[x]

XXXXXEven now,
part of me
(my hands)
want to
pull out
that glass
she lodged
in her neck.

Pull it out
and drop it
into pieces,
or keep it
in the back seat
of my car.

Where it can
lay a while
and stare at me.
Part of me
(my chest)
is not afraid
of demons.

It is far less
dangerous
than girls with
haphazard knives
and other
monsters.

A Rebel's BloodI lived on hollow promises and
dreams as thin as mist.

And kings and lords
who offer gold
in return for my head.

Through the Golden Palace Gates
I'm met with oaths, made to be broken.
I'm met with lies and truths, unspoken.
I'm met with eyes that have seen what I
never dreamed of seeing.
And eyes of crying, blind, fresh beings.
I'm met with suffocated desires.
I'm met with raging hateful fires.

There's a masked man who was paid
a few million pieces to chop my head.
He raises a sword. All what there ever was fades.

I shut my eyes...
I breathe.

Chasing Butterflies

I believe in starry nights writing timeless songs
of all the yesterdays and tomorrows yet to come.

I believe in hearing the voice of love in rhyme;
I heard it as a child in my mother's lullabies.

Let's go down to the river now
and chase the butterflies.

I believe in playing, absorbing life's full sun,
dancing through the day until the night is done.

I believe in wishing wells never running dry,
granting us the time for a tender, slow goodbye.

Let's go down to the river now
and chase the butterflies.

Should I cross to the other side,
don't you worry; don't you cry.

There you'll see where tomorrow I'll be,
forever chasing butterflies...

on excusesthe floor creaked with a pressing tone
and my toes crept sadly toward you.
i heard the sounds
deep inside of your throat-
before they could come out,
before you could think them,
before you could stutter an
apology.

i was up all night and
the thought that, you,
were sleeping somewhere
naked, with your fingers
stretching and your dreams
retching up what you couldn't
admit to awake- was too much for me.
maybe if i
was next to you while you
were dreaming, your body
would admit to me that you
loved me. and you wanted to make
me cum. it had been so long.

you blinked hard, fast
your eyes shaking, dying fish.
i pulled you apart
like the ribbon

HollowHollow
Is her chest.

She feels around for emotions;
Sadness and anger is what she has mastered the best.

World moves around her
In top-speed rate,

While she stands still or get maneuvered around
Like a dense grey stone in the rapids of fate.

Erosion shapes her outsides
As a rough unapproachable being;

It builds up the pressure inside
Where she's really quite more softer than what you're seeing.

But don't expect for there to be a heart,
It's already shattered to pieces and is reformed from charred coals;

Even now and again it is crumbling apart;
Life has filled it with so many holes....

Hollow
Is her chest.

She feels no emotion,
Exce

EqualityEquality

Today my rainbow flag
Stands proud next to
The American flag.

Today my flag is counted
Equal. Represents equality
To our nation.

Today the rainbow flag
Represents the gay
Community not as a

Separate any longer
But as a whole. As
My state Minnesota
Legalizes gay marriage.

procedureMidazolam

the formula for amazement: a rare pollen from the surplus field
where horses haven’t grazed since April’s warm orgy
left a bindweed pink disease,
unrepenting against chainlink,
nights spent foraging for a spectre to grieve over,
to watch for while it elevates and descends
like a dumb waiter serving sunlight
to jealous little bastards, birthed and trailing in umbilicals,
sleepy, glass-eyed hydras
who never listen to anything,
uninvolved in my tiny drama,
the feeling of losing my treasured afflictions,
the mythos that fastens the concrete to dirt,
the wind to my spirit-skin,
is dulling the edges of the skyhead

On The Collapse Of Modern Society"I've never seen so many folks
putting their hopes
in packaged air,
as far as I'm concerned,
and from what I've observed
misplacing material worth while
rushing back and forth
to get nowhere."
my Grandma said,
shaking her head.

