|nosh, gobble, scarf this
i won't write about
trees, thorns, clouds, sunlight,
ships or the maple mountain i miss
and i won't mention
madness, or plants playing dead in the desert,
hills hiding, humping the horizon
hoping to disappoint bees before they
have a chance to bitch
bullying wasps with a wick
wishing white tulips were coins that creak
this won't become a bowl that burns with fire,
flicking old age flames
forked up roads, ripping seasonal sweaters,
swearing at the sea,
flipping off fowl for
washing my window with wings
this isn't me
begging for a billowy cloud to cling to my cheek,
i won't seek sadness in a yellow balloon
strapped to a string, or borrow bugs to believe in
no more knocking, droopy drawings,
driving to a map
mixing up mustaches, bathing in big boy beards
drifting, dreaming up a dragon to put to sleep
there'll be no mention
of feet forgetting which path points to
clandestine castles, cabins i cry for,
cringing over cold cold hands
my lips won't murder the sea,
or worship weeds, ticking off a tidal,
teasing two plus two is minus math,
tossing a teacup around
heart shaped shadows shifting, showing off
their muscular meloncholy
mint condition misery
i won't dabble on highways
heading east or west or south or north,
nodding to a mute mirage, mostly waving
wondering why why why
i can't commit to a crevice
or cave into a canyon, nor speak of
ticks and tocks and
watches working late
there is no ghostly garden,
no haunting hunt helping out the whole shebang
i won't walk a dog or hold a gun on skates
forget foul numbers and bats in blue,
cosmic clapping on the moon
i won't go there until you
5 Jan 15
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Love L29. There's so much to appreciate here.
it's kind of thorny...
There's more waxing poetic here than in much of the other writings you've been passing off like cheap parfait from a fast food joint. And please don't presume what is merely edible must be good. Nor stands without an expiration date. The true test of merit is time, which has a way of skirting all that is momentary under the bed. You may find yourself haunted by those monsters one day, and they belong there for good reason. That said, with this writing here, it is necessary to have more than a deft hand. One must have a strong sense of both refinement as restraint. This would require both. Elementally ... its carbon ... You can print it or put more pressure into it. Do it well and it will cease to belong to you.
I'd like to read your work Mr. OldShoe^ You appear to be a complex individual. I think Mando is unique & inspiring. Shes driven by passion that is anything but cheap. No matter what she serves is simply enjoyable. Carbon my ass. Fuck the psyche and enlighten us with your work.
However, I respect your opinion^^ I am an awful poet
so many good moves in this. especially 33-35. I like the end lines but might like 'em more with 'do' at the end of 49
very nice nonetheless.
i try to tell my hand to have restraint, but
web, thank you. your suggestion does make sense and would actually go well there.
there's a reason why i don't add anything else after 'until you' in L49
it's a suspension, so to speak
it's retarded... :)
and thank you
I thought this was really good
and that comment from OldShoe is pretty neat.
Gosh, I wobbled
and didn't barf!!
That is to say,, killer write
perhaps a new one
would serve you well
the old one stinks
a wee bit
It's never about who. The who gets confused with the what. Confused with how as well. Though how and what are the heart of it. Are the howl and nearly the whole. Hardly enough focus there. Most instance. There is always a why, else what were written would cease to be. Who and why are hinged, and much too much energy is spent there.
But why doesn't weigh into merit even though many might wager it would. And who hardly matters at all when removed, as one must be willing to-- do, always. One must always remove one-self as well as who-else as much as possible. When is relative only to measurement by visitation. If when we return discovery still stirs, if intrigue lingers just above the waistline, there remains enough movement to keep captive what language can when at its best.
At its best it keeps one captive, and the lines between one-an-other become blurred. You'll forget the who entirely. Rather than defend from self preservation or perspective principally, as is too often the case, focus will center back towards what boundaries can be pushed, how those lines can be bent further against themselves. The how becomes then essential to bewilderment. One discovers then, true sentimentality, foreign as well as familiar, yet somehow intrinsic to the human condition. This, the long walk down the hall of mirrors. Reflection, fraction to refraction, where all lines of who ought blur to begin with.
Such beauty lies in the greatest lies in the echo lying in the bottom of the well.
Drink or drown, just the same.
quip pro quote
itdeservesmoreattentionthanthatthatishalfthproblem tobeginwithifyoucantdistanceyourselfenoughtoseethatthenyouaretood amnclose
( p → q ) et modus ponens
s=q & r=p
As Seen For:
r ∴ q or p ∴ s
pr ∴ qs
thanks, dl! i'm glad to see your mangy mug
oldshoe, i miss your poetry.
thanks for taking the time to be cool on my poem.
i'm going to read your thoughts carefully, i promise :)
I can't even I don't have words to say
best ever. you are a voice in the internet night
to me I've never
to another writers (voice)
I've only ever found gems here and there and thought
c o o l
More. give me more. I will follow your words to the edge of whateverness. You are, for me, the first voice I have ever wanted, desired to hear listen read more more more please
I'm not a creep
I'm just know a voice when I hear them- and YOU are the voice of the internet night
that I want to follow.
i promise to flex my fingers as long as they let me
and you do the same because you create good crud.
I have to say, I share the same disdain for writing about writing. I've done it myself before, not realizing the fault inherent, but over time I've come to learn the error of my ways. Invariably, writing about writing is very meta. It personalizes things in the wrong way: it turns art into drama, or cheap dinner theatre at best.
There's a lot of alliteration going down here, and even some kind of cool imagery, but one of the biggest problems I see with this piece is that it winds up just being a listing of things, which tends to get very repetitive and sing-songy in the sense that the reader wants there to be purpose. When expressing a point or telling a story, there's a journey from point A to B. That might be providing arguments to support your statement, or telling a journey from start to finish. But a list is just a list. It feels like a kid singing "the song that never ends". This poem feels a lot like that. It goes on and on, but it's the same format, the same statements just pulling different disconnected images together.
Then at the end, it looks like maybe we're going to have some semblance of progress of what has turned out to be a very dragged out statement, and it just suddenly cuts off without actually going anywhere.
I would like to see the images put to better use by actually saying something meaningful, because right now there is no clear message, just a list of disconnected images being yanked together.