Poetry #too.

Journey into the Mysterious Darkness

Apparently in the cellar
nothing is apparent
in the dark cellar.

Could be potatoes
could be mice
could be plastic buckets
on one of the stairs
leading down
to the cellar where
there could be potatoes
there could be mice
there could be (more) plastic buckets.

One thing's for sure:
you cannot find the right screwdriver
in the darkness
when there is none.



Edited by Vompatti - April 20 2010 at 16:36

I Need to Make a Note to Buy Some Matches Before I Run Out . . .

I can't imagine
St. Augustine
ever having a cat.

Just like I can't imagine
Socrates or Plato
ever having
a miniature pig.

Apparently they keep matches
under the counter in some stores.

Five left.

None came back.

Burnout.

I've only been to a drag race once in my life
but I still remember
what it felt like.

And I remember some of the cats
of which St. Augustine
had none,
I think.

Shapes

What can be said of the town

I can't believe I didn't know about this thread until now. I don't take poetry very seriously, but here's a couple things I wrote to amuse myself and my friends.

Fish

Fish fish fish fish fish fish fish
Is delicious
It cannot be broken, cannot be seen
Is often yellow and sometimes green
It contains mercury and that's alright with me
Fish fish fish
It's made of meat
Fish fish fish
It's nice to eat
If I could eat fish every day, I wouldn't have to write a play
about fish

[curtain]

The Hangover

I'm not as think as you drunk I am
I've had eggs and bacon and sausage and ham
I've had half a veal cutlet and a leg of lamb
And sprouts and carrots and beans and yams
And that was just for breakfast

For lunch I had coffee and a gallon of tea
And a fish I caught in the deep blue sea
It tasted twice as good because it was free
I made its bones into a necklace

So if all that's not enough to sober me up
I'll spit three times into a Dixie cup
And then go back to bed

[curtain]





Believe it or not, I have many more of these. I'll post some from time to time unless people start begging me not to (even then, no promises.)


Edited by thellama73 - April 24 2010 at 23:01

Edited by Tsevir Leirbag - April 24 2010 at 23:50

Prostitution  

For Matt

Edited by Tsevir Leirbag - April 25 2010 at 00:33

thellama73 wrote: Vompatti, your poems are genius. The emotional content of the line "You cannot find the right screwdriver" is stunning.

If only you knew how emotional I get when I screw!

Dedicated to Vompatti (but you weren't listening)

Edited by Luca Pacchiarini - April 30 2010 at 08:59

Oh, Woe Is Me!

Why,
oh why is it
that my life is so
very miserable?
It makes me want to cry
and commit various other
equally pathetic acts
such as lying face down in the gutter
contemplating the mystery of death.

When my one true love left me
the world around me shattered to pieces
and very soon I began to suffer
from constipation, hair loss
and alienation from people my age
who do nothing but drink beer,
dance (in a silly way)
and read nonsensical academic filth
such as Jacques Derrida
and that other French guy
whose name begins with an F.

Oh!
Where is
my loved one,
where?
And how come
I never win
at horse races?
Why is my life
so full of misery?
I'm so pathetic!
So pathetic
I don't even know
how to end
this poem
if not
like this.