you'll be me and I'll be you
and we'll all be something more
and as the sun burns and burns
and burns some more
the light will be whole and we'll be less
until we're all one, we're all one again

I asked him when this would happen
He said boy I'm not a prophet, I've just seen it before
I've seen and I've seen and I do not regret
All the things that I've seen that I now forget.

>>7884589
Wrote >>7884459 fast, so I just used an expression from spanish without thinking if it'd make sense in english.
Basically his significant other. His qt3.14159265 gf. His penis deposit. The cunt h fucks. Y'know.
Also, that last verse could've been better. Thanks for the compliment though, glad you liked it.

>>7884598
is spanish your first language? thats pretty impressive if you haven't known english that long.

It's a lot like "This is just to say" but with content that is actually interesting. you have the apple in there reminiscent of the delicious plum, but it's so turned on its head. post more if you got it, I think the shorter the better for 4chan sharing.

>>7884459
>>7884627
>>7884598
alright maybe instead of
>him and his couple
make it
>he and his swain
I really think you should use "he" over "him" but not sure if you'll like "swain" with "swung" later.

It means like one true love but in a kind of old school, moonlit-country-love sort of way.

>>7884189
I also liked it. I liked that the author was frugal with pronouns. It allowed to suspend judgement and disbelief that much more easily, and let me soak in the words a bit. However a couple of the lines were too try hard and I couldn't relate. Like, halfway to rapture? Give me a fucking break. I'm a guy and I'd never relate to my orgasms that way. And dude spilled his seed? Come on, be a bit more inventive. That moment of coming embarassingly in front of the hoards of hell is the climax of the poem just before the punchline. It's this guys nightmare, it should make more impact, and should not be a fucking cliche. I still enjoyed it a lot though.

>>7884627
>>7884655
I don't know, I'd like to keep the rhyme scheme. Perhaps "he and his couple"? It works better, indeed. Even if only a little.
I have two more from previous threads. I'll pastebin them:

http://pastebin.com/JX5Xf8dt

Maybe the pastebin ersion works better? Idk.

>>7884677
keep him, I was wrong.

maybe:
>crowd criews: "watch the hung,
>him and his swain
>now beyond pain
>the wind blew, he swung

probably need a better word than beyond since pain is kind of cliche but you get the drift.

>>7884683
That's actually great, thanks! If you're the first person that replied to me, I like your stuff too.
Specially:
soon you'll be me and I'll be you
and we'll all be something more
and as the sun burns and burns
and burns some more.

It reads very nicely.

>>7884677
nice /pol/ rap.

your second poem on there is intriguing. this part feels kind of muddled though:
>creeping behind the small orbit
>crawling to the front
>above the eyelashes
>comes the humidity.
I'm missing it a bit, it might just be me. also lost marbles don't get stepped on desu.

>>7884689
ha thanks. it's literally seven year old bipolar garbage, not trying to rework it. felt it thematic to the first poem in the thread.

I believe our minds are those of the eternal souls of the damned and we use our human bodies to work our way back into heaven. I've written some stuff that I feel is based on and evident of eternal wisdom, like memories of existence before this current human life I'm living. I don't by any means believe myself the only person to exhibit these behaviors and like to peruse poetry mainly to see what others feel they really know.

>>7884698
It's not a supposed to be like "First they get lost, then sad, thn stepped on" I wanted to make it sound like separate possibilities, or images.
Actually, I was kinda trying to understand the style of damned poetry, making it confusing and gross to an extent. I don't think I nailed it, but people seemed to like it.

>>7884706
That's an interesting idea to write about, or just to have as a general outlook on life. I'd like to read something if you want to post it.

>>7884000

Dans les rues de la ville il y a mon amour. Peu importe où il va dans le temps divisé. Il n'est plus mon amour, chacun peut lui parler. Il ne se souvient plus; qui au juste l'aima?

Il cherche son pareil dans le voeu des regards. L'espace qu'il parcourt est ma fidélité. Il dessine l'espoir et léger l'éconduit. Il est prépondérant sans qu'il y prenne part.

Je vis au fond de lui comme une épave heureuse. A son insu, ma solitude est son trésor. Dans le grand méridien où s'inscrit son essor, ma liberté le creuse.

Dans les rues de la ville il y a mon amour. Peu importe où il va dans le temps divisé. Il n'est plus mon amour, chacun peut lui parler. Il ne se souvient plus; qui au juste l'aima et l'éclaire de loin pour qu'il ne tombe pas?

>>7884717
my poem >>7884589 was a bit of an example of that. I think it's subtle and you kind of have to know what to look for. The first poem in this thread >>7884023 is a much better example. He's relating the story of his original temptation, how he ended up damned. He even uses imagery of the snake, kind of a giveaway. When these things are being related they of course must be described in terms of the material world, such is the nature of poetry.

The following is just an old poem that I don't believe to be evident of much:

she didn't move she flowed
like a stream in the spring
washing away the evidence of the frost.
the wind blew in her direction
so that it would have a chance
to be tickled by her velvet hair.
she took nine because
she didn't think eight was enough
it was more than enough.
she was open because that's
what she had been taught
they didn't teach her like this.
it was very difficult to say
that the bathtub was in her way
as icicles formed on the faucet.

