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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 17:17:43 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 15, 2006 17:17:43 GMT -5
Anyone here who´s interested in poetry?
Now, I´d say that must of us on this board listen to very depressive/slow&gloomy/down-tempo music which could get our imagination to flow... well, for my part it does.
So, if you wanna let something out, give us a taste.
All right. I myself am much into poems and all kinds of lyrics and short stories. I spend a lot of time on (we could almost say most of the time) reading as writing poems/short tales. Good old fashioned poets like Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg, Edgar Allan Poe and William Blake are my favorite.
Disperse your words! ... Erm... Go!
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 17:22:22 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 15, 2006 17:22:22 GMT -5
Ok. So... I´ll start.
St. Coll.
And the buildings add shade to shade. Through the solitary streets we´ll walk, standing at the lonesome tea tray smoking the last cigarettes on the empty watering hole while watching a boat disappear in the haze. We´ll all be lonely. The empty driveways, all the empty parking lots. "At least the streetlights are illuminating..." The wind is our only chum left, which is bearable. We are driving on the wheels of no fuel... the strained st. Coll, the overdo. I´m on the lonesome limb without the halo. The graven bough near my toe is the bayleaf I wear above. My wife and children gone, I´m left alone on the bow... the bartable neighbouring my head. Visiting the rest.
The rum bottle encasing my head. A bottle of rum encasing my dreams.
The bailiff is here, he´s here to lead me out. My cell is cold, for the outdoors bring a storm. -The rancor is in bloom. The vineyard I used to watch with elation is now in the palm of my hands, -on my lips. Out-of-doors and dopey I brood... the ship is sinking and I´m inboard. The hue of rainbow mountains in blues, the remoteness is viewless. Is there a view of happiness in this room?
-By Viktor Kaldalóns.
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 19:44:32 GMT -5
Post by destroyerjazz on Nov 15, 2006 19:44:32 GMT -5
bad poetry, oh noetry!
hopefully somebody will get that.
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 20:37:47 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 15, 2006 20:37:47 GMT -5
Oh spiffy. I don't get to read too much random writings from people anymore. More more!
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 21:00:23 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 15, 2006 21:00:23 GMT -5
Well... not me, at least.
Sorry.
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 21:09:12 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 15, 2006 21:09:12 GMT -5
Ah well. Here goes:
The day. From the top of the hill there was a visible haze on the valley. Everything was still for a moment; a sleep-in Sunday morning. Heat drifted in space like an open oven, blurring the scene and faking water on the cement. Driving down, watching the fuzzy line between road and hill peeling away the landscape. Cloud patterns looking as threatening as a violent summer storm, yet doing nothing but bringing humidity down to the ground. Dodging bright orange cones and rusty yellow bulldozers, dozens of flashing, screaming lights appear at the foothills, carefully concealing four tragically disfigured machines. There is no fog, but the constant presence of airborne dust makes it seem so, a thick, spiraling mass of it. Behind great tall semis I drive rather slowly to avoid the inevitable bits of construction and deconstruction that fly out of the back. New clusters of cookie cutter houses sprout up like weeds, tall flags advertising their whereabouts flapping in the oven air. The heat waves drift so high into the sky that the semi and I could be driving into blurry, mirage-ridden oblivion for all we know.
The sunset plays so beautifully on the hills, filtering through the dirt and sparkling so bright you would never know what it's made of.
The night. The constellations have all connected their dots, and the air is quite still. All the waves crawl back into the cracks of the sidewalks and into microwaves and light bulbs. The shadows stretch out from under 10,000,000 trees and it's oh so dark. Friends gather at a pizza place, playing arcades and ripping little tickets out of the slots to trade for things. A toy machine bouncing ball glows with chemoluminescence in the parking lot. Sitting in a tiny car with the windows rolled down, blasting a suitable tune to lay over the rap idiot next to us at the signal. Speeding along an empty desert road, a single pair of headlights and three different hands spread like wings in the coolness of midnight.
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 21:11:08 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 15, 2006 21:11:08 GMT -5
Chemoluminescence! I forgot about discovering that fancy word.
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 22:45:46 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 15, 2006 22:45:46 GMT -5
The Day...
The First Day. The ravage, a rack. The sky is a rooftop. One step, and we step out. -The arm of wreckage.
The Day (the rain). The rueful drops, the coat will maintain, all is nothing. We are everything.
The Day (the darkling). Have you seen the car accident? Where´s the driver? It rains inside.
The Day (the midland). The storm indoors, it´s up to no good. The lantern is broken.
The Day (the alpha). And there comes the onset, the chair is kneeling. Hist! The weight of the continent. -The roof of the world.
The Day (the winter). The mater is cold, and a winter blew universally. Through the window, forge the snow.
The Day (the yardstick). The ceiling´s in the air. The roof is grounded. Where´s the gravity?
The Day (the night). White becomes the new black, and there´s so much class... underneath the lamplit house of blues.
The Day (the creek). The parish. The bourn, -it´s gone.
The Day (the depart). While the summer falls, no lee, no haven. This is us; Down-and-out.
The Day (the alley). Alone we drive, through every blvd. The town is lost.
The Day (the end). The seventh mile, we grovel. This is the vanishing point.
The Day (the fireside). The ooze on our hands, and all hearths are in blockage. Our fingers, -they lit up the ground.
The Day (the acrimony). The taste of ire, we churn out the war. For the war is walking.
The Day (the casualty). And we rove on the rails, the dove enquires. But we got nothing left... not even an answer.
The Day (the culvert). We are the rats. We are the debris. -The litter on our land.
The Day (the decay). The prattle is waning. Like all colors of the world... -fading.
The Day (the town). And the walls are grazed, with the hitchhikers we paint. The borough is red.
