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pennyroyalty

peotry thread

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deaf barrel around the scenery

near earth to

notice mountains

purchased grease speaks

for the hooves

like ants beyond the rocks

pitted against the blobs

leaks under the horizon

shy water

forgot the sun

something is still moving

feathers cooperate

after the patience

...shrieking in a dot

oh grass tidies itself

for another faster emotion

is a warm night

a fingernail

into a funny sphere of muscles

bites there the apple

prizes stir

as muddy bicycles

lakeside food spread into

the graves

then noise to swing it out

a false commitment

see animals mute

so then

without intention

a breeze trickles in the

sunny dawn

loveit

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Hey. Just wrote this, but it feels a bit silly. (Sorry for any mistakes, English is not my native language)

 

 

Mother of pearl

 

I am an oyster.

I float in the tears

of the whale mothers

and of all homesick sailors.

I feast on crumbles

And understand them.

I live off the lashes of the sea

so she and I can weep together.

 

I am an oyster.

I have thousands of hearts beating on every shore,

my guts are made of sunlight

and green serenity.

I greet fishes

sing with corals

and watch the seals in their winter ballet.

I turn my wounds into jewels,

for I will have to wear them.

 

I am an oyster and you eat me alive

and now I squirm and twist and yell just to stay aware

before the sea claims me as her child

before I cease to hear the bubbling shores

at least, you say, I have

a pretty shell.

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some drafts
 
 
poem
 
cant we stop having ever met
 
and work together on the perfect orchard
 
which would accommodate the meeting
 
proper to us? exactly triangulated between
 
peach plum and pear trees all in
 
equal stages of bloom, of death
 
or fruiting? or rather that all
 
three tastes were united at last (didn't you feel too
 
as though they had been split
 
from some perfect original flavour,
 
infinitely divided into sad
 
echoes, or not?) 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
poem
 
 
 
the january rains subsided:
 
small parties rocked
 
the weather stations. 
 
the news of the mountain's growth spread
 
as slowly as the mountain's growth.
 
one more wednesday ticked off, and
 
approximately four sherpas dead. 
 
james the great superstar
 
was still in bed - his feet
 
the right temperature. 
 
finally. the first prize
 
in the annual snow & noise
 
sculpture competition
 
will not be awarded to anyone 
 
this year
 
we declare this year too overall sad
 
for such an awarding
 
to take place
 
 
a sherpa smiles at a moon
 
a pebble on a beach rises into the air, 
 
a couple of inches
 
 
as if sadness
 
could hold back a snow-noise sculpture
 
prize giving event 
 
many participants mumble
 
 
but soon it is hot again
 
june, whatever 
 
and they are all looking in some
 
completely different direction 
 
 
poem
 
the first poem to be written 
 
was, in the opinion of many people,
 
not a poem. the last 
 
table will be
 
beautiful beyond description:
 
in the middle of it,
 
in the small hole - 
 
 
i can't think of anything but:
 
Karl Marx's big fat bleeding head? 
 
 
 
poem
 
They''ll solve global warming, see – all the oceans are just

Inching towards you

 

They just have to put you on the moon for fives minutes

And the world will fix itself

 

But don’t

 

Don’t go ever

 

Stay, like a television

Always the same distance from the wall

 

Yes, see – you breathe sameness, the others, the peters

They just experience it from a far

They’re the long distance snipers of a daydream I never had

You’re the land, the mud, the people who

Locate the mud, who work

Make it fertile – a long complicated process

 

Everything was difficult until

 

Everything was boring

It sort of still is but this light

 

All I have to do is feed it to nowhere

Go to bus stations and so on and you

Blossom up out of the bread crusts and delays

100% fluency 0% ignorance 2% me

 

Your eyes divert rivers towards

The dirt inside my poems

which is such a threat

 

quite beautiful rivers

 

I just become windows and watch from all angles at once

Orgasming like I never have

 

The wing span of one your moods – I have seen eagles

Die of shame just when I

Mentioned it via echolocation /

when your knee

pointed at Nepal

 

Let’s have a hollow boned infant together

Pour language over his happy new skull

Holy water also

Only a little urine

occasionally, funnily, hilariously, wondrously

 

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some flippant recent stuff:

 

 

untitled

 

a gorgeous lion, one wine gum 

 
on the floor between us.
 
