Thread Rating:
  • 0 Vote(s) - 0 Average
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
Ramblings of a man who should not have a pen
#1
I got really drunk and wrote this in a feverish marathon session during class a couple of weeks ago. I forgot about it until now when I was going through my notebook. I guess it's adequate, but I'm going to get down to refining and tweaking it eventually. See if you can see me getting drunker as I write it. =P

Season Embittered

Where once they were my bed
It now seems I'm in over my head
In dead leaves


And there they lay
The broken battered words
That bore a childlike
Message overhead
Floating like a lofty leaf on the wind
Descending to its fate
In the no-man's land
Of another unwelcome place to wait.
A letter grade arbitrarily made
Stacked on stacked on stacked on
Piles of useless paper
The dead defiled ancestors
Of a lovely memory once held
In my hands.
Once and even still
The white blanket overhead
Greeted me with protective smiles
And while the colors dance
In change: I built a lovely tomb
To hold my memories on the range.
They floated wildly
In the abstract silver spoon
Cupping this silken earth of mine
Above the knowing plane
Withheld so soon.

(An angel by the sea
Disagreed wholeheartedly
With me
The albatross who beats its wings
Confused an angel's what
With an angel's who;
The angel condemned me
For calling that silly white bird
Just another stupid bird
But he condemns me wrongly
Ignoring my sweet naive hypocrisy
For I was born of two
Crazy animals who sweated pure
Humanity, swallowing
The leaves of the earth.)


Recital recital recital recital.
Dirty screams are muffled by
Recital recital recital recital.
Primal (honest) screams of fear
Are muffled by
Recital recital recital recital.
Recitation citation citation citation
Citation citation redoit.
And I'm forced to guess
If burning leaves is okay.
And I, oh how I love leaves
And how I love to burn
What I love.
Regret. I could have told you
Everything I knew.
Trust. That you can make it
Without my views.
And I, oh how I viewed
Burning crusted forgotten leaves.
In barrels reflecting sunlight.
On earth that focused moonlight.
Ignorant and knowing all
We ever needed to know.
And all my precious clouds
Can never hope to thwart the sun.
And every frozen touch
That I could hope to love
Will never save me from the sandy
Words threatening to bury me
In spite of gifts of brandy
That try to spit (favors)
Help me to forget
As we all might wish on occasion
(Angel touch)
((Fuego dark))
Christ hold it over me
Like a sponge of fire dripping
Suds of bubbly thinking
Dripping from the corners of his mouth.
But now the burn subsides
Into focus I must ride
As long as I can
This filthy influence
(And each leaf must carry its filth)
Can only poison what I felt
To be a vital vein
Yet immunities remain
To stabilize
The fire red yellow orange
In my eyes...
It probably will survive...
Slipping by a windy command
Where by a godly or godless hand
The gold and white
Inevitable release of earthen lifely spite
And naturally
We fear the sun at night.
But I will never stop loving this season, even if
Where once they were my bed
It now seems I'm in over my head
In dead leaves.

-----

I might post some more of my feeble attempts at the written word later on.
#2
well you may try this sober it shows real talent
#3
Doesn't scan terribly well but meh.

Untitled

Well you can say the sun burns no holes in your skin
But for the same reason the trees scratch a starless sky
And you can say you've got a nice warm room to hide in
But there, there's no chance of your catching their eye.

You're thrown a bone but the marrow is sour
Averting your glance from stray pairs of eyes
On plasticized faces who charge by the hour
As always as ever you default to goodbyes.

You suppose they can call back if it's so important
Too hung up too strung out stealing praise by proxy
A miracle faker, a brain glassed with portent
And broken bravado and mummified moxie

[fourth stanza sucks, so removed]
#4
VERY interesting choice of words

and as i have said shows a good deal of talent if you have more you may try getting them published
at least the shorter ones for now.

BTW the title of your thread would be a great title for the book
#5
Thanks for the feedback. =) As for my word choice, it usually ends up weird because I'm totally scatterbrained and I end up forming bizarre associations between disparate images - though often it just ends up being me trying to hard to make it either rhyme or scan well, one usually at the expense of the other. That's how a lot of music I've come up with is conceived too, but most of it is unrecorded.

I've never really thought about getting any of these published. I've never thought of it as something to seriously pursue, just recordings of thoughts, feelings, moods etc. at the time of writing. But who knows?
#6
Sorry to double post but I just felt like adding some things...

Wrote this next one about half a year ago. It's about saying things and thinking things and doing some other things.

-Shattered Glass in Molasses-

And words come falling out
Slip under cracks in window panes
Painted over solid yellow
And light is shooting from your toothy grin
Reflecting off the yellow paint
Till words let loose start coming back
Again when you mellow.

So the sun sets on the sky
Hides itself on the blunt end of the knife,
The little man’s green cigar.
A summer haze and a blue screen got you
Feelin like you’re shattered glass in molasses.
But you haven’t gone too far
From where you were before.
Round & round & round in a revolving door
On a train
In Loco Motion wrapped around your brain.
-------
The next one was only half done for months before I did second half today.