The Day (the vestige). The riverbottom in bloom, the house is drowning. The ashy dregs consuming... -our lawn.
The Last Day. Downhill we go... and the parachutes have aperture. -The failure is dead.
-By Viktor Kaldalóns.
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 22:50:53 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 15, 2006 22:50:53 GMT -5
And here´s a short tale I made few weeks ago.
Over my head his arm he flung against the world.
(The launch; This is it... we missed our plane home. We got no place to stay. We are strangers in our own country.)
Chapter One - Spare me the last one.
Knock on my door, here´s a geste; "Oh baby, the doorway seemed so close, I felt a step kneeling against the barefoot floor. It was poor just like mine. The man came across my breath, but the tale was in my hands as in his. The dime wasn´t here, oh how short the distance was, but still it was miles away.
Dear sire, put me to sleep. We shall sway in our cradle´s dreams, and embrace the coma... the unending. Read me a bedtime story. Kiss me on my forehead and say that you love me, ´cause this is me, -ready."
(Few days earlier.)
"At least it´s on my expense," -he said and recited; "Where´s the drink I ordered four hours ago? Do you still think of my existence as the minute of forgotten beers?" She asked him if he could wait one more second, but then he gave an utter; "This ends here, the second is long gone and the surface is way dry for this conversation." She took a prose and said; "This will only take a second, milord."
The toper retrospected and glossed; "I won´t give you my time for another fray, this shotgun is loaded with ache. This dime is dead along with you, my mistress... just as you."
The day went all dark and took the last parking spot, and the grayish night became the sonority of rolls.
The down-and-out; "The siren´s on fire, my friend. They are taking you home. Drive! Make a traffic. This won´t take long. Drive a mile, partner. You´re still young!"
The toper; "I say, my dearest pal, I don´t know what you´re talking about, but I´m sure my home is on the other side of the road, the other way around."
The midnight clock was ticking his heart in the night, and he didn´t have much time; "These black-and-white sirens are taking over, the taciturn´s blackout of my battered clock is undone. This forlorn town is filled with whilom churches... make yourself at home."
Chapter Two - And the parades of death keep running our hearts.
When all sound is over, when the future is no more. We are lying like dead birds in the rain.
(Two years later, -the end of the month of july.)
"I lost my only friend this very night... it was the last day."
The hearer; "Where are you heading?"
"I say, I don´t know. But I will find the rainbow and walk upon the stars. I will watch them leave the sky, from now on we won´t survive this land."
The hearer; "There´s always hope, but we don´t often see it."
"The shadows let me know where I stand, and he will rest over me when I die. Do not, and I repeat! Do not try to find me! I don´t want another amity. I think about forever like it´s tomorrow."
The loss of friendship with nature, the loss of beau ideals built by artisans. They are all gone, we have all left us behind, hiding behind... shivering quickies on every land. The sidewalk is no longer safe, they are all under the height of a steeple mind squalling in menace and solemn; "I will take the dead aim and let the barrel echo in this very corridor." And there´s no boundary. The art that stumbled across the boulders, and the crag we used to moulder... all the parades of death, all those cadavers passing by. Death is on our shoulders... we got nothing left, nothing at all.
"I read the newspaper the other day. I saw a rubric of my best of pals. They lost the war."
-By Viktor Kaldalóns.
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Poetry.
Nov 15, 2006 22:54:04 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 15, 2006 22:54:04 GMT -5
By the way, Lovelymetaphors. Good job!
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Poetry.
Nov 16, 2006 0:17:07 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 16, 2006 0:17:07 GMT -5
You are an enigma. I shall read these again and again. Cheers, Snool.
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Poetry.
Nov 17, 2006 7:45:16 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 17, 2006 7:45:16 GMT -5
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender (pt. one).
And the drive-in felt forever as the midnight clock was in pattering mood for the whiskey crushed air to sashay with his pall on the road to nowhere and every now and then he warbles the love song he wrote overnight or two; "Feeling her hand in mine", and with a lover´s blood he wrote a song about his only friend, "the cigarette smoke and smell of pint is truly my brand." Beloved son and holy; "father, this is my only. God knows where I´ll stand in five years but the miles are boundless and for my miry feet the end is just back then when I crossed the land of this no-win inn... so my life isn´t over, oh no my dearest, but I feel it´ll never start. So I wonder... what are angels when they die? People say they live forever, but I´m not sure, are they alive?"
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender (pt. two).
My date of birth kept in memory of a bartender; the only one in town, the dull dye smother of cigar fixedly closes the ceiling above and the draught of alcohol is on my bleary lips. This is the taste of every tomorrow and I´m not asking for more or less. "Hey, potboy! Hand me a second one, I´m boon and the sun is late and I won´t barricade my being." My hands are under a hammer and I don´t even care, it´s your counteract to miss, a small fortune of my life. Lonesome I watch the desert train run over my very last dime, and my crossing from the town is crowned. Lonely I sag watching the minute alley squat... I´m humble in this world but I always got a seat to endue and when, oh when my bottle gets empty I´ll be ready with another one and so on I go through the end and the timeworn scarecrow will sleep as I swill my last drops in the moldy duct of nowhere.
-By Viktor Kaldalóns.
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Poetry.
Nov 19, 2006 14:48:02 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 19, 2006 14:48:02 GMT -5
Quitters?
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Poetry.
Nov 19, 2006 20:53:21 GMT -5
Post by lovelymetaphors on Nov 19, 2006 20:53:21 GMT -5
Nah, just trying to find something to live up to yours
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Poetry.
Nov 19, 2006 22:27:43 GMT -5
Post by snoolli on Nov 19, 2006 22:27:43 GMT -5
Sure.
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