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I don't write poems ever I don't know if this is a poem. this reminds me of when i was volunteering at a detention center and none of the kids wanted to stand up and read their poems and embarrass themselves in front of their peers.

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I don't write poems ever I don't know if this is a poem. this reminds me of when i was volunteering at a detention center and none of the kids wanted to stand up and read their poems and embarrass themselves in front of their peers.

 

my life story

 

 

0-18 

 

only desire is to avoid embarrassment

 

18+

 

actively seeking embarrassment at all times, by means of art if necessary

 

 

 

aple

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my writing pattern is basically like this

 

meet someone you like 

 

write 50 poems

 

get to know them better

 

write 100 poems

 

suddenly find you cannot write any more poems about this person or even talk to them or even think about them ever again

 

become a tiny flower

 

meet someone else

 

write 50 poems 

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u guys be editing so much givn me like free embarrassment like wtf

 

 

 

this one is megalong so watch out if you wanna 

 

 

 

suddenly I felt okay all at once

I thought please don’t make all my feeling okay happen at once can’t we spread it out

there are long journeys ahead

yes,

I see cars

with the windows down

oh christ

 

Then the suddenness. That was all at once too, because suddenness can’t come in processes like for example

becoming a man.

I like my gradualism as much as the next man and evolution

was nice

but isn’t this all too close

to my face for my liking

 

like couldn’t you have at least said something

to someone

somehow

once

before you just went in all in like you are doing now without consulting anyone?

I mean jeeeez, I reckon you need to reprioritize a little before we next feel each other’s cheeks that way

 

you know, in the underpass

 

Did I mention

we’re inside the car

the old old car which is blue

our paint

us,

we are here too again in the selfless astonishment which the sky always implied

is that really what you want? That?

I guess you had long enough to think you wanted it and now I guess you do and just because it’s not me I’m not gonna start some big stir about it

we cool

I cool

 

I cool

he/she/it cool

you cool

we cool

you pl. cool

they cool

 

It’s all good from where I’m standing, this wonderful kitchen, these big windows,

like that garden just out there so you can count how many birds you’ve never seen before (millions and millions)

 

those windows!

 

because of the windows! Light!

and also her face

her ears

they make birds of the birds

those fine listening ears she got on either face-side

she’s a party made of skin and I’m

attending

fashionably late

to the ears

but I’m so glad


 

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like fruit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

anyways my boyfriend said my poem was good not great that it doesnt leap off the page and that im too idealistic everyone then i asked him to leave the room just because i wanted to be left alone now and watch anime and goodnight and he wouldnt then i locked the door while he kept knocking saying let me in repeatedly when i asked why he said i want to come inside i said you're being creepy he said no im not i said yes you are he said i feel bad ill look at your poem i said go away youre creepy but then the space became too creepy so i had to force myself to be nice to him putting it on like pot on stove i dont like cooking though too much of a hassle

 

bjork "who's closed off, who's open chested" - stonemilker

 

i think im closed off

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all poems need work but only in the sense that all people need work, i mean, to prevent them being unemployed, not because they will be better after 

 

i thought of this post just now

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i wrote two songs last week they go like this 

 

fourteen things

to do

before i

go to bed

first one is

shoot myself in the head

find a functioning gun

shoot myself in the head

next one is

to call you (NO MINOR, 2 TO 4, CALL YOU UP / TELL YOU HOW / I ALWAYS EVERYONE)

tell you how i hated

 

every fuck every hug

every man every dog

every cat every woman

even on

my days off

 

every sleep every jump

every week every month

every jog every run

i cant remember

ever having had fun

 

thirteen things

left in the world

that’ll never done

 

one of them is

to take you to the movies

 

there’s lithuanian film

they dont show it often

 

cos some of the scenes are

pretty pretty fucking long!(MINOR ON FOURTH AND UP TO THE 7TH AND THEN SLOW


 

but they’re screening it

in january

if you love

 

get your ass down there and see

 

every cut

every still

every camera angle

if you make it to the end

you’ll see the actors names

 

like little digital graves

like little digital graves




 

it was saturday

you took your jumper off

the sky was fucking huge

 

there’s a dog over there

my hand is on your leg

i can feel something

it is not your heart beating

(something else here but i forgot)

 

it was a saturday

you took your t shirt off

the sky nodded its approval

but i was looking the other way

i saw some trees and a family

 

the sky disappeared into itself

typical weather

in this country

the stars are nothing,

the stars are my mother

in supernova drag

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I wrote a very short thing maybe look maybe don't I can't tell you what to do.

 

If god is real it looks like

this: gnarled beyond grace,

 

 

ascends, grips,

 

 

carries galaxies of lichens

like children

 

 

in the elbows of its roots.

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I wrote a very short thing maybe look maybe don't I can't tell you what to do.

 

If god is real it looks like

this: gnarled beyond grace,

 

 

ascends, grips,

 

 

carries galaxies of lichens

like children

 

 

in the elbows of its roots.

 

great

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One more improvised because.

 

 

 

Prayer Flags

 

They’ve been mine since I was seven.

I have strung them up, shoved them in

boxes, crates, plastic bags, never put them

outside,

 

where they are supposed to be, since

prayers are carried by the wind and

that does not apply to air-conditioned artificial

indoor breezes.

 

Prayer flags are beaten by the wind so their

prayers are freed from the fabric and the flags

decay in the elements like a corpse left

outdoors.

 

 

 

(I don't want to see it disintegrate.

(Connect the dots.

(Metaphors are atom bombs.)

 

 

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yeah, like!

 

just me, but id use something like body instead of corpse, cos im squeamish, and i think the word corpse has to much meaning to be used in poems whereas body, i like the word body and we'd know its dead anyway, all bodies are dead.

 

the central image is superfun mix of intrigue and beauty tho no doubt 

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i wrote this yesterday in some dumb mountain town

 

 

 

I could not think, trees.

 

I could not move, a house.

 

I am not. A bird, a bird, a house.

 

I look. It is as it was. 

 

Was as it is. 

 

Pineapple, one.

 

Seven, two, pineapple. All

 

on the table. Sense of

 

it won't happen again, love.

 

The dark of how quiet 

 

rooms are when 

 

desire colludes with its object.

 

 

Without plans, he stood. The grass did not shiver

 

on his account, for once.

 

He felt foggishly countoured, singing

 

the becauses which time had squeezed

 

into or out of him, in the great

 

depending, the concrete earliness.

 

No, I cannot. You know what happened.

 

The world retracted, and you with it,

 

and not into my eye or mouth.

 

Here which became there, oh, return

 

in spring, will you, if!

 

Your hair, a single balloon:

 

memory memory memory, oh ah.  

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curved behind me, holding me there,

her unwashed hair on my neck,

her jaw clicking when she yawns,

my ribs slightly crushed,

i can't breathe enough to sleep

 

and him, he lives with me now

his new lover comes by, a sad woman

like me,

but new

 

i can't get over it

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