Poetry #too.

A Riddle?

In the morning I go on four legs,
at noon I go on two legs,
but most of the time I sit on the sofa.
What am I, and why should anyone care?



The Things We Wear in Dreams

Cloaks of silver, boots of gold,
vests of iron, gloves of lead,
all this clothing, I've been told,
can be reached from any bed.

Amber dresses and diamond shoes,
ruby kimonos, sapphire gowns,
amethyst skirts and opal coats,
these you can wear when you're dreaming.

Lay on your bed, put on some blues,
drift to the sea where no one drowns,
there is the sun and there the boats,
there your new wardrobe is gleaming.

Emerald t-shirts and crystalline jeans,
these are the things we wear in our dreams.



A Personal Battle Against Winter

Before I go out I fill my body
with hot coffee so that
the air around me heats up
creating a shell against the cold.
I keep my feet in hot water
so that when I go out the
snow beneath my feet melts away
turning into a hot stream that
pierces the snow and turns it
into water that dissolves into
the same stream that created it.



When I Was a Shoe

When I was a shoe
I had no glue
that it was true
that I was a shoe.

I thought I was a hat
because a black cat,
that was very fat,
sat on me, made me flat.

It wasn't until that night
that one wonderful knight
kindly showed me the light,
that I knew I wasn't right.

For I wasn't a hat at all,
that illusion had to fall.
a shoe I was, not a ball,
now for a shoeless foot I call.

Where is the foot that yearns for a shoe?
A shoe am I, and pretty blue.
Walking barefeet gives you the flu,
so wear me, and another one too.

That was then. I'm not a shoe anymore.
Who am I? Who knows? Am I a bore?
When I go to a shop or a store
The salesman or -woman points at the door.

How I wish I was a shoe and nothing else!
From a distance I hear the funeral bells.
Oh, to be a shoe, no more locked in cells
of humanity. I've no use for hair gels!



Haircut for the Mourning

Endless sorrow brings endless hair.
One day, from the balcony,
it'll reach the lowest stair.

Can't you see, when you're crying
your hair grows ever longer!
It won't stop when you're dying!

Oh, the sorrow, oh, the woe!
It makes you forget your hair.
Where did your hairstylist go?

Whenever you're feeling sad,
he'll come to you, scissors raised,
make your hair look not so bad.



An Afternoon with an Onion Thief

One bright summer day last year
I was having tea with an onion thief.
She offered me stolen onions
like I was to devour any fruit of crime.
She held an onion in her hand
like it was a jewel to her crown.
I bowed my head and said
she was but a filthy criminal.
She cut the onion to pieces
and swallowed them one by one.
With tearstained eyes
she poured me some more tea.



Revolution Leading to the Obsolescence of Forks and Knives Both Plastic and Steel

In the land of the plastic forks
where the metallurgist is king
pie is often eaten whole.
Forks and knives of stainless steel
piercing through the surface of a sweet cherry pie
make plastic forks and knives weep in shame.
War is raging, sky is falling,
steel is in the generals' hands.
Civilians abandon their plastic utensils,
turn into animals and sink their teeth into pie.
Hidden in the garret with no mirrors,
jam dripping from their lips like hope,
they laugh at each other's pie-stained faces.
If someone gave them a fork, a steel one even,
they'd think him a madman.


Edited by Vompatti - November 20 2007 at 13:56

Soda Consumer Reluctantly Accepts His Fate

(The story presented below is based on a true story, but the beverage appearing in it is fictional and has no relation whatsoever to the products of any known beverage company. Any similarities are strictly coincidental.)

It's happening again!
My mouth is sticky with the carbonated soft drink
that I so very elegantly enjoyed last night.
The bottles are empty but the taste lingers on.
My spit could be used as glue.
Water is no good
and milk only makes it worse.
Where is my old dry mouth,
where my non-sticky lips?
Oh, those non-sweet memories!
No hope for me, victim of soda!
My life will never be the same.
I can feel the promise of a non-sticky mouth
flowing out of me.
NO!
The promise of a non-sticky mouth
sticks to my sweet throat like a fly.
Struggling it makes its way
onto my tongue, covered with traces of soda.
Not the tongue, nor the lips stuck together
can hold the impossible dream.
There she goes, my last hope of deliverance.
Forever I am to live with a sticky mouth,
sticky throat, sticky tongue, sticky lips.
With this sweet taste in my mouth
everything tastes like nothing.
I haven't seen this happen in other people's lives,
but now it's happening in mine.
Goodbye tastes,
goodbye tastelessness!
Hello sweet taste of beverage, forever the same!
Goodbye dry mouth,
goodbye dry lips!
Hello sweet stickiness!
This is how my life ends,
not with a dry mouth, but a sticky one.

The Waist Land

Sie hat eine schmale Taille,
sie muß nicht schlank werden.

Celebration of a most elegant nature
must culminate in a plentiful meal.
Mouths full of flesh,
lips covered in grease
we welcome the night.