>>7884732
What do you mean when you say "She took nine"?

The first poem was really well constructed, besides the enjambments, imo.
Also, the Lilith thing is a nice touch.

>>7884741
>What do you mean
idk its a shit poem desu. i like the end and thats about it.

I don't even know what that Lilith shit is about, that's not my poem.

last one i'm posting tonight. will read others tomorrow if they're here.

The slap brings on the shout which intensifies my wonder
Of what patterns you can see without the burden of color
It must then be these wicked shapes, these oppressive smells
That force the cries from your gasping mouth
Though I recognize all of this as my perverse projections
And I swear my instinct makes me pray for forgiveness
As my envy leaks into your skin through your new blue clothes
But a word on a page is a seed to be planted in a mind
And now a forest lives within me

life

any Good poetry out there? not original works by 4chan faggot poets

>>7886729
like thats fucking hard to google. you come to these threads to read others works and share your own if you choose to in an anonymous environment.

in other words: get the fuck out faggot.

the moonlight gave us to me
(it was flesh and flesh only)
the stillness of winter sank
(it was flesh and flesh only)
as we left without a pulse.
(it was flesh and flesh only)

we fell under curtains and fire
(it was flesh and flesh only)
As I sank inside the room
(it was flesh and flesh only)
and found a dream to lay on
(it was flesh and flesh only)

But morning fell and lifted
(it was flesh and flesh only)
and I forgot again
(it was flesh and flesh only)
it was flesh and flesh only
(it was flesh and flesh only)

>>7886828
take a look at the nouns you use
>moonlight
>flesh
>winter
>curtains
>fire
>room
>dream
>morning
>I
do those feel basic to you? do any of them seem like tired cliches?

what did that moonlight look like? when did it shine on you? how does it relate to winter? what did it feel like when you fell under "curtains and fire"? what does falling under curtains and fire even mean?

You clearly have strong emotions surrounding this event and the aftermath, but I'm not sure I'm 100% sure what the event is. More importantly I don't think I really know what you feel after reading it.

There isn't really a need for the repeating (it was flesh and flesh only) desu. I end up just skipping those lines when I read it.

>>7886893
yeah man, right after I posted this I took out that line and found it was way better without em.

(btw this poem doesn't mean anything, its just shit I tinker with)

>>7886915
we should probably stop saying our poems don't mean anything while posting them for others to read.

>>7884753
>intensifies my wonder
>of what patterns
>force the cries from your gasping mouth
>pray for forgiveness
>lives within me

lotta weird constructions and cliches going on here. is english even your first language?

>>7886922
why's that

>>7886922
that's a defense mechanism, sure, but also: can you really expect us to post our best work here? 4chan can never be a place for discourse

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>>7884000
didn't think this question was best for a new thread

which translation of dante's inferno is best and is penguin edition acceptable?

thanks

>>7886946
there's gotta be a qtddtot somewhere, or you can start one.

>>7886932
no. it's arabic. alabuu akkbar mother fucker.

which of those do you feel are cliches? what are the two most awkward constructions to you? I think it's vague and needs to be expanded to increase clarity but I didn't feel cliches to be an issue.

>>7886940
>because then why are we making other people read them

>>7886941
>should you post your best work here
well I guess that depends. how valuable do you think your best work actually is? keep in mind even modern professional poets don't make very much off their work.

I think the risk of an anon compiling a 4chan poetry anthem is low.

>>7886953
needlessly wordy, semantically wrong, confusing, non-stimulating, or otherwise awkward constructions:
>the slap brings
>intensifies wonder*
>wonder of what patterns*
>force the cries
>envy leaks
>leaks into
*these two are the most egregious transgressions

cliches:
>pray for forgiveness
>seed to be planted
>lives within me
cliche because those are strings of words i am used to seeing in print

>>7886960
first publication rights? i can't confirm but some publishers consider internet publishing to be a use of first publication. this is all hearsay to me.

>>7886979
valid points. thanks for reading.

>Day at the Races
So many churches for so many good people to go to
But we spend our Sundays picking horses
Waiting for the blast of the gun to send the smell of sulphur
Into the smoke from the hand-rolled cigars
As the pretty girls in new print dresses
Rise like flowers reaching for the morning sun
Straining to see their nag come around the turn
The roar of the crowd matches the pace of the gallop
As the beasts come across the stretch
Flashing their purebred muscles under dirt-stained hair
Skipping across the sonic waves of the panicked screams
From the boys in the infield who watch their underdog
Bob its head in understanding as it falls further behind
I watched carefully as they shredded their worthless tickets
As they turned to one another and proclaimed:
“It’s alright, just a matter of chance!
There’s always a favorite horse, but never a favorite bettor!
The odds were laid so that we all would lose!”

Every man becomes the thing
which he hates above all others
so run to it with open fist
quarrel with and kill your brother
make you way down the list
of sins and blasphemy
what you snort inject or smoke
makes you more like me
your bones will be broken
and reset in interesting ways
you are reborn my son
your work is not yet done

>>7887380
i like it. it might be a bit abrupt.