BalanceWe tend to see the bad in the good
But not the good in the bad
And it turns out we missed
Just how much good we had
Because life is all ups and downs
As the saying goes
But instead of striving for ups
We just go with the flow
We overlook what’s around us
And only focus within
When it should be about balance
Like a bird in the wind

Too strong, too weakWe were on the verge of wisdom but
So young, still.
As young as the freshly born flowers,
Too weak for winter, too strong for love.
We've believed often that the world
Belonged to us
And we let our emotions take us deep.
We were young lovers,
Young haters,
Young liars,
And young fools.
My mother taught me to block out my tears.
She said that when we start feeling, truly feeling
We will sink into the abyss of madness.
"I will never love. I will never hate," said the golden girl.
"I will never cry. I will never fear," said she.

Prayer to Odin from experienceAl-father Odin! You who hung for 9 days and suffered on the tree of Yggdrasil.
In so you received and gave us the runes and its mysteries.
You who have given up an eye to see and know beyond sight and knowledge.
Allow me to be strong through my own sacrifice and suffering.
So that one day, I can achieve great wisdom through what has happened to me.
Allow my mind to open and to focus on what i must do.
One day, I cannot always criticize what is before me.
From experience, I was angry and put down a faith that i knew was untrue.
Though you may have smacked me upside the head a few times
for my foolishness and ignorance. But I did deserve it a

Within A BoxIt's a prison for the minds of haunted souls
an odd prison, not large enough to contain its prisoners
and yet it encompasses every fiber of their being
in silent, silent spaces.
Haunted souls are searching for the key
there is no key, but they don't know any better
and what harm could it do? Hope is better than nothing
here's an unlocked open door for you.
Little trinkets haunt souls with their questions
and we want answers, but they won't give
anything away. Very smart,
you know the world is ending soon.
(The best of which are only
crude descriptions of the magic
they are looking for.)

False ProphetsPoems and love songs breed dead dreams,
strangled by weeds, face down in the ground
with no roses to mourn them.

Singers are poets that croon
(if you happen to lose your little heart to their tune)
and poets are false prophets -
true love will last forever
if they care to write it,
but not if you swallow the lines...

yet, they always do.

We all have a place
set for us in the shade
in our own private garden of weeds.

Evolution of life

child, we dream
teenager, we have ideas
adult, we have a bar code encrusted in the nape

we evolve to finish in the matrix

Lovers and assassinsNight
walk

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Curiozitatea Sf Gug de la Aradsă nu aibă cine
şi să se facă frig
prin crengi vântul
şi luna
dar fără stele

lipăind pe trotuare
refrenul cu cuvinte pocite
şi pleoapele
grele, grele, grele,
de nesomn

pe sub poduri
neauzită apa
maşini stropind
şi gălăgii înăbuşite
printre case

a nu iubi felinarele
a nu-ţi iubi iubitele
doar întunericul
şi liniştea din care
stelele se văd
şi se aud

Al cincilea an de iubire puicoargaţi cu tibii de inox printre cercevele
cerşesc bogaţi cu ochii mari de nibelungi
răbdare şi femei cu venele lăptoase, spumegând
în cercuri largi ce te ajung, semnale
acoperite encefalic de minuni minore
şi altaruri defăimate de sihaştri
e pustiu
e cerul învâltorit prin colţuri
se ascute în urechi un vifor
zăngăne zale de gângănii
zdrobite cefalotorace
şi abdomen

Nicosia
în sandale îmi suflec mânecile şi preschimb
numere de telefon în cucurigu şi cetini de brad
am degetele de plastic şi le top