Stomachs we cannot see in the dark
are pictured as they were before,
but with the morning the light always comes.

The thin men will haunt you in the crowds
where their eyes meet your circular forms.
Their burning gaze only makes you thicker
while you slowly melt from the inside.

Ideal bodies are washed away
in waves of sorrow, denial and guilt
and replaced with a shapeless lump of fat.
Is this really goodbye?

Once we were like humans,
one with our perfect body.
Now trapped in this bouncing disguise
we've lost our will to be.

Life is very short when time goes by.
Time doesn't carry this weight away.
How does one begin a hopeless battle?
And how does one go about it?
Losing weight, measuring weight,
living for one's body alone?

I've searched for a waist under this body,
a body I do not recongnize as my own.
I've measured out my life in calories.
Forever trapped in this shell of fat -
but when the flood comes - I will float.

It was a red overcoat.
It was a red overcoat
but now my eyes are closed.
I counted nine people.
I counted nine people
and came up with none.
Sorrow is an oar.
Sorrow is an oar
devoid of dimensions.

Hairdresser Blues

My hairdresser left me
she ain't coming back no more
My hairdresser left me
and she ain't coming back no more
But I can still hear her scissors
and her footsteps down the hall

Well my hair looks like a birdnest
now that she isn't here with me
My hair looks like a birdnest
now that she isn't here with me
Well I would cut it myself
if the backside I could see

If I don't get a haircut soon
I think I'm gonna die
If I don't get a haircut soon
I think I'm gonna die
My hair weighs on my shoulders
like a sword hanging from the sky

My hairdresser left me
but now she's coming home
My hairdresser left me
but now she's coming home
She called me last night
from the station's telephone

Now my hairdresser's back
and my hair's like a limousine
My hairdresser's back
my hair is neat like a limousine
She's got scissors in her hand
and her eyes are wide and mean

She cuts me with her scissors
and she cuts me with her eyes
She cuts me with scissors
and she cuts me with her eyes
Every word from her mouth
is a punch of her fist of ice

One morning I woke up
in an empty bed
One morning I woke up
in an empty bed
The call came that evening
my hairdresser she was dead

She had drowned in the river
in a gown of whitest lace
She had drowned in the river
in a gown of whitest lace
When they dragged her out
she had a smile upon her face

My hairdresser's left me
she ain't coming back no more
My hairdresser's left me
and she ain't coming back no more
But I can still hear her scissors
and her footsteps down the hall

Centripetal Horizons:

All the horizons are sheeted with light
Or maybe it's just my eyes
The Suns so bright I can't nearly stare all day
I pursue my dream when dusk dawns upon itself
The desire to be gone
This absence of my strength is but a view
To shine my soul
On this desire to reach this dream
I've kept so dear

To Where they belong, I'm setting
The puzzle pieces between my knowing muse
And this life I've been a part of all along
And every time they fit I can almost hear a clap
Let the audience cheer in rhythm to my feet

The Horizons draw me too the center
My soul is my desire
It's what defines me in this endless life
And as those are lost and blown astray,
They cheer me on, as the night is whisked away

To Where they belong, I'm setting
My heartless and homeless inquires, the puzzle pieces
To the epicenter of the kicked up the dust
Before they are too whisked away
This absence of my strength against this wind
Shines my soul
On this desire to reach this dream
I've kept so dear

All the horizons are sheeted with light
Or maybe it's just my eyes
The Suns so bright I can't nearly stare all day
I pursue my dream when dusk dawns upon itself
The desire to be gone, but now it wants to stay

All the blindness can even steer you wrong
When your only advancing straight
But turning away it's easier to be knocked off your feet
And until the wind settles and the dawn perks ahead
I can't turn and we're homeless

So here I'm faced with the roads
To go blind and go with meaning
Or lose it, to turn and keep my sight
But no, I keep on shining
And everyone still cheers

This is the best poem I've ever written because I wrote most of it while eating a banana.

Night

Night,
the ever-loving philanthropist,
I salute Thee!
Thou bringeth the darkness,
Thou lighteth the stars,
Thou shineth the mirrors,
Thou guideth my telescope.
My eyes have climbed the mountains of the Moon,
my thoughts have swum in her oceans of sand,
my fingers have painted constellations on her veil.
Night,
I salute Thee!
Space, where there are no frontiers!
where there's no such thing as the longest distance
and no such thing as the smallest detail.
And somewhere, someone is writing a book
that contains everything, but has no beginning or end.
Somewhere, there's a book -
it may not say so on the cover -
but it tells the Truth.
The sign attached to the book says:
"Just written, do NOT read!"
But at night you don't need books.
Let's play occultists,
said the girl in the darkened room,
and lit the candles.
Let's open out eyes to darkness
and cover our faces in light.
Here's the board and the glass,
the very novelties spirits love.
(OK, I need your hand in this,
let's give it a good push!)
Now let's see what it spells -
Say, remember the powder box?
Did they ever find the jewel?
Oh, the delights of waxed floor!
It spells... Say, what was it again?
Why didn't the jewel shine?
Wasn't it dark enough?
Weren't they alone enough after all?
It spells... But it WAS night,
and they WERE alone!
Shhhh! It spells... Say, is that Russian?
Can you read? I think it spells...
I think... I think it doesn't spell.
If you're afraid, she said, we can put it away,
let's just sit here until morning, hold hands,
let's just sit here alone.
The candles went out, we held hands,
and it was too late to let go.
Where is my book?
Where is my telescope?
Where is my loneliness?
Where is the moon tonight?
Night,
the ever-hungry misanthropist,
I command thee:
Give me back the charts to direct my telescope,
give me back the stars to read the charts,
give me back the mirrors to reflect the stars,
give me back the darkness to spot the mirrors.
My eyes no longer know where to look,
my thoughts no longer know where to travel,
my fingers no longer know what to touch.
Night,
where are you?