>sins and blasphemy
i get it but those words are so old.

>and reset in interesting ways
interesting is a pretty uninteresting word.

i'd beat the fuck out of you irl tho.

>>7887434
pleb
this is an awful poem. The rhyme scheme is all over the place, it's way too abrupt to the point of lacking poetic flow and the meter is inconsistent

>>7887444
>if you're going to rhyme, you might as well be free

>i said it was abrupt

>meter
are you Homer?

nice second level critique tho fgt.

>>7887510
How could I even be Homer? There's no way I could still be alive or know how to operate computers. Why would I even come to /lit/?

>>7887516
>>7887510
>>7887444
>>7887434
all this buttblasting over a shit poem

>>7887516
>derp derp pollute herp derp

the cavernous depth
swallows the light
passions depress
insecurities spike
guts turn and revolt
faces hollow and mold

>>7887553
10/10 godstar4ufag

>>7887573
do i sense sarcasm anon? :^)

>>7887585
i still kinda liked it tho

the girl stares with fuck me eyes
and moves oddly around the floor
later we fuck and tell the other lies
hers are better than mine
I offer her another line
she mumbles something strange
something that is a sign

giant spiders walk along towers
I cry out and beg everyone to see
they mold us with unknown powers
why wont you fucking listen to me
I can see firey lines in the sky
the patterns promising doom
they tell me that they aren't real
and lock me in a small room
they mark it with a special seal

the girl with the eyes is back
she walked right thru the wall
an angel on fire over 8 feet tall
blood and secrets spill from black lips
screaming obscene sweet nothings
wings unfold and she shakes her hips
just when things are getting good
the doctors burst in , she wont sing
their gestapo cover me with a hood
they inject me, I can't see anything

>>7887893
that first verse doesn't flow well

>>7887893
ur a special seal

Alone without her,
I'm in a hopeless struggle,
To escape myself.

>>7887996
apply yourself

>>7888064
But I am hopeless,
And around every corner,
Misfortune follows.

>>7884341
I love Frank O'Hara

>>7888101
>>7887996
when I'm a janitor, every haiku post gets banned

>>7888101
the faster we run
as the stars blaze past like orbs
the faster we fall

>>7888107
Suck my cock, faggot.
You'll never be important
Now go fuck yourself.

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Normally I wouldn't post a haiku. But I really like this one because when I change one word, it changes the emotion brought out initially to the exact opposite emotion:

Cool, soft, summer's breeze
Carries whispers through the trees
Singing so gently
__________

Cool, soft, summer's breeze
Carries whispers through the trees
Screaming so gently

>>7888268
it doesnt work anon

>>7888291
Black people don't work.

>>7888268
cool, soft, summer's breeze
carries whispers through the trees
tell them to prepare

Hymn

By Jack Kerouac

And when you showed me the Brooklyn Bridge
in the morning,
Ah God,


And the people slipping on ice in the street,
twice,
twice,
two different people
came over, goin to work,
so earnest and tryful,
clutching their pitiful
morning Daily News
slip on the ice & fall
both inside 5 minutes
and I cried I cried


That's when you taught me tears, Ah
God in the morning,
Ah Thee


And me leaning on the lampost wiping
eyes,
eyes,
nobody's know I'd cried
or woulda cared anyway
but O I saw my father
and my grandfather's mother
and the long lines of chairs
and tear-sitters and dead,
Ah me, I knew God You
had better plans than that


So whatever plan you have for me
Splitter of majesty
Make it short
brief
Make it snappy
bring me home to the Eternal Mother
today


At your service anyway,
(and until)


-

>>7886893
the rare constructive criticism

>>7889666
gotta take your time imo. added benefit of minimal ice slipping.

there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day

and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace

those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love

beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average

but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect

like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock

their finest art

In short
>Normies! REEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

>>7890224
pompous and derivative garbage.

>>7890224
not a fan of this one fammo

>>7890264
You think so?
What's pompous about it?

>>7890275
the way it positions absolute nonsense as insightful, even profound

>>7890275
not him, but some of it smacks of a sort of rebellious "watch out for your average joe" attitude. which would be fine if done properly, but i feel like it's full of empty clichéd platitudes (which ironically make the writer, presumably you, look more like a boring average joe) that don't really offer much

>>7890285
it's by bukowski. the poster could likely come up with something better of their own in ten minutes.

>>7890291
THAT'S bukowski? yikes

>>7890277
>>7890285
>Presumably you
That's Charles Bukowski lol.

When he said "average," I didn't get the impression that he was talking about a matter of ability or situation. You could be an "average joe," and still not be included in the "masses" he's talking about.

