fucked (poemoff 5)

fucked (poemoff 5)

sweat soaked sheets,
screams ringing in ears,
taste of semen and vomit,
and an overpoked pussy
in the day after afternoon.

The title comes from Zack's "MERELY OUT OF PLACE (poemoff #5)".

sound is nothing but vibrations

sound is nothing but vibrations

wonder what i said inside
the fiveandhalfminute hallway
stare at ceilings black
as the inside of a panther's
stomach on the night
of the apocalypse

all absorbed the sound
so your ears never hear the words
"i love you"
sinking into carbon walls
like a bathtub full of oatmeal

stray innovations. (poemoff #4)

stray innovations. (poemoff #4)

why don't we wonder
why fiction has a form?
start to finish
it always makes sense
rhythm.
malformed monstrosities are
(illplaced parentheticals)
merely out of place.

it moves
like cat balanced
on a fence
or a tear that clings
to your mother's face
before she wipes it away
with a sigh.



The title for this poem comes from Zack's "PRAYING THAT NO ONE". I hope that people like reading these competition poems because I certainly like writing them. Also, I've provided several rocking title possiblities, so I'm hoping for something interesting to work with.

a spectacle (poemoff 3)

a spectacle

"spectacle"
makes me think of
steeple

church moments spent
praying that no one
notices my belief
in atheism


This poem's title comes from "YOU ALWAYS DRESS FOR A SHOW," a poem in which Zack is a bastard because he didn't really leave a line for a title. I now officially hate him.

TV time

TV time

i'm lost in you
and when i'm away i think about you.
i wonder who's turning you on today,
and can i be next?
but i won't beg.
i'll cry and sit
in the corner
wringing my hands
wishing i could control your every desire
with a stroke of my hand.

A note about the direction my poetry is taking

I don't usually do this--certainly not on this blog. What I mean is, I don't usually talk about what it is that I'm doing on this blog unless someone makes a comment that I can/should respond to. But I don't know, my blog has taken a different turn lately and I want to acknowledge that and speculate as to some of the reasons why.

I've been pretty good about writing a lot lately. I guess that's good. But my photos are mostly gone. I love the idea of using them still and using them often, but I guess I don't really have any photographs that I really want to share. I mean, what is there around here to take photos of that I haven't already taken dozens of pictures of? How many lake photos can I write poems about? If I were in a city perhaps my original concept for this blog would be easier to execute.

Anyway, my poems have become slightly more personal--in direct conflict with my desire to not write myself into every single poem I construct. It frusturates me, but what else can I do? I don't have any good photos to use? I don't really have the energy to construct powerful fictions without the support of a photo. That's not true. Sometimes I do. Sometimes fiction flows out of my like lies, and I love those beautiful, perfect lies like they're my truest friends. But I haven't forgotten my original idea, and I'm still deeply in love with it. Right now I'm just not in a place that can make it work. I'll post photos when they are relevant though.

stageplay machine (or the uninspiration of a blank page)

stageplay machine (or the uninspiration of a blank page)

blinking cursor and stark white
that makes me close my eyes

when i do
i feel the ants
in the sockets
building an ant monument
to stay

(writer's block is unrealistic)
the ideas are there
always there
but how do i fill the page
transform nothing into something
why risk
a readthrough when it's all over
that only brings tears

boxed wine

boxed wine

i drink the last sip
out of a plastic cup with
a wince--warm wine dregs

puppet theatre

puppet theatre

and now i've got
eyelids on fishing line.
when i look in the mirror
i can almost see the strings
fixing my eyes open
like a cheap marionette.
but the moment i focus
the strings blur.
pinocchio becomes a wooden boy;
i'm tempted to burn him
to keep myself warm.

this expensive pretty you you see (poemoff 2)

this expensive pretty you you see

i hate your fucking
thin frame,
your hula-hoop walk
and beautiful clothes.

you always dress for a show.

you leave a trail
of perfume and arrogance.
it gets in
my nostrils 'til i tear.

do you hate yourself as much as i
hate you?


The title of this poem comes from Zack's "WHAT TO DO NEXT (misplaced poem II).

poem off piece number one

we watched poets, young (and old)

inspiration strikes
like a train whistle
i get an image of another me--
better, more perfected
but like me
she's in a car
and wondering
what to do next



The title comes from Zack's poem "(I measure time by how a body sways)".

I have been challenged to a poem-off

Zack has challenged me to a poem-off. The basic rule is that I will use a line from Zack's most recently written contest poem to title my poem. I'm too lazy to copy the complete rules here, but if you are interested, click my links. I will link to each poem that I am responding to (and they will probably be good poems, so you should go read them).

eye to eye

eye to eye

meat facing
the birch rose fire
browning and sizzling
cooking the juices of the earth

two grey eyes
accustomed
to earth and water
boiled hairs
frizz and smoke
in the twilight

there is nothing
mysterious in the world
no secrets
only ears buzzing
like the crack of a whip
cries in a deep
terrible
masculine voice

sweet sour sounds

sweet sour sounds

the name of the bitch
was pussy
an anonymous voice
summoned
evoked
parsleyed
--------------interrupted

drunk seeming wildebeest
soapy with rain
lose your
voice in horror
yet this will not
save your life