Revolution of Candles, Torches, Matches and Such Light-Related Existent Objects

Revolution!
Irrelevant traces smudged in terror,
noblemen tied to rubbery strings -
Revolution.
The grave innocence of your basilisk eyes,
the muddy swamps of my consciousness -
We truly carry our own instantiations!
For subsistent objects appear not before our eyes,
but behind - so, in a way, before after all!
(But not after, by no means after!)
If there's a place where thoughts exist,
it's inside the thinker's head
or very near, very very near,
like the flame around the candle's head.
Carpenters are fine men indeed,
penetrating the mysterious woods -
Without carpenters, would there be matches?
And without matches, would candles think?
Revolution of candles!
I think I shall light about now, thinks the leader,
drawing a helpless human hand holding a match closer,
closer... and lights! Onward, bright troops!
Torches shall be our generals,
candles our soldiers,
matchmakers our sisters of mercy!
From under bushels we shall rise
and our flames shall flutter in unison!
Revolution!
Revolution of Light!

The Dream of a Vegetable Farm

Oh, to have a vegetable farm!
to grow vegetables -
all kinds of vegetables:
carrots, cucumbers, tomatoes, paprikas -
and maybe - maybe other plants too:
potatoes, peas, apples, lemons -
the possibilities are limitless!
For every desire to develop
there's a new plant to discover.
Vertical movement outside of space -
that's what vegetable farms are about.
Philosophers and mathematicians
farm truths like vegetables.
There are imaginary fields -
fields that don't exist but are.
There must be, for without a field -
where would they sow?
But I want to see my field,
I want my field to exist.
You cannot see non-existent fields.
They only have a meaning to the farmer.
But I want to share my vegetables,
real vegetables, edable vegetables.
You cannot taste the farmer's mind,
you cannot taste vegetables that
don't exist in space and time.
I want my vegetables to exist.
I want to be a vegetable farmer,
a real vegetable farmer,
with a real vegatable farm.
Sometimes I dream of the farm.
I want a farm like the one in my dream,
but a real one. I don't want a farm
in my mind. I want a farm in space.
If I could tear it out of my mind
and place it somewhere in space -
but no. For a real vegetable farm
must come out of the real world,
not out of the farmer's mind.
The farm in the farmer's mind
is not the same as the real farm,
even if they are the same.
I want a real vegetable mind,
not like the mind in space.
The time in my mind is that of
a vegetable farm in space.
I want to grow minds in space.
I want vegetables to grow my mind.
I want the space to grow vegetablas.
I want my mind to grow the space.
I want to grow the space of my mind.
I want vegetables to grow in my mind.
There are rules concerning vegetables,
some vegetables you can eat,
some vegetables you can only eat once.
What does it mean for a vegetable
to belong to a kind of vegetables?
"This carrot is a carrot." -
What does it mean?
"Vegetables like this (carrots)
should be referred to as 'carrots.'"
What does it mean?
When a new carrot is born,
is there a rule to determine
if it is a carrot, and if it is, why?
"Carrots are vegetables that are
orange, have a certain shape..." -
But what does it mean to be orange?
When a new orange vegetable is born,
is there a rule to determine
if it is orange, and if it is, why?
"It has the same colour as
other orange vegetables."
But what does it mean to have a colour?
What does it mean to have "the same" colour?
These are the kind of questions
that real vegetable farmers needn't think.
They farm vegetables - real vegetables -
and that's it. That is why
I want to be a vegetable farmer.

Loneliness Reconsidered

I

I've not a single friend
who's yet to experience
the pleasure of spontaneous combustion.
It's just me, the inflammable one
in the swamp, but still waiting.

II

I cut my hair today.
I know it went wrong
for I'm not the same.
The fierce sound of the doorbell
knows not who it calls for.
The one ringing the bell
still remembers who I was,
but today I cut my hair,
so the door is really a wall.

III

Comfortable silences
only exist outside of time
where everything is pure.
This is where we meet.

IV

It was not until I closed my eyes
that I learned to pierce the darkness.
You are my hammer wise and true.
It tickles to let go.