How awfully sad I felt thinking of my sleeping mother in her bed
that she’ll die someday
tho she herself always says “death is nothing to worry about,
from this life we start to another”
How awfully sad I felt anyway - -
That have no wine to make me forget my rotting teeth is bad enough
but that my whole body is rotting and my mother’s body is rotting
towards death, it’s all so insanely sad.
I went outside in the pure dawn: but why should I be glad about
a dawn
that dawns on another rumor of war,
and why should I be sad: isnt the air at least pure and fresh?
I looked at the flowers on the bush: one of them had fallen:
another was just bloomed open: neither of them were sad or glad.
I suddenly realized all things just come and go
including any feeling of sadness: that too will go:
sad today glad tomorrow: somber today drunk tomorrow:
why fret
so much?
Everybody in the world has flaws just like me.
Why should I put myself down? Which is a feeling just coming to go.
Everything comes and goes. How good it is!
Evil wars wont stay forever!
Pleasant forms also go.
Since everything just comes and goes O why be sad? or glad?
Sick today healthy tomorrow. But O I’m so sad just the same!
Just coming and going all over the place,
the place itself coming and going.
We’ll all end up in heaven anyway, together
in that golden eternal bliss I saw.
O how damned sad I cant write about it well.
This is an attempt at the easy lightness of Ciardian poetry.
I should really use my own way.
But that too will go, worries about style. About sadness.
My little happy purring cat hates doors!
And sometimes he’s sad and silent, hot nose, sighs,
and a little heartbroken mew.
There go the birds, flying west a moment.
Who’s going to ever know the world before it goes?

Un conquérant, un jour, s'adresse à un Indien:
«Ce vaste territoire, est-il vraiment le tien?
Qui te l'a donc donné?» L'Indien, en bon Huron,
D'un semblable langage au conquérant répond:
«Tous ces champs et ces lacs, et cette vaste terre
En vérité, l'ami, je l'eus de feu mon père.»
Or le Français poursuit: «Et qui donc a donné
À ton père ces lieux?» — «Seras-tu étonné
Si je dis que mon père a hérité du sien?» —
«Et comment ton grand-père a-t-il acquis son bien?»
Le Huron répond donc après un bref instant:
«Il s'est battu pour lui.» — «J'en vais donc faire autant»,
En conclut le Français. — La morale en ces vers?
La force est le seul droit qui régit l'univers;
Ce qu'on appelle un «droit» n'est rien qu'un privilège
Protégé par l'État et son vaste cortège...

>>7884000

I never understood a lot
Cause I didn't need a lot, have a lot
So I never cared a lot
Stumbled through a black hole and ended up in Camelot
Where JFK had his head and he never got shot
It seemed perfect until the day came
Until insane became the norm
God became forlorn
It happened overnight as if someone flipped a switch
Flipped the script on this shit


See, I see through the looking glass defiant
I stand tall in the midst of giants
Gargantuan shot with an elephant gun
Smiley face 'til this face grew numb
I read books 'til my mind grew dumb
Went holy so I speak in tongues
And it's hard to keep falling when life moves around you
All these emotions swirl about you like clouds do
Nothin' to do, nothin' to do

I look at this once every month - for some reason, it started a reaction inside of me and I changed my character and all.

>inb4 omg fgt

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

>>7890522
J'aime bien. Ça fait très Realpolitik ou coloniale.


Faire couler l’encre n'apaise nul chagrin
car j’ai pris conscience d’un minable secret.
Je m’étais prétendu homme infortuné,
mais chaque jour me démasque triste faquin.

L’encre assèche mes mots piètres et vains
trahissant ta fuyante divine bonté.
Seigneur! Quel est le prix de mon âme damné?
Dont le rachat s’éloigne d’un pas clandestin.

Plaindre que ce lâche monde m’a fait ainsi
Serait boire à la même source tari:
Nourrir la faiblesse, abreuver le mensonge

Je sens en moi le vide de ta création,
vide dont tu as fait ta faible fondation,
vide que tu as érigé en un songe.

>>7890583
Chloris en jeune femme à son sexe fidèle
À trouver un amant exerçait tout son zèle;
Tinder sur son iPhone et le stupre en son sein
La menèrent bientôt à former un dessein.
Son mari par mollesse ignorant son besoin,
De l’occuper un temps il fallut prendre soin.

Un soir qu’on attendait ce couple quelque part
Chloris à son mari occupé du départ
À outrance feignit une forte migraine,
Lui dit en soupirant, s’exprimant avec peine
Qu’il la fallait laisser pour leurs amis rejoindre;
Elle n’aurait là-bas su que souffrir et geindre.

Son mari à son front d’un baiser fait présent,
Enfile son veston et part d’un pas pressant.
Sitôt fermée la porte et tournés les verrous,
Chloris est au miroir, plaçant ses cheveux roux.
Elle appelle un garçon et l’enjoint à venir
La rejoindre en son lit pour au chaud l’y tenir.

Quelques coups à la porte annoncent le garçon
Qui de son enseignante attend une leçon.
L’éphèbe, incontinent, accourt à sa maîtresse
Qui déjà de l’amour sent approcher l'ivresse;
L’ayant bien embrassé, en sa chambre elle fuit
Où guilleret l’enfant en riant la poursuit.

Assise sur la face inondée du garçon
Chloris déjà jouit et en émet le son
Quand soudain un verrou révèle le mari
Qui surprenant sa femme est grandement marri.
Le souper, annulé, l’a tôt fait revenir
Pour voir sa femme ainsi à un enfant s’unir!

