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poetry sucks

i write poems

I MOVE CHICKENS

I never really post shit I write but

 

 

 

 

 

There are ways of talking about the neighbourhood

and there are ways of talking about the neighbourhood.

 

And after the neighbourhood

there is the city,

 

and after the city

there is the whole,

 

and after the hole, 

I went and picked a lock.

 

I mean, a lot.

 

Each time was easier, each friend pushed lower in estimation-

 

a secret hold held above, and launching power trips below; an estrangement, and a calculated blow of sorts; 

 

a way to sure fire right, write, never be wrong, and keep moving.

 

Two would have been enough.

I chose twenty and plus;

and all the while, through those long journeys ending in river-bed junk-yards, scuppered by trollies, or tumbling through tobacco-split wood-chip gravel to meet an asphalt-crash fencing… all the while I jumped at the wrong point.

 

Each time I got a cut,

some better, some worse,

a graze, or a lime-split,

then a broken rib, a gash,

or a few hairs pulled elastically from my scalp.

 

They kept turning up in the papers,

or on the internet.

Parts exchange, or in the Sunday Stolen Bike Market.

My fingerprints were everywhere.

But my footprints weren't.

 

My friends took the bus.

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  • 1 month later...

TIME FOR A POEM ISNT IT YES

 

Way to stand, bro.

 

(shitass unthinkable title okay)

 

That tiredness could be wholly new:

I took most of adulthood to know this.

I spent the rest in parks, not waiting

but imagining what I would

be happy to wait for.

A woman, or a dress.

She arrived with a train

of days behind her, Mondays,

Tuesdays, on the red carpet

of her small tongue.

The sky grew tall.

The sea became our ghost:

it made that sound, not telling

us to stay, wait it out,

but as much, in much

less time, or words. You said

it was my fault, that I'd

trained it to in secret.

Pavlovian dog sky,

you said. 

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  • 2 months later...

no one posts here 

 

i post here

 

im ashamed of my poetry these days for reasons but here is most recent 

 

“It’s grey out.”

The talking bear is talking again.

I know because the bear doesn’t say anything else.

“It’s grey out.”

“It’s grey out.”

He sure knows what colour it is, that big brown bear.

I know it’s hard being a bear.

Nothing about bears, but something about being.

I have own my problems.

One bird vs. whole sky.

It is not what I want.

I could go to sleep, but that’s what everyone says, not what everyone does.

I could cry but I don’t think so, really.

Not when it’s still so much like that afternoon from before, with Jo.

She had that precursory look about her, like she was about to happen to herself, and nothing I could do could do anything, could.

Jojo in the garden singing the word afternoon, and then all the honey, unless the flood comes first, but that depends.

It depends on what depends.

Or maybe it just deepens. Like how the more I say, the worse I think.

Silence is manly. Silence could make an adult out of a dog, even. Or a toy cat.

But it’s all so rare now. You think, where is it? All of it. Where?

She said she was going to come over but she isn’t because the afternoon always arrives after her and it’s already here.

Meaning I can smell the garden on the wind.

So I choose the afternoon instead.

I guess it’s a compromise, just like the world.

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a small morning

i am slow sliding underneath your eyelids. icicle fingernails, smooth skin, mixing with your breath in blues and greys. smudged against the forest landscape, making footprints in time, dragging a pine branch behind me to cover them. it is home here everywhere. i cannot complain. your mouth slips into a smile, cutting the breeze, cold knife.

 

sure

why wouldn’t i exist, y’know? i fold my legs and your vocal vibrations sound nice to my ears. let’s do this as long as we can. if other people don’t want to admit they feel the heat rising off the earth, that’s their problem. i found some magnetic letters and stuck them on the fridge in the shape of my name. i opened the fridge and the light turned on. i don’t know what other people are thinking and that’s ok, because i can listen to the air conditioner play a two note symphony forever.

 

encounters

i found my body laying

on the concrete cold

knife cut open i carved

out what’s broken peeled

back the eyelids and

placed a dead dog

under my tongue

i saw my self burning

my leftover skin

and smashed in my

skull to prevent any

more thoughts from

escaping into the night

i crept on all fours

across the glistening

silence and glimpsed

my hand strangling

my useless rhythms

in beautiful motion

i dreamt i was

a figment of my

bruised imagination

flickering across the

lake for a minute

and then nothing

 

7:48

a fly lands on my forehead.

i flick it away.

 

50 flies land gracefully on my forehead.

i move to another state.

