Of all the things I've posted here and wishI could take back, thispoem leers atopthe mortifying heap.
― M.V., Friday, 24 April 2009 17:16 (fifteen years ago) link
I love non-passeridae almost as much tbh but yeah passeridae are pretty much the bomb
― Young Chizzy (country matters), Friday, 24 April 2009 17:18 (fifteen years ago) link
I'm liking that airport poem
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Friday, 24 April 2009 19:52 (fifteen years ago) link
MY POEM TITLEDTUESDYAS
I unlit my cigarettein my earTilted my headdrank a beerwith my earwith my ear
― cool app (uh oh I'm having a fantasy), Friday, 24 April 2009 19:54 (fifteen years ago) link
was it a forced urban head tilt
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Friday, 24 April 2009 19:56 (fifteen years ago) link
no diplo
― cool app (uh oh I'm having a fantasy), Friday, 24 April 2009 19:57 (fifteen years ago) link
poetry outtie
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Friday, 24 April 2009 19:59 (fifteen years ago) link
the ol' T.S.
― cool app (uh oh I'm having a fantasy), Friday, 24 April 2009 20:01 (fifteen years ago) link
at the very bottomof my bottle of winethere is a bump
it rises from the edgeslike a bored parabolaunmotivatedand barely an interestin bending at all
― I'm not some HOOS for someone's lust to snack on! (BIG HOOS aka the steendriver), Tuesday, 28 April 2009 05:55 (fifteen years ago) link
^^^^ based on actual irl right now experience tbh
Edward III likes Ashbery!
And writes a damn fine verse imo.
― butt-rock miyagi (rogermexico.), Tuesday, 28 April 2009 06:10 (fifteen years ago) link
seriously that shit is fire
― butt-rock miyagi (rogermexico.), Tuesday, 28 April 2009 06:28 (fifteen years ago) link
boring job
incredible returns next yearsays the business section.
oh good. finally.
an end to uneasy equations,and obligatos over dusty keys,prying against these enemy hours,these hollowed, frozen trees.
consolation reasons kindlywith the pull of greener dreams,so memories of happy backyardautumn river screams
go glancing off, again againthis late, this echoing screen.
optimism for gold futures fading it says.
― rent, Tuesday, 28 April 2009 07:12 (fifteen years ago) link
i dunno
― rent, Tuesday, 28 April 2009 07:18 (fifteen years ago) link
this echoing screen
i see what you did there :-)
― butt-rock miyagi (rogermexico.), Tuesday, 28 April 2009 07:20 (fifteen years ago) link
its the lolcollege way
― rent, Tuesday, 28 April 2009 07:25 (fifteen years ago) link
heck I'm just giving you props and letting you know at least one reader caught it
― butt-rock miyagi (rogermexico.), Tuesday, 28 April 2009 07:40 (fifteen years ago) link
sorry just being self-deprecating. thanks for the props!
― rent, Tuesday, 28 April 2009 07:49 (fifteen years ago) link
April Has The Cruelest Poems
I keep writing poemstoo mean to put out in the world.Little girly stabs at people who love me, who are readily identifiable, the poems pulled from a field guide of my resentments, written down to spare my husband the tedium of one more spoken version. Not that I’m not making him read endless drafts.
You always hurt the ones you love,bite the hand that feeds you, tell all.
My victims—one whose hypochondria sours every dinner conversation, another whose slathering greed for goods is the nation’s soul-rot writ small.
I could keep the poem a secret, like a love-child of shameful parentage.
Fictionalize—turn dog-trainers into lace-makers, unfaithful boyfriends into treasonous atomic scientists.
The subjects would fail to recognize themselves.After all, why would I do such a thing?
If all else fails, lie. Tell her or him the poem is about some other person named “Janice,” or “Dad.”
But what if, despite all this coyness, the poem became famous? It could happen. And these very people, my loyal supporters, would be the first ones I’d tell. What then?
Oh, scabby wretch, festering in grievance,whose friends and family lack all perfection—how I made it this far will surely puzzle my biographers.
The experts advise to write what you know. But what if you can’t? What if your one quickly-dimming filament of decencymandates that you hold back?
Even monsters deserve compassion.