Le mari reste calme: ses goûts sont variés:
Cet enfant qui rêvait de femmes mariées,
Il s’enferme avec lui, le baise jusqu’au jour
Lui donne la fessée, l’encule tour à tour.
Le garçon en pleurant se dit que cent maîtresses
Ne valent pas d’avoir doublement mal aux fesses!

went down a million stairs, at least, arm in arm with you.
And now that you are not here, I feel emptiness at each step.
Our long journey was brief, though.
Mine still lasts, but I don't need
any more connections, reservations,

traps, humiliation of those who think reality
is what we are used to see.


I went down a millions of stairs, at least, arm in arm with you,
and not because with four eyes we see better that with two.
With you I went downstairs because I knew, among the two of us,
the only real eyes, although very blurred,
belonged to you.

Eugenio Montale
(Makes me cry every time and i know that in Italian it sounds better..)

>>7890583
>>7890612

stop with this faggoty french shit

>>7890583
Aimez-vous Lamartine?

>>7890612
hahaha super marant. Celui la etait Sadien. J'en ai une un peu tete a claque aussi.

Le reste de la Grande Oeuvre, si trompeuse,
m’ayant déçu, ses secrets inaudibles,
j’avais le blasphème sur la langue caleuse
et dans l’oeil, les plaisirs impossibles

Que faire des particules quantiques fâcheuses
quand se présentait, gaiement immobile
la courbe cubique d’un hanche dangereuse
tracé sur mon lit d’un calcul habile

Ces formules de philosophie naturelle
avaient peine à former, de ces lèvres,
la symétrie gracieuse au carmin éternel

Ayant rien d’austère, savant raté peut-être,
Je préférais l’ignorance au savoir aigre

>>7890634
ouais pourquoi pas

>>7890651
Tiens, celui-là me rappelle un peu une chanson de Boileau!

Philosophes rêveurs, qui pensez tout savoir,
Ennemis de Bacchus, rentrez dans le devoir:
Vos esprits s’en font trop accroire.
Allez, vieux fous, allez apprendre à boire.
On est savant quand on boit bien:
Qui ne sait boire ne sait rien.

S’il faut rire ou chanter au milieu d’un festin,
Un docteur est alors au bout de son latin:
Un goinfre en a toute la gloire.
Allez, vieux fous, allez apprendre à boire.
On est savant quand on boit bien:
Qui ne sait boire ne sait rien.

>>7890224
you think you're foolin anyone kid

>>7890660
Oui en effet dans la même veine. Ça fais bizarre de trouver des gens qui apprécient les lettres françaises établis.

In imagination a building, moving with the seasons,
Moving on its axis, and in the courtyard a tree,
Revolving with the motion of the planets
And answering each heartbeat in token of the time
When time, with sun and moon, stands still.

And by the courtyard crystal fountains, peonies and Mexicans
And music
echoing the spheres of silence
Upon an instrument of ten strings, and upon the psaltery;
Upon the harp with a solemn sound.

Rain will fall and not fall : the dream
Of Byzantium interpreted and re-interpreted :
Eternity will swallow time and art

Become what is. Art is the building, moved in, breathed in,
All creatures move in this, and praise the motive, re-inhabiting.

>>7890688
C'est ce à quoi devrait servir /lit/, --- malheureusement, souvent les seuls francophones qu'on croise ici partagent des textes assez proches de ce qu'on voit en anglais dans le reste du thread.

>>7890671
I actually wasn't trying to fool anyone...but if you read that response chain, you'll see that I did!

I just thought it was an interesting little bit. I might be a bit biased by the reading I heard though. The reader's voice is pure ear sex.

I'm a whiz with the bank shot
I'm a whiz with the money shot
Imma whiz on your face bitch
no need to get that cunny hot
cheese whiz got tha chedda g
mouse trapped in a rat race needs therapy
try to get ma hype man hype, but he got lethargy
try to wax human, but I'm a fucking
machine

>>7890224
>>7890285
>woke up this morning
>and it seems to me
>that everyday turns out to be
>a little bit more like bukowski
>but god who'd wanna be
>yeah god who'd wanna be
>such an asshole

>god who'd wanna be
>god who'd wanna be
>such a control freak

>>7890730
You're basically a black Shakespeare. Please submit this to the nearest university to receive your Nobel prize.

>>7890741
>a black Shakespeare
You mean just a Shakespeare right?

>>7890741
I'm actually white. And I ghost write raps.

>>7890741
i'll bring you to that ghetto university
that hot lil joint right down the street
yo bitch come, yeah she wet her feet
showed her how that romance works between the sheets
its alright tho, i made her brush her teeth
we sipped some koolaid, some berry boolers
took her bout three minutes to get out that ruler
i told her this is what a king looks like
she smiled and said
"i can suck it right?"

>>7890776
of course i can do whatever a nigger can
one day i'll treat em wit that crystapen
for now i sit back and let em have
their moments, yeah their time as man

start feelin sick right to the fucking stomach
roll on over, think i'm crushin somethin
just this pile of loud that i be sleepin on
let it rip then watch thru the glory hole
stick my dick in, think imma bout to blow

>>7884254
Front Porch Step-core

>>7884479
I like this

>>7884527
Read less poetry on tumblr and more actual poetry.