Chivare extaziind pe dincolochipuri de gips
separate în centimetri
şi luxul de a fi un venetic
pe coclaurile neumblate
dintre decodări şi oceanul Atlantic

e seară
îmi simt dinţii tremurători
răzleţe coloane de templu
măcinate de vreme
de carii
de molii
de necitire

am binecuvântat alfabetul de dimineaţă
cu cinci cuvinte reper din latină
tragedia tirului sportiv reconciliind
provinciile africane cu lumea largă
nemăsurabilă a supoziţiilor neelucidate
şi a pretextelor schizofrenicilor
pierduţi prin bodegi putregoase
şi şanţuri pline cu p

de cand te iubesti cu altii...de când te iubeşti cu alţii
e cam trist
dar un pic parcă nu prea

de când te iubeşti cu Altul
cu El
e cam trist
chiar e cam trist

ştii,
încerc să mă bucur pentru tine

încerc să număr până la zece, să respir

căcat!

o mare ladă de iubiri ratate şi date uitării
în care nu îţi meriţi locul

dar o să te arunc acolo, aşa se pare

sunt un poet prost care nu înţelege oamenii
şi nu se încrede în nimeni

sunt un om chiar şi mai prost

dar ştii
e cam trist
să fiu un om tri

In hol la Anatoamna găsesc scuze să vin la tine acasă;
îţi cer caietul de matematică
sau poate tema la educaţie civică...

îmi place să te aştept în hol, desculţ,
şi să muşc din lambriuri
să le simt textura fibroasă, lemnoasă,
aroma neplăcută
dar atât de fascinantă

îmi privesc pantofii, plini de noroi,
dar ştiu că nici măcar descălţat nu aş intra
holurile se întunecă spre capete
sunt acolo camere de dormit ori de locuit
cine poate şti

o întreagă parte din tine care nu mi

nistagmusdescrie

brutal brutarul
sonor sonarul
mortal mortarul

murdarul

cu ficăţei de pui
curgând din urechi
cu ochi înmuiaţi
în cerneală
cu mânuţa mică, firavă,
vibrând în vânt
ca o strună

eşti o făptură
cu dantură miraculoasă
dantelat dinţoasă
în colţuri, în falţuri
cu striuri în smalţ
albicioasă
gălbenoasă

devreme acasă

ţi-ai arcuit instalaţiile
de termoficare
în spatele capului
ca nişte cărăbuşi
din ulcioare

te pregăteşti

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[x]

zdrobeste-mi tampla de stele

by ~nr137, Nov 9, 2011, 12:08:29 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

să scrii poezie proastă e o artă în sine
să scrii fără să știi ce se scrie
sau cum
fără să știi de ce
dar să simți că totuși
nu degeaba

să scrii poezie proastă ca să-ți dea lumea fav și like pe facebook
sau să te pupe o fată
sau să se laude mă-ta la servici că e ăsta micu poet
să scrii poezie proastă din ciudă, din ură, din răzbunare, din frustrare
din micime
e totul perfect valabil
și aproape o onoare, aș zice

poezie proastă, nesinceră, poetică, ermetică până la asfixiere
pentru că scrii doar ca să se vadă bine
să dea bine pe pereți, pe ecrane, pe hârtie, pe sticlă
pe mormanele de gunoaie care acoperă totul

să scrii poezie proastă

deja poezia asta nu-mi mai pune nici un fel de pâine pe masă
în afară de speranță
dar, hai să o zic și pe asta,
poate că sunt doar
cel mai narcisist om pe care îl cunosc atât de bine

să scriu poezie proastă

zdrobeste-mi tampla de steleby ~nr137

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Free Verse

ce bine că sunt
ce mirare că sunt

~Sa-fie-coerent Nov 12, 2011

si ai de gand sa te apuci?

~nr137 Nov 13, 2011 Writer

și mai prost? probabil.

~Sa-fie-coerent Nov 14, 2011

a scrie poezie proasta nu e totuna cu a scrie poezie de poezie proasta

~nr137 Nov 14, 2011 Writer

poezie de poezie de poezie

~Sa-fie-coerent Nov 14, 2011

~Buffix Nov 9, 2011 Student Interface Designer

cine te-a necajit?

~nr137 Nov 9, 2011 Writer

nimeni. sunt greu de necăjit.

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zdrobeste-mi tampla de stele

zdrobeste-mi tampla de steleby ~nr137

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