meanwhile, stars, i think.
 
david (the baker) got here first,
 
they said. sad, to listen 
 
to that kind of talk. the ache of moon
 
sheds layers of weakness (stronger
 
and stronger) over the burn
 
on the hill-edge. as one 
 
lake subsides into her
 
(breasts displayed, as in a museum) 
 
and the beating wing 
 
stops, i can make out between us
 
the indication that all of it
 
was totally unnecessary 
 
in the end. 
 
 
untitled
 
where charlotte left, the emptiness
 
leaks spiders into the hole. 
 
not blocking, not filling. i think of james
 
when i see the letters
 
in your name, spiralling stupidly, never
 
plumming the distance. agape, agape. the still
 
tendons are not floats or balls
 
for the play area; the sad dog's movements
 
where tracked to here 
 
but where is the dog, exactly? awful oranges
 
skew your dreams like
 
the movie arrows we both disowned,
 
through june, through july, through august. 
 
picture me, wont you, can you, 
 
with my hat round your ears and my arms
 
pointing at the place 
 
we both, truly, came from? 
 
 
untitled
 
jane spat the hill
 
right at him. drooping wingspaces
 
are plucking the lower spaces
 
like nobody's business, e.g., 
 
all across the curve where the absence
 
points inward. i did love her but
 
the table was in the way. the crimes
 
scroll upwards, the boats go
 
backwards, but the rook slides
 
one square up. towards, towards. oh friend,
 
can i see you again, before
 
the tide feeds your ankles
 
to its chickens, to its huge, huge mood? 
 
 
untitled
 
lake where quiet spills or dies.
 
a wave, or is it eight? my memories 
 
of your nose are perfectly organised, 
 
i said. no, you said, no, no. no. 
 
bees, in formation; clouds, a bellowing
 
animal waz here. i, in tenderness,
 
go one step this way. 
 
your gesture floats back:
 
the tunnel of mine was good, deep. 
 
hedgerows, and sparrows, and 
 
the rest, we think, is milk,
 
we think, is milk. come then,
 
into the air. 
 
 
untitled
 
a sort of tidal mischief, maybe?
 
possibly curb the endings a little,
 
hoist them like blankets
 
over the stars. scoop 
 
the middle of the middle 
 
out; it screams beginning
 
like a child not even
 
in the womb yet. add bookending
 
dawns where appropriate (you know
 
what i mean as much
 
as i do). blunt the angles. i think
 
one more jesus might 
 
smooth over the second joint 
 
especially if you can find a place
 
for it to slot in 
 
where the bluetit left of in
 
"minor faeces". but above all
 
continue to trust in yourself - in
 
your ignorance, and the way
 
things you touch
 
seem to arrive in my heart
 
with an aura of comfort
 
and depth which the hills
 
have long since given up on. 
 
 
untitled
 
 
 
night multiplied by wind but
 
then suddenly divided by 
 
an entire history, a century
 
of air - primarily german with
 
arguably determining russian gestures
 
in both easterly and westerly directions - 
 
above all: cold, dying, past 
 
 
and within this air you occasionally swim
 
while sleeping,
 
a strict regime of stroke variation
 
with a logical core transparent 
 
only in its performance

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some new ones

 

i think they are bit too "clever" in the worst sense of this word and simultaneously too "simple" in the worst sense of this words but ye who knows 

 

oh actually just one it seems in the end 

 

 

untitled

 

so you wake up.
it's day. 
this much you could have anticipated
even the bird song
to some extent
you could have anticipated
but the light
no
the way the taste of water 
this time and this time only
moves through you
the long years of being 
an ocean
paying off
water knows how to please me 
refrains from saying that final
unnecessary word 
 
morning insinuates itself 
in the gaps between 
w and e between e and d and d and n
the long years of being
part of time
paying off
then expands and 
 
 
oh
like being touched on the ear 
by god
by all the gods
all of them in a line to touch your ear 
and after they finish 
there is a knock on the door
 
you
 
you, who knows the bells
do not work
in this country of mine 

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bells not working just means, the kind of place / feeling where the bell on your door doesn't work, you have to knock, and your friends know they have to knock, but your enemies might ring the bill because they haven't been to your place before, but your girlfriend is your friend because she knocks and it's your country because it's the feeling that people know they can't ring the bell because like they know the rules here which govern your life and somehow it feels like you made the rules sometimes 

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more e.g.