"i guess love fades pretty fast" 2

"i guess love fades pretty fast" 2

lips locked
around his smooth shaft
fiances and fuckfriends forgotten
with wine enough to suck
memories down a toilet's flush

tylenol pm

tylenol pm



drooping
like an unwatered iris
filled with water
mistair fills
my eyes...brain
the sand is a quilt--
grains under fingernails
between toes--
each breath drowns me dry
smothers me fresh.
i can't believe
that it's been this long
and i stop wishing
for meadowsgreen
and submit to the sea.

self portrait 3

self portrait 3 (or irrational anger)

fingernails make half moons in
the flesh of fisted hands
tear
sharp sanguine slices
dripping
from the sky like
bloody rain

circus top insomnia

circus top insomnia

you spin around me
world. a top--a
washing machine on an
endless spin cycle
wrenching out each
lifegiving drop of water.

self portrait 2

self portrait 2

waiting for the explosion
that might never come
i've wasted days that
could have been spent
arranging bouquets of tulips
in crystiline vases--
sharper and more clear
than the purest tear

i drink to forget
the garbaging
of precious time

self portrait 1

self portrait 1

none of the music
on my computer
is right for this occassion.
if i could compose music
like i weave words
it'd be easier
to hear my thoughts
spill onto the page
and into my ears.

Childhood poetry

"Before Definition" by Helen Losse reminded me a lot of "how i used to spend my summers". Since I've recently been feeling nostalgic for childhood's simpler times, I really responded to this poem. Also, I love the universal imagery in this poem--for childhood has many images that transport anyone raised in this culture (and many other cultures) back to that sweet childhood moment while simultaneously reminding us that we are children no longer.

Ardor

This poem is beautiful. I love that it's simple, brief and clever. While the meaning of this poem is rather obvious, it sends my mind in so many directions other than what is on the poem's surface, and for that reason, it's good poem. When try to look for a brilliant line or two to quote here, I find that I can't pull out when thread and expect to hold a beautiful tapestry in my hand. The poem needs everything it has to create its seamless entirety.

a respite from the heat of summer

a respite from the heat of summer

today rain fell
in huge heavy drops
that spattered the windshield
as i cruised waterslicked streets.
the driver's side window squeeked
as i rolled it down
so i could look into the clouds.

how i used to spend my summers

how i used to spend my summers

bring back the five cent
jolly rancher sticks
in lemon and cherry--
the ones that last
through an entire cartoon

let's play
hide and seek
in the summer sun

ride bicycles
that have only one speed

the pain of a wound that won't heal II

the pain of a wound that won't heal II

that wound on my hand
won't mend
because i keep picking
and tearing off the seal
flinging the scab
into the most convenient trashcan

yet new skin will forn
leaving no evidence
but a dark pink scar

what to do with my insomnia...

what to do with my insomnia...

if not for you
i'd still be parked
in front of the television
absorbing my depression
into imaginary problems
instead of pretending my penguin pillow
is a real body
to hold beside me

What's this, four posts in one day?

I really like "EINSAMKEITMASCHINE" that Zack posted on his blog a while ago. I would have posted a comment, but I can't see the image in his security code window, so I it won't let me post.

Anyway, this poem is very dark, but I like dark poetry--at least successfully dark poetry because some dark poetry is too absurd. Zack combines dark and dirty images in a vivid way, but the imagery conveys his message (or perhaps conveys the message that I want to read into it, which brings me back to poetry only being able to say what I want to hear).

In a Dark Time

Do you ever see a title and want to steal it and use it as the title of something you haven't written yet? That's what I thought when I saw In a Dark Time... The Eye Begins to See on g r a p e z's side bar. It's an interesting title. Perhaps I'll steal it sometimes (and by steal I mean borrow for inspiration). Anyway, In a Dark Time appears to be a photoblog. I particularly like it because it looks like many of the photos come from the Pacific Northwest (ah! Oregon! I'm going to miss you this summer.) The background of the site is the Cascades, but I can't tell which mountain because the text is in the way.

I enjoy the flower photos in this blog. These flowers are particularly nice. Because I don't often find nature photos interesting I'm not too into this blog. I like photos where humans and nature intersect or nature photos on a large scale rather than one flower or one bird. But a lot of people do like photos like that, so for you I'd recommend this blog.

an obligatory message about the uselessness of art

an obligatory message about the uselessness of art

fuck you poetry
you can't tell me anything
about the world
that i don't already know

"I guess love fades pretty fast, huh?"

"I guess love fades pretty fast, huh?"

...but it doesn't

one mention of your name
and it's back
ten years ago like yesterday
your curly hair
your smile
the way you smelled
as i curled up in your arms
when we watched TV
(i'd forgotten about my stiff neck
uncomfortably sitting not wanting to disturb you)
tulips and candy in my locker
we're crammed in the backseat
of a speeding convertable
sliding across the seats
with each sharp curve

stealing stamps from work
sending you depression letters
pages damp with loneliness
and unacknowledged desire

yet here i am
where are you?
the only physical evidence i have
of your existance
is the picture i just hung
three inches from my ceiling
and the postcard i reread this morning