Poetry #too.

Mickey, could you type that out a bit more clearly?

Ah, I see.

"That would ruin it's DaDaistic madness, something I was trying to achieve."

Doesn't trying to achieve this on purpose run contrary to the ideals of the Dada(ists)? Isn't it just supposed to "be there" without the trying?, the natural state of man, as it were?
    
    
    

Edited by Trademark - November 22 2006 at 10:13

Mickey the n00b has just been pwned! 

Thank you Trouserpress!

Silence, solitude and sequencing

IV

When he was a child, he had the 
    taste for hunting frogs, of
    little size and of unharmful charm,
And to choke them, bare hands, empty-
    minded, making me fear
His will, making me
Feel low, like an
    unblossom, made in time
    but not in luck; making me
Fear...imagine the emotion.

I'm not helpless soul, since I can
    tell what lies underneath the tears
And outside
    the emotion, but I can't stop
    crying
Startled by noises
    like infants
One four radio scream:
    Marcus!

The angel above our heard
    has a lot of weight to hold
    in his clean given hands
And he likes this thing
    just as little as we like to be lied
    by our throats
By the soft feathers
    and by the oath of miracles.
What a world...

    not mine!
       mine's much terrible.
Deemed in night's fever.

I went out, after two months
    of staying in.
Foggy, cold day
    feels nice
       no.....no, it doesn't.
Aural lights, blind gesture, creative
    painting, snowmans with
    no snow, fun and fond moods,
    serent happening around the
    corner of modes and motives
it's
    fa-la-la-la-la
and all that
       Babel!

Dragged and dropped back,
      I met a girl's growing eyes
    watching me (you think?
                        you really think?)
In rejoice of exile.

same girl...
          by profile.
          by eyes.
          by cheeks.
          by milked lips.

My friend, my mentor, my never.
Saturday was his funeral
    down icy river and frozen stones.

What happened?
    The frog got his vengeance
    by a bite and a grin.

Speaking?
       Never.
       Always.
       Maybe.

I am always the person who waits
    and stands in waiting
    for something to be said
    and for me to be told what to go;
    in figure, it takes quite the annoying
    time until someone tells me
    what to do, plus it happens to be
    a quick and clearly evasive remark
    to wait and to wait standing
    just a little more
Ain't angry about my still place
    in the library of motions and
    in the vitalness of imagination.
Just sad
    and without gracefully seeing the thing
    of others being so capable as to
    choose; choice is my poison.
A poison never killing
    only offending the integrity of the
    trapped soul in his own
    possible trap.
There you
    are; can you
Wait
    a little longer; I'll tell
    you what to do
If I can just remember where
    I've told you to
Stay.

In der dunkelheit
No one wants you
Unbroken...
    Don't smile!

Now the snow formed a solid crust
    on the window's peak
Through the mist of clouded view
Everything is
    and is not.

Santy,
    pass that bottle, will you
And touch the sky
Like only you can.

And here goes the short thing of a train's thoughts.
         
             Short thing of a train's thoughts

And the short thing of a train's thoughts goes like:

As a train
I'm not bothered
By the rails
    and by their crunchy gaps
But get tensed
When the rush of accelerating
    kicks in.



There's no figure of speech
In my blood's
    singularity.

A drow poem:

Lil jiv'undus d'elghinn
verin faer elgg mzil Ilythiiri
usstan uil dro
usstan kyorl
usstan uil noamuth
usstan uil ussta abbil
usstan xal izil al elgg usstan
STREEA!
nindel zhah ol!
STREEA!
velve wun lil xukuth
mzit vlos
xas
mzit vlos!

Translation:

The pain of death
evil magic kill many drow
I am alive
I wait
I am a wanderer
I am my friend
I may as well kill myself
SUICIDE!
That is it!
SUICIDE!
Knife in the heart
Much blood
Yes
Much blood!


Edited by Geck0 - February 06 2007 at 00:35

Atavachron wrote: A Guy wrote: Here is my poem: things things no things t h i    n     g      s Yes, there are things. (usually) (brackets) @ things Edit: Argh the formatting ruined it.      Not at all, I like it as is.

    
Thanks. The formatting thing was that the vertical word 'things' was supposed to be diagonal as well...

I did an open mic spot this evening and decided to record it for posterity, even though I was hardly firing on all cylinders. I have a massive ulcer on my inner lip that makes every syllable I utter extremely painful, and I've had next to no sleep of late. Still, if you want to know how my poems sound when I say the with my mouth, try this link for size: http://www.megaupload.com/?d=4ZYM953K