>>7884541
This poem captures the essence of 6th grade really well, nice job.

So I bought my last disguise,
and reached beneath its entertainment section
For the automatic turns of taste
and the bright dramatics that keep me light
and moving from the street.
The object is to run the rails,
by tracks of iron sparking conversation
To bend the paperbacks
to overcome the boundary of the line.

The station is a field of fossil flowers:
It breathes beneath the ground, where colour
is smothered beneath the black perfumes.
I am the passenger of my luggage,
and the driver of the car.
I have no time for Chesterfields,
for flashed up caricatures
where the lines of my regret repeat,
(which I leave to high heeled feet).
Conversation is an act of movement,
and the condensation is its proof.
The station is a field of fossil flowers,
and I am wearing new cologne
Another foot above the fall.

Object permanence

When we are babies
we laugh at peek-a-boo
because
adults assume
we don’t know that the face
once obscured
is still there.

When we are older
we laugh because we do know
it’s still there

After we are even older
so old we are young again
we laugh
because we know
it has never been the same face.

>>7891117
>>7890699
You will be taught to others. Eternity is yours.

>>7884064
check em

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i was coming from a bad place
you took me in like an old friend
sharing what we cared about
falling for you wasn’t the plan

you made me feel it again
pressing your skin against mine
but lust wasn’t even on my mind
you soon walked away

good things don’t last forever
you got too cool to call back
not the first time being used
its a specialty of mine

hanging around is pathetic
you were great but you’re done
memories haunt like a ghost
this feeling too will subside

>>7890699
damn anon, thanks for sharing this. it's awesome.

he's totally comparing Mexicans to like satyrs right? das racist.

>instrument of ten strings
>ten
nobody plays ten stringed instrument, what a fool

>dream of Byzantium
got me thinking about the star and crescent. this poem made me realize the crescent isn't the moon but the universe around the center. turkey copped a sick flag.

We both trudged through different layers of soot and regret.
The thought of someone like you kept me from harm and yet -
A self portrait of lethality and failed ambitions in the mirrors surface.

Hazel eyes gazing through strata of smoke.
The cretins of our own psychology afloat.
You kept me upon a renascent gateway - rendering me wordless.

Your worth to me is incalculable.
Through the cryptic signals and sacramental prose,
you had to have always known:

We may haul the weight of dead men in our minds,
But you will always have my appreciation and time,
and your advice - will always be hone.

>>7891128
its just not very profound anon. looks are temporary, we all know that. I think you have something interesting there with this childhood game of peek-a-boo or hide and seek maybe but I think you've got to draw a different conclusion and apply more descriptions. this is a very short poem desu, you try and hide that fact but applying one word lines but I'm going to just read it as if that white space isn't there if I can like everyone else.

this will be with me until i die
something terrible is happening
keep this always down inside
my hands are wet with guilt

i am a black hole of a person
bringing the others down with me
everything happens for a reason
becoming a human atrocity

sometimes gods plan is
for you to die
sometimes god needs you to kill
and sometimes he needs you to lie
you're gods patsy and sniper
his lone gunman
and thrown aside when you're done

>>7884167
no it wasn't, it was disgusting high school-tier trash. Majority of the metaphors make no sense

>>7884541
pretty good

>>7891736
>i troll poetry threads posted on mongoloid masturbation machines

>>7891771
that's pretty low man, why do that?

Why admit it?

>>7891734
sorry bro but gods got a lot more gunmen at his disposal than just your sorry ass

>>7891858
As in the stereotype of a lone gunman.

http://giowunderbar.blogspot.ca

Last from the convoy playing with the old toys
Instant tomorrows, handcrafted sorrows
All star bravery, imaginary jargon
Crypted by business, I'll see you in hell
Sipping on a quick fix, elasticated dimwit
Sucking on a thumb, marching to an old hit
Tiger in an envelope, paper boy puppet rope
Scratchings on a blank tape, stealth like utopia
Marriage in a gas mask, little girl ,black clad
Drugs for the lawyer cause we appreciate
Cut to the chase, twelve grand in the case
Testing out the cannons, the evidence is damning
TV news said keep you head above water
My willingness choked in my sleep
Tell-tale shoes won't get me home in an hour
The further I go I could freeze

The shine is truly faded, relieved of his duties
Behind the veil is fury
Inadmittent optimist, undercover pessimist
Baby showered in my father's sins but I was born to be the better part of him
That was always on the checklist
Take my humanity, end up like a mannequin
Thinking like a charlatan was easy, now it's challenging
So take my humanity, end up like a mannequin
Thinking like a charlatan was easy, now it's challenging

Time to get going, city's getting low

>>7892246
>http://giowunderbar.blogspot.ca
garbage

>>7892422
I think if you want to use the hexameter in the first stanza you've really got a stick with it, only breaking a couple times for some punch lines or sick rhymes.

>crypted by the business, i'll see you all in hell
>sipping on a quick fix, elasticated dimwit
>sucking on a thumb, marching to an old hit

this is where your meter really starts getting going, and it flows, but these are some of your weakest content lines desu. they're the vaguest of the bunch.