 

 

Untitled
 
 
 
A way of being disguised
 
as a way of doing. Or a way of,
 
a little distance from the others,
 
under mild cloud cover,
 
doing being. Not in the Japanese sense of
 
some sort of beautiful post-Buddhist
 
dance routine which you can’t say
 
anything about, but rather
 
a way of being alone which runs – skips, even –
 
exactly down the line between loneliness
 
and suicide. Up and down the line,
 
without fear of repetition, because
 
the plants on the sides
 
are growing with such
 
speed. 
 
That, at least, was her plan.
 
 
 
Hello?
 
 
Language has turned itself into a minefield and put itself between us
 
we drop stones into the water from a rented helicopter
 
language has turned itself into impassable winter mountain terrain
 
we practise ski jumps on either side
 
language has turned itself into a new kind of strangeness
 
we pretend to be fish
 
language has turned itself into light
 
we turn off our torches and stand there
 
language has turned itself into our torches
 
we let them fall to the ground
 
language has turned itself into the thud of the torches hitting the ground
 
we listen to the sound
 
repeated eternally
 
with a certain satisfaction
 
 
 
Certain All-Conquering Powers I Know
 
 
Love, in the end, conquers all:
 
it tramples the bean stalks under foot
 
it tramples the insects hidden
 
therein
 
nothing can stand in its way
 
people see it from a far and turn back around
 
to attend the rows of things
 
in their gardens
 
people avoid it in the aisles
 
people look at the paintings in the corridors
 
for the first time ever
 
as they turn to let it pass
 
it travels fast
 
assimilating its failures into
 
forward motion
 
yes
 
they look at the paintings
 
they look at the horses in the fields there
 
ah
 
to look at horses in a field in a painting
 
one day
 
one day

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oh i get it i thought it said you (who knkws bells) do not work etc. i like that a lot better thanks for ghe explanation. i like the next untitled is it about faking subway trains?

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these ones i wrote on my phone so they have that going for them at least for example

 

 

write a poem today 

when you get back home

 

when you've planted the bombs 

in the food

destroyed any children 

 

write a poem 

if only to confirm that language

still exists

 

put it in the blown open body

of one of your children

where ill be sure to find it

 

poking about with my spanner

in the entrails,

checking if language

still exists 

 

 

edit, this one

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two political ones

 

 

political one one

 

 

Yes, they say, we hate capitalism too, but what’s

 

the alternative? We can’t all just turn into

 

beetles and Bach in a flash of pink

 

lightning, so we may as well just

 

look at the fridge and

 

get on with it.

 

I’m the alternative, I say. Look at my hands.

 

No, look at my face.

 

No, look at her face.

 

No. Don’t look at her face.

 

 

political one two 

 

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

girls in raincoats by seasides

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

dancing in the moonlight

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

tainted love

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

shake it off

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

taylor swift's hair today

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

yesterday

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

secret acts of darkroom philology

 

The only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

two trees

 

the only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

portable time machines the size of biscuits

 

the only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

reenacting your whole life backwards starting from now

 

the only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

one hundred million grapefruit falling from the sky

 

the only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

suicide by dance

 

the only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

mass imitation of lions

 

the only viable alternative to capitalism is

 

ending the poem at the right moment.  

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imagine the alternative timelines where the whole world is a full communist dictatorship

 

and a few moderate rebels want to implement a few capitalist measures to mitigate full communism

 

and one of them has a dream that gives him an accidental connection to our universe

 

and he sees this ad

 

http://youtu.be/kr7h8crYAYQ

 

he's never seen christmas or ads.

 

he rushes to tell his comrades, and becomes a new messiah

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at times, there is the search for numbness:

in the flimsy handle of a case of beer,

after swerving into the gas station

and walking out steady, knowing there is a way

to not be entirely here tonight

 

there is even the idea

of losing everything;

not: letting go, 

but: smashing to the ground

 

somewhere, there is the idea of 

reaching for life, untethered,

that the hands would burn if I could

hold so much;

that in the end, I would have 

more than I can comprehend

when I see how it lands,

and how much of the mess wasn’t

mine alone

 

already, I live in-between:

Forgetting enough each night

to wake up

and reach again

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