...or assholes writing poems
because they think they can,
and all I want to do is leave it alone
but can’t
because of the rolling drum
and bruises that you get
from all the personal shit;
a dirty snow
pushed to the side of the road.
My lover wants a poem.
some space cadets
at a star port,
discussing form--
a fairy in a fury
over the absence of leaves.
Something,
whereas there is nothing
but discarded words,
personal things,
the stink of old loves
heaped in the corner;
meandering days
cluttered with mortality,
ailments
that grow stale with recitation
accompanied
by rollicking meter
that neither of us gives a damn about--
personal shit
from the trunk in the attic,
that street
that finds you all alone.
In a list
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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you know, i began this and was taken aback. it didn't read like something that came from your pen at first. i don't quite understand the first line, though. is it meant to be a sort of continuation of your title? explain, please!
"My lover wants a poem."
don't they all? writing a poem "for" someone is a dreadful idea. it's been years since i sat down with the specific intention of writing something "for" someone. it's most always shitty.
"the stink of old loves
heaped in the corner"
describes a majority of poems. good ones, bad ones...just poems. my poems, too.
those two bits spoke to me. they told me what you thought. i'd like the see the rest of what you've got here measure up. i will assert that i admire you for summoning the courage to conjure the idea for this piece. it's one of the most creative bases i have seen in awhile.
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my very personal opinion is that
assholes can only produce personal shit
unless infused with impersonal foreign substances
like snow for example
as if the temporary crystalline aggregation
would provoke gut fauna to polish
them turds into gold
it's always a quest for recruiting more substance
for apparently impersonal causes
more essence to be laid upon supper tables
to feed the cynic cavities of selfless saints
as an excuse their for their hunger for martyrs
as an excuse for holding impersonal optics
under the self promoted copyright of never wrong
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I cannot say ...
why this poem reads to me as a deep wail. And all I want to do is hug you.
Please know that mortality does make good compost for the Eternal Rose to grow. And you say it so acutely, Lonesome Luty.
Love
Myra
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I love that dirty mushy snow on the side of the street that squishes like a slurpee under boot, uneven with the frozen boulders that get stuck in the straw and clog up the works.
I never find myself alone. Almost never. Not always.
poem = bone
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people think they can do any and all sorts of things, but when are 'loved' ones desire things from us, we try to rifle through our shit to pull something out of the bag....
maybe Apollo is a God maybe you think you're a god or she thinks your god like or your ***** is godlike and it's all in the soup
and personal shit is just that.. personal
and we all have cobwebs somewhere that have dead awkward spiders hanging from them; saying, i was a lover once
i think i need more
my brain just farted on your page
merry season's end to you Tom
hope it's all going well with your shit
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Excellent
A very fine write, indeed. You have expressed your thoughts quite well. Thanks for sharing this one with us. -
Dear Apollo,
I'm happy. So happy, I was called to listen to Eight Line Poem by Mr. Bowie himself.
I often think of Mr. Bowie when I think of you, Apollo. That's a good thing.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n_B9-Fiw9J8
The tactful cactus by your window
Surveys the prairie of your room
The mobile spins to its collision
Clara puts her head between her paws
They've opened shops down West side
Will all the cacti find a home
But the key to the city
Is in the sun that pins the branches to the sky
More please. May this be the trickle that begins the flood.
xo
Lisa
c'mon on my little gamma ray.
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