― Beth Parker, Thursday, 30 April 2009 14:45 (fifteen years ago) link
o hai, thx rogermexico
I am expecting verse from the following ppl by close of business tomorrow
elmo argonautbeth parker (hey look she posted synchronicitiously while I was writing this message!)beatrix kiddo
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Thursday, 30 April 2009 14:58 (fifteen years ago) link
o shit
― roman knockwell (elmo argonaut), Thursday, 30 April 2009 15:31 (fifteen years ago) link
okay well i guess i know what i'm doing tonight
This is a guest post from my dog
TUGJBHHINGS III CAN MN SMELL;
bBY SNITTER
RAINBOLSW
LOVE
ABSZTARCT CONCEPTS SUCHY ASD PIBUT ONLY TO THESD TENTHV DECIMAL
― fillibustar superstar! (Abbott), Thursday, 30 April 2009 15:46 (fifteen years ago) link
am having a major crisis of confidence here
― sorry for british (country matters), Thursday, 30 April 2009 15:50 (fifteen years ago) link
EIII, just so you know, my poem upthread was a serious entry.
― snoball, Thursday, 30 April 2009 16:14 (fifteen years ago) link
Are the spelling errors '(sic)' or do you want them corrected? ("bourgeoise", "fascists")
Sorry to be a bastard but these are important aesthetic choices dude
― sorry for british (country matters), Thursday, 30 April 2009 16:16 (fifteen years ago) link
leave the mistakes in - I feel that the immediacy is more important
― snoball, Thursday, 30 April 2009 16:17 (fifteen years ago) link
louis stop editing and start writing
― Mr. Que, Thursday, 30 April 2009 16:18 (fifteen years ago) link
(xpost) 'cause that shit was straight of the top of the dome, yo...
― snoball, Thursday, 30 April 2009 16:18 (fifteen years ago) link
BethParker, glad you are hear. your last entry brought to mind a line from Ashbery: "He is a monster like everyone else but what do you do if you're a monster?"
― the table is the table, Thursday, 30 April 2009 17:27 (fifteen years ago) link
*here. jesus. just woke up.
― the table is the table, Thursday, 30 April 2009 17:28 (fifteen years ago) link
1 Minute of Decadence
I want a parrot.I want a parrot and some pistachios.Sure, I could ask for world peaceBut all I really want in lifeIs a parrot and some pistachios.(Actually, fuck a parrot)I want some pistachios,A lion bar,(Maybe two lion bars?)Yr lovin’, a cup of teaAnd some new shoes.
― 100,000 strawberries (a hoy hoy), Thursday, 30 April 2009 17:59 (fifteen years ago) link
who is this ashbery person you keep talking about
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:34 (fifteen years ago) link
― snoball, Thursday, April 30, 2009 12:14 PM (3 hours ago) Bookmark
also how did I get elected MC of the 3 ring circus
just cuz I yell at people doesn't mean I want to be the boss I just like yelling at people
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:36 (fifteen years ago) link
hey elmo are you going to sneepo de mayo this sunday
if you finish yr poem I will buy you a beer and a smoke
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:39 (fifteen years ago) link
dude I basically nominated you as thread champion with the first response, now act like it
― sorry for british (country matters), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:40 (fifteen years ago) link
champions don't walk they get carried
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:41 (fifteen years ago) link
some have said ODB should not be a model for my behavior but there it is
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:45 (fifteen years ago) link
I couldn't actually think of a good response to that one, so in a way I suppose you have won the thread already, if not the poll (although you've got a pretty good shout imo)
Now excuse me while I fashion a litter out of discarded sheets
― sorry for british (country matters), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:47 (fifteen years ago) link
gold and plat'num laurels on my wall
― butt-rock miyagi (rogermexico.), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:47 (fifteen years ago) link
We Staggered Like Bonsai
We staggered like bonsai through the generalassent of glasses, trailing streamersfrom our heels and fresheningdrinks with a vengeance.
Understand, we expected thisto happen to other people. There had been no callfor laughter, nothing insidious at the get-goto suggest that we would find our tongues
So soon. We were twins, and fatherless,standing on our own feet under the gauntlanterns, plumped up with savoir-faire, game nowfor skinny-dipping and all sorts of June buggery.
The wind came up and blew the crows cleanOut of the pines.
