Poetry #too.

An Untitled Poem (Until I Wrote This Line)

Thought about going to see an improvisational theatre group tonight but
sat a bit too long in the tub reading Bukowski's selected letters and
making volcanoes out of empty shampoo bottles and watching how yellow
the walls were and probably still are.

Now it's about eight o'clock and the theatre group should be finishing up
by now but I'm still sitting here on the sofa writing about them. I'm sure
they did something with a chair because that's what improvisational theatre
is all about, doing something with a chair and some people and sometimes a
lamp.

Anyway, I haven't written anything even remotely interesting lately and I
can't decide what to eat next, will it be potato chips or will it be coffee
and chocolate, I still don't know. The sun is shining so it must be summer.
Either that or I've got the clock set wrong, in which case the theatre group
could still be there, and better there than here, of course. I don't even have
a chair, so there you have it. (The chair, that is.) I've got a sofa and one of
those high things you keep in the kitchen and move to wherever you need
to change the bulb or get something from the top shelf of the closet. That's
all. I think I'll start with the potato chips.

not one of your best ones to be honest.

Ouch.

I am the octahedron where the dawn hides at night.
The ocean climbs into my room
and furnishes my despair
with empty shells
and dead fish
and stuff like that.
I am the carpenter you never met.

Edited by Man With Hat - August 27 2009 at 21:20

A poem i wrote based on the meter of "Black Hole Sun" by Soundgarden:

Vad jag ser
I profil
Är en rastlös krokodil
Som är trött
Som aldrig förr
Allt i vattnet är ju dött

Vad jag vet
Irrelevant
Som en ensam elefant
Inte ler
Länge till
Det är bara han som ser

Vad jag hör
Det förstör
Vad jag är och vad jag bör
Hörs ett tjut
Hörs ett rop
Inte kan det vara slut

I en grop
I en hög
Allt som dammsugaren sög
Sopar in
Under mattan
Och nu har den blivit min

Upp på land
I min hand
Syns en mäktig blodröd rand
Ända hit
Varför då
Jag har ingen dynamit

TRANSLATION (sort of):
What i see in profile is a restless crocodile who is tired like never before, everything in the water is dead now.
What i know. Irrelevant(?) like a lonely elephant who rarely smiles anymore. He's the only one who sees.
What i hear, it destroys. What i am and what i better do. A ??? is heard, a shout is heard. This can't be the end?
In a hole, in a pile, everything the vaccum cleaner cleaned up. Sweep it in under the carpet and now it's all mine.
Up on land, in my hand, a mighty blood-red stripe is showing. All the way here, why? I don't have any dynamite.

I'm not sure it made much sense to start with, and it makes even less sense when translated.
Feel free to Intepret it any way you want! I hope you enjoyed it

Horaito Saunders Takes A Sh*t  

Edited by Man With Hat - September 06 2009 at 16:24

Since We Don't Have a Prose Thread . . .

"Frank?" Sarah said.
"Yes", Frank said.
"Do you not understand me?" Sarah said.
"No", Frank said. "I mean yes."
It was nine o'clock.
"Do you drive a rally car?" Sarah said.
"No", Frank said. "I'd love to be a gravedigger though."
"A gravedigger?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Why not?"
"I don't know."
"Me neither."
It was ten o'clock.

swoosh. thud. swoosh! thud. (but why?)

a Wednesday is past,
a Wednesday is past,
they brought me two papers today.
if I had not looked at them
I wouldn't have known
they were one
and the same.
  (and yet,
  they brought me two
  of them.)
my life has infected
written all over it.

A Sketch for a Little Love Poem

Oh, Winona,
would you believe me if I told you
I just lost three hours of precious sleep
contemplating your immaculate beauty?

It's a strange thing
how a poor little wombat like me
can look into your wondrous eyes
on the cold television screen
and see the very reflection
of his own tortured self.

(Please don't take it as an offence
if I seem to have found my gruesome form
dwelling in the depths of your profound gaze.)

There was a time
when I desired to meet you
the way people meet each other
by accident or by fate
but having dreamt for so long
I'm beginning to feel my path
will forever remain
too narrow and circular
to ever cross with yours.

These feeble lips
could never kiss the hem of your skirt
but still I dream of your calm presence
like St. John of the Cross
dreamt of God.

And though I know you don't even know I exist
I reveal this heart-shaped void to your ever-loving eyes
I stretch these broken hands to the warmth of your gentle touch
I toss this mischievous marsupial soul at the feet of your affectionate grandeur.

what has my government given me but a

grey plastic telephone,
you are not my friend.
NO!
I start again.
I start again:
I keep this bottle
on the sofa table
and sometimes smell it.
The man in black and white blazer
can't take it away from me.
I like it wet,
which reminds me,
- ehat a taja tatt tatay
(what a strange, strange shape!)
`jht dd7 u8 . - -)
(I keep t´hihtting the worínf gft fyyfygy yrtryr
ENOUGH.
leave it at the door.