I do like the end for what it is, my suggestion:
>Take my humanity, end up like a mannequin
>Charlatan was easy, now its gettin' challenging

its six vs seven this way. you're using charlatan as a verb which sounds a bit abrasive but isn't that the point?

>>7890631
You're pathetic.

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"À sa Délie

Non de Vénus les ardents étincelles,
Et moins les traits desquels Cupido tire,
Mais bien les morts qu'en moi tu renovelles
Je t'ai voulu en cet Œuvre décrire.
Je sais assez que tu y pourra lire
Maintes erreurs, même en si durs Épigrammes
Amour pourtant, les me voyant écrire,
En ta faveur, les passa par ses flammes.

SOUFFRIR NON SOUFFRIR"

A million years ago (or even more)—
I see a barrage of uncounted years
congesting in their endless file the course
of history, pages of the almanac,
extending to the furthest reaches of
recorded time, where paper frays and frames
the forms of kings, and mounds of plebeian dust
ride the backwards-flowing wind of time—in

the primal bush in golden sunshine robed,
perspiring blackened topsoil underneath
to cool the crib, the little feet of lizards
now long returned to loam and dirt would drag
their little bellies through the oozing mud,
and scrawl across the land in scurried streaks
a city in relief embossed in dirt,
winding its ways through the swaying tallgrass,

until the primal simian learned that if
he tucked his throbbing thumb against the rock
cupped in his foregathered dactyls, it would
repel the call of gravity and taste
the glassy higher air unsullied still
by smoke and breath, and fly to where it pleased
him that it fly and hammer blood from meat—
and thus our fathers learned the art of slaughter.

>>7893618
just ditch the first stanza.

you've got a great concept here, but I think you end it too quickly. in fact I think the last line
>and thus our fathers learned the art of slaughter
is completely unnecessary, let the reader figure that out. I think you should expand on this and tell us how that first kill went down, how the blood flew, how the animal groaned, how the firey rage drove us to slam that rock repeatedly into that poor sheeps (or w/e) skull. you can talk about what drove us to do it in the first place, and talk about what that meat tasted like. I think you've got a lot to work with there from a really great idea.

here's a quick poem I just wrote about the dream I had last night, it was bothering me all day:

A spider playing possum
on the plain tile floor.
a trap for a lesser being,
a trick for a smaller mind.
I step back from the doorway,
where he lay on his golden back
and find a book of just the right weight.
extending my arms over him,
with his eight legs reaching in the air
like he will try to catch his fate.
the pages split in the air, an unclean fall
but the result is just the same.

but another one has appeared
right beside his friend.
who know feels wholly
the full weight of knowledge.
a paperback will suffice this time
less even in shape, much softer to the air.
but from my height of greatness
the outcome remains certain.

then from behind me: scattering
small and brown, he hurries past
my bare left foot and into
the room where his brothers now rest.
I lift my foot, of weapons I no longer need.
and then I hear my father’s voice
boasting of a good deed.
silently persuading someone
that he has tried
while presenting empty boxes
of various size.

If you are born to death
you must know sin
and rejoice in the wicked pleasures
that lie within.
but for now, my child, rest
and let the knowledge seep in.

Only when I stepped forward into the darkness
The tumbling miasma of blackest night
Did I know how close was I to the precipice
My sight restored as I fell, grasping at the light

desu my diary

>>7894026
the Son will come
and I feel good
I'm standing tall
like any man should
the light is gone
but my soul is free
I'll take whatever
my Lord gives to me

I have monitored this thread and come to the conclusion that poetry is for fags.

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>>7894113
i just really dont fucking get it man
bitches keep talkin bout their feelings man
but i'm fucking ice, yeah im hardened dood
they must be fags, yeah no way they be cool

but i must be fucking missin' somethin'
i keep on readin' coz they keep typin'
its all about darkness and wheres my soul
oh shit that some anime? imma miss my show!

I'm tired, today.
Because last night I went out drinking
And I probably didn't get enough sleep.

After class, today,
There will be ArtSoc drinks at Herman's Bar,
And I can't decided whether or not to go.

Before today,
I told myself I would socialise, and maybe make friends
And maybe find a girlfriend

Or someone to fuck.
I think Millie is cute, and maybe she'll be there
But I don't think she gives me time of day

And I'm not sure I even really want a girlfriend
And I'm not sure if I even really want new friends
And I don't know that if I go I'll have a good time
Because sometimes I go to these things and I have a good time
But sometimes I go and I don't.

The other day,
I looked at Millie's facebook page.
Her profile picture had 22 likes and I thought she seemed boring.

Plop

Remembering now
Reposed there how
Felling caressed
On both sides you were pressed
The dark warmth within
Sunddenly regressed
The cold porcline bright
light burnt your eyes
An epiphany... You realised!
As you dropped down
In to this spotless white pit
That you're just a brown
piece of shit.

>>7884000
Mathfag here, I've been trying to understand what value poetry has, but besides just "recording your feelings with words" I can't think of anything.

>>7894219
Millie sounds cute.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-sfG8BV8wU

>>7894308
kek'd. solid and i ain't talkin shit.

>>7894336
Math is the language of science and discovery. Poetry is just language.

Take it for what it is and seek out what you enjoy.