― butt-rock miyagi (rogermexico.), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:48 (fifteen years ago) link
nice!
but we all know in our heart of hearts abbott's dog is taking this thing in a walk
― 鬼の手 (Edward III), Thursday, 30 April 2009 19:53 (fifteen years ago) link
figured if i'm going to peanut-gallery i might as well show u mine... but yeah, abbott's dog pwns. holding out hope for a dramatic late entry from a puppy to make it a contest
― butt-rock miyagi (rogermexico.), Thursday, 30 April 2009 20:01 (fifteen years ago) link
ok i have gone from 0 poems to 2...one of which is a discretable extract from a longer poem i was working on recently, the other of which i completed pretty much just now...not sure which one i prefer
can i be a sneaky bastard and submit both? or will i have to give my dog all the credit for one? or will i have to choose? :(
― sorry for british (country matters), Thursday, 30 April 2009 23:45 (fifteen years ago) link
p.s. i do not have a dog
edward i certainly hope that you are kidding about the Ashbery thing.
― the table is the table, Thursday, 30 April 2009 23:49 (fifteen years ago) link
as in:
Soonest Mended
BY JOHN ASHBERY
Barely tolerated, living on the marginIn our technological society, we were always having to be rescuedOn the brink of destruction, like heroines in Orlando FuriosoBefore it was time to start all over again.There would be thunder in the bushes, a rustling of coils,And Angelica, in the Ingres painting, was consideringThe colorful but small monster near her toe, as though wondering whether forgettingThe whole thing might not, in the end, be the only solution.And then there always came a time whenHappy Hooligan in his rusted green automobileCame plowing down the course, just to make sure everything was O.K.,Only by that time we were in another chapter and confusedAbout how to receive this latest piece of information.Was it information? Weren’t we rather acting this outFor someone else’s benefit, thoughts in a mindWith room enough and to spare for our little problems (so they began to seem),Our daily quandary about food and the rent and bills to be paid?To reduce all this to a small variant,To step free at last, minuscule on the gigantic plateau—This was our ambition: to be small and clear and free.Alas, the summer’s energy wanes quickly,A moment and it is gone. And no longerMay we make the necessary arrangements, simple as they are.Our star was brighter perhaps when it had water in it.Now there is no question even of that, but onlyOf holding on to the hard earth so as not to get thrown off,With an occasional dream, a vision: a robin flies acrossThe upper corner of the window, you brush your hair awayAnd cannot quite see, or a wound will flashAgainst the sweet faces of the others, something like:This is what you wanted to hear, so whyDid you think of listening to something else? We are all talkersIt is true, but underneath the talk liesThe moving and not wanting to be moved, the looseMeaning, untidy and simple like a threshing floor.
These then were some hazards of the course,Yet though we knew the course was hazards and nothing elseIt was still a shock when, almost a quarter of a century later,The clarity of the rules dawned on you for the first time.They were the players, and we who had struggled at the gameWere merely spectators, though subject to its vicissitudesAnd moving with it out of the tearful stadium, borne on shoulders, at last.Night after night this message returns, repeatedIn the flickering bulbs of the sky, raised past us, taken away from us,Yet ours over and over until the end that is past truth,The being of our sentences, in the climate that fostered them,Not ours to own, like a book, but to be with, and sometimesTo be without, alone and desperate.But the fantasy makes it ours, a kind of fence-sittingRaised to the level of an esthetic ideal. These were moments, years,Solid with reality, faces, namable events, kisses, heroic acts,But like the friendly beginning of a geometrical progressionNot too reassuring, as though meaning could be cast aside some dayWhen it had been outgrown. Better, you said, to stay coweringLike this in the early lessons, since the promise of learningIs a delusion, and I agreed, adding thatTomorrow would alter the sense of what had already been learned,That the learning process is extended in this way, so that from this standpointNone of us ever graduates from college,For time is an emulsion, and probably thinking not to grow upIs the brightest kind of maturity for us, right now at any rate.And you see, both of us were right, though nothingHas somehow come to nothing; the avatarsOf our conforming to the rules and livingAround the home have made—well, in a sense, “good citizens” of us,Brushing the teeth and all that, and learning to acceptThe charity of the hard moments as they are doled out,For this is action, this not being sure, this carelessPreparing, sowing the seeds crooked in the furrow,Making ready to forget, and always coming backTo the mooring of starting out, that day so long ago.
― the table is the table, Thursday, 30 April 2009 23:50 (fifteen years ago) link
well done "john ashbery" i think you might be red-hot favourite now :)
― sorry for british (country matters), Thursday, 30 April 2009 23:52 (fifteen years ago) link
oh shit wait you have broken the 40-line limit sorry DQ'd
― sorry for british (country matters), Thursday, 30 April 2009 23:53 (fifteen years ago) link
i mean, i just don't get how someone couldn't know who Ashbery is, that's all.
― the table is the table, Thursday, 30 April 2009 23:55 (fifteen years ago) link