-Dead of Winter-

You wander alone
In a city of bone
Like the last breath of a passing ghost
Wisped away
Into the frozen cold white day
They told you:
“Don’t you ever think of a guardian angel
Without a tarblack Dovehead
To guide it on its way.”
But “Jove red cracking whips split stigma
Frosted crimson spit drips from your back!”
Is what they really meant to say
Yet somehow this won’t leave their lips.
So you let nasal icicles take their chinbound trips
As you charge headlong into
The frigid frenzied fray.
---------
Something a little more lyric-worthy:

-Untitled-

The light from the street
It plays to the beat
On the water and I sit to see
Like puppies we play
In our own pneumatic way
And I’m fogging from the sympathy

I know what you’re doing
And I’m sending you signs
But I don’t know how to break through
So I take another drag
And I fake another slag
Just to set myself away from you
--------
#7
-Untitled-

I saw you outside
I ran to the door
Shards of your porcelain they scattered the floor
The wind would pick up
If I’d let you in
But something has got to be better than silence
(No no no)
I fell to my knees
And melting from spite
I locked myself in and kissed the door good night

My hearth by the day
Heartless in the night
Rehearsing what to say
To make it sound alright
Frozen at the stoop
I caught the slightest glimpse
Between the frame and lock
Of a whimper on your lips

Nothing to do walk back to the car
Or find a new release
Pieces of my china crushed between calloused toes
Swept by dragging feet
We ghosts of the day are passing through town
We may never find our peace
But as long as the night ghosts can’t have us around
They’ll never embrace the heat.
--------------------------------------------------
-Love From The Heat Of God's Dirty Untouchable Goods-

This is a shadow of the love I want to feel
I wish I could feel it for real
They were joking
It cut so deep regardless
When wounds would heal like a starfish in step
Maybe then I wouldn’t need
To shoot from the hip
To defend myself from sparklers snakes and scary ghouls unmade
By a simple guide.

It’s a simple form of talk
To share our notes and sounds and colors
Shared by bound to the stock
So how was it you pierced the yoke to see the empty space
Peeled from four dimensions but losing the first
From which we wake
And from which we take our piece of the pie;
From which we can claim to be confused by your verse?

It was a gift of chance
Could it have been me? Could it be me still?
Do I even need to ask?
I guess with love and a little luck
Anyone could learn what it means
To be put to the task
And slave it right on overboard
While swilling it all in at the sight of the biggest shoes to fill
And toss the salty sea in your hands aside
Because what’s it worth if you give such a fuck?
#8
Miles Prower Wrote:-Untitled-

I saw you outside
I ran to the door
Shards of your porcelain they scattered the floor
The wind would pick up
If I’d let you in
But something has got to be better than silence
(No no no)
I fell to my knees
And melting from spite
I locked myself in and kissed the door good night

My hearth by the day
Heartless in the night
Rehearsing what to say
To make it sound alright
Frozen at the stoop
I caught the slightest glimpse
Between the frame and lock
Of a whimper on your lips

Nothing to do walk back to the car
Or find a new release
Pieces of my china crushed between calloused toes
Swept by dragging feet
We ghosts of the day are passing through town
We may never find our peace
But as long as the night ghosts can’t have us around
They’ll never embrace the heat.
--------------------------------------------------
-Love From The Heat Of God's Dirty Untouchable Goods-

This is a shadow of the love I want to feel
I wish I could feel it for real
They were joking
It cut so deep regardless
When wounds would heal like a starfish in step
Maybe then I wouldn’t need
To shoot from the hip
To defend myself from sparklers snakes and scary ghouls unmade
By a simple guide.

It’s a simple form of talk
To share our notes and sounds and colors
Shared by bound to the stock
So how was it you pierced the yoke to see the empty space
Peeled from four dimensions but losing the first
From which we wake
And from which we take our piece of the pie;
From which we can claim to be confused by your verse?

It was a gift of chance
Could it have been me? Could it be me still?
Do I even need to ask?
I guess with love and a little luck
Anyone could learn what it means
To be put to the task
And slave it right on overboard
While swilling it all in at the sight of the biggest shoes to fill
And toss the salty sea in your hands aside
Because what’s it worth if you give such a fuck?
wow that was really good i liked both of them
#9
Miles you really do have talent .
And what is poetry but ramblings and scattered thoughts put to paper and sent out into the world .
You have nothing to lose and much to gain so go for it send , say twenty of your writings to a publisher or ten or self publish and see if others can get a message from your thoughts.
#10
Publishing poetry is a major hassle that will cost you time and money, but also gives you a bit of a satisfaction, I know published poets personally but I don't do the creative writing thing too seriously myself.

Books of poetry are essentially impossible to have published unless you're already famous and being studied in universities. Unless you self publish, but that's not really ever the same thing.

That means you have to submit poems to magazines, getting in famous ones like the Chicago Review would be a major accomplishment, though even the poets published there usually have established careers already. University undergraduate magazines are a good place to start, look around in your state for local literary quarterlies.
When a subject is highly controversial — and any question about sex is that — one cannot hope to tell the truth. One can only show how one came to hold whatever opinion one does hold. One can only give one's audience the chance of drawing their own conclusions as they observe the limitations, the prejudices, the idiosyncrasies of the speaker.
- Virginia Woolf


Forum Jump:


Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)