Our heathen temples are separated from the ghost apparitions within.
Tensions release and pull us back to each other as guardians.
Far away from each others company and looking into different skies -
we never really have to question why the daunting sight of impending doom affects our every step.
It was a perfect chance that our selves would prevent the other from stepping into a darkened crevice.
Today, the worry of your safety was a cacophony in my mind and at the current time of writing, even.
I cannot justify myself as being overtly cautious when you matter the most to my heart, dear;
and hearing (or not, for that matter) of your demise, would crush my thoughts into a hell so real,
afterwards - I could not imagine my life would have much appeal.

>>7894563
Poetry is the language of science and discovery. Math is just hooliganism

>>7890581
it's certainly inspiring anon.

i do find it hard to fully appreciate it in our post-colonial world, where so many of the atrocities of the british empire have come to light.

either way i had not read it yet. thanks for sharing.

>reminder that professionals have honed their craft

Squint-eyed and cunning, its tongue split
like a wishbone, the canebrake sulls up,
cursive spine and the diamonds in spiral
like genetic code,

and Joby frets the Stratocaster, its plastic
the color of a salted ham. A tambourine’s
discs shiver, and Brother Pascal wields the Book’s
hot gospel like a blunt instrument.This is

spirit. This is bliss. The words from Heaven
would almost strangle you. The Holy Ghost
is a rough customer alright,
and if someone comes for healing touch,

for translation into a mended soul,
a whole body, let him lie beside the altar
all shorn and shocked and willing, sing amen , say
grace abounding,

and the current sizzles, the tail beads buzz,
as the road to Zion is not all gleam-gold.
Wind scratching poplar limbs
against cracked board-and-batten says

stormy heart . You can translate any syllable
into yearning, the Lord’s will,
as the rattler agitates, this being winter,
his deep sleep stolen by a prophet’s

hands clapping, raw notes of “power
in the blood.” He’s a mean
messenger, unguessable, and Brother Harvey
Robbins now cradling him

has the look of a man ready for crisis.
Come rapture, come venom,
that double ivory stab so quick you’re
not sure at first, then certain. It leaves limbs

withered but quickened. For some of us
in the lantern light, in the Carver’s Cove
church house where the floor rattles
like a loom room, a coal scuttle:

we know something is coming.
Snake-shakers, Holy Rollers, Faith
Healers from over in Silva or up in Teague,
we feel the wild muscle contract.

It’s no cakewalk to dance the devil
down. Uproot and undercut,
but something is coming right
now, something good. Leave your

coppers and dollars in the collection plate.
The moon out there is empty, visible
as a skillet in night sky.
The whoosh of angel feathers is coming,

the serpent’s hiss, the new dialect
we will sing to spring sowing, hallelujah.
On a good night the serpent will crown
some beloved brow like braided brocade

and idle there, benign, as we begin
the mortal bargain, breathe the honey air
of limber love and behold
as the jaws open for a half-sought kiss.

Crystals in the hourglass glisten and summon,
the weave of bequeathed bliss,
birthright of the cursed helix.
Sister, keep your eye on the cross,

take my hand. The words will come.

Pentecost - R.T. Smith

>>7894824
>poster's note: that Stratocaster is probably actually a Telecaster
do your research, Smith.

"Tragedy of the Spectacle":

Out of white void
Image appears
...
What is this that has found me?
Who is she — what face do I see?
I gape — from whence?
No name, but a face
Each side more lovely than the other,
And when together:
A force!
Weighing on my heart and eyes to bow
Or they might weep for some imagined loss

For through this fatal frame
So you have defeated me,
Obsessed me
With perfect asymmetry;
Stolen is my time from me
For witnessing such beauty
That not even the lilies beneath you
Could raise their eyes, nor the lilacs above you
Dare contest your bloom, nor lotuses about you
Unfold in your shadow

For some imagined loss I do weep
For in this image, nature
Has grown something greater
Than its own; and now nature is weary
… And outdone
… Surpassed
...Old

And it is you my dear,
You who have surpassed.
And what now for nature?
Who now but you?

And so I weep for our imagined loss
I cannot think why;
You’re only an image at all.
INBOX
xXflamerXx says:

hey bb yr kyoot as
a/s/l?
can have som fuk 2 if u want ;] lol
pls message me)

I would walk all the miles if you'd play your part,
I'd write you a song if you'd just break my heart,
I would love you forever but woman I plead,
just love me and hold me and then let me be,

I would draw you in ink if I thought it would work,
I'd buy you the ocean if you'd only hurt me,
I'd steal you a river if you'd only see,
would you love me and hold me and then let me be

I would ache to my bones from the hours I'd spend,
writing poems of loss if you'd sleep with my friends,
I would paint you a mural and ring all the bells,
if you'd please just mistreat me and put me through hell,

I would treat you like an angel and say all the things,
the loneliest poets have only dared dream,
I would love you with all of my heart if you would,
just love me and hold me and leave me for good,

I'm a sick kind of lover and I'm cruel to myself,
I'm a writer whose nothing if he's not in hell,
I would owe you a favour and if its all right,
would you love me and leave me with something to write?

Hurt Me – Keaton Henson