 

i’m making big money

selling glass statues

to people with no hope

of ever tying their shoes.

i’m creating my own

chance at chipping off

a piece of the big puzzle.

i’m running in circles

wider and wider

and my head

splits open

and two

is not

two

it

is

here

i squeeze through

keyholes in the night

spilling my sweet blood

everywhere for anyone

who may want to taste

a little different again.

do you know who i am?

you’ve seen me before.

we talked for hours

and no flies ever landed

anywhere near us.

 

green evening

i’m sliding out of the water into the ocean with one hand in my pocket

the sky is green, the water is green, my breath is green, the sun is green, the wind is green too

i can feel the music echoing from shoreline shacks and rooms

i slip under the sound and hear your name in a shell ringing clear

 

night ritual

sometimes my skin feels wrong, like my body belongs to someone else. so i wait for the night to roll in, and i climb out through the mouth. the air welcomes my new shape with infinite arms. the wind whispers me out the window. the stars speak their secrets. ripples on the dark glass water. a heron on the shore. branches point their fingers forever. i am the cloud that hides half of the moon. you are asleep in your silence.

 

pistachios

pistachios are the seashells of the nut kingdom. if you put your ear to the open hole you hear blades of grass rubbing against each other. if you rub the back gently it feels good. when i think of pistachios i move my eyebrows upward about 2mm. i listen for you to crack open a pistachio with your teeth and then eat it. i am patient and you are hungry. i have a whole pile of pistachios in my lap and i’m sitting here with them. if you put half of a pistachio shell to your ear you can hear a cat dream and that is probably the best part of all.

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a small morning

 

i am slow sliding underneath your eyelids. icicle fingernails, smooth skin, mixing with your breath in blues and greys. smudged against the forest landscape, making footprints in time, dragging a pine branch behind me to cover them. it is home here everywhere. i cannot complain. your mouth slips into a smile, cutting the breeze, cold knife.

 

 

sure

 

why wouldn’t i exist, y’know? i fold my legs and your vocal vibrations sound nice to my ears. let’s do this as long as we can. if other people don’t want to admit they feel the heat rising off the earth, that’s their problem. i found some magnetic letters and stuck them on the fridge in the shape of my name. i opened the fridge and the light turned on. i don’t know what other people are thinking and that’s ok, because i can listen to the air conditioner play a two note symphony forever.

 

 

encounters

 

i found my body laying

on the concrete cold

knife cut open i carved

out what’s broken peeled

back the eyelids and

placed a dead dog

under my tongue

 

i saw my self burning

my leftover skin

and smashed in my

skull to prevent any

more thoughts from

escaping into the night

 

i crept on all fours

across the glistening

silence and glimpsed

my hand strangling

my useless rhythms

in beautiful motion

 

i dreamt i was

a figment of my

bruised imagination

flickering across the

lake for a minute

and then nothing

 

 

7:48

 

a fly lands on my forehead.

i flick it away.

 

 

50 flies land gracefully on my forehead.

i move to another state.

 

 

i’m making big money

selling glass statues

to people with no hope

of ever tying their shoes.

i’m creating my own

chance at chipping off

a piece of the big puzzle.

i’m running in circles

wider and wider

and my head

splits open

and two

is not

two

it

is

here

i squeeze through

keyholes in the night

spilling my sweet blood

everywhere for anyone

who may want to taste

a little different again.

 

do you know who i am?

you’ve seen me before.

we talked for hours

and no flies ever landed

anywhere near us.

 

 

green evening

 

i’m sliding out of the water into the ocean with one hand in my pocket

 

the sky is green, the water is green, my breath is green, the sun is green, the wind is green too

 

i can feel the music echoing from shoreline shacks and rooms

 

i slip under the sound and hear your name in a shell ringing clear

 

 

night ritual

 

sometimes my skin feels wrong, like my body belongs to someone else. so i wait for the night to roll in, and i climb out through the mouth. the air welcomes my new shape with infinite arms. the wind whispers me out the window. the stars speak their secrets. ripples on the dark glass water. a heron on the shore. branches point their fingers forever. i am the cloud that hides half of the moon. you are asleep in your silence.

 

 

pistachios

 

pistachios are the seashells of the nut kingdom. if you put your ear to the open hole you hear blades of grass rubbing against each other. if you rub the back gently it feels good. when i think of pistachios i move my eyebrows upward about 2mm. i listen for you to crack open a pistachio with your teeth and then eat it. i am patient and you are hungry. i have a whole pile of pistachios in my lap and i’m sitting here with them. if you put half of a pistachio shell to your ear you can hear a cat dream and that is probably the best part of all.

 

like a lot

 

text needs to be bigger!

 

it's interesting because i think they are more expansive and more open to themselves and their is a slackness in the language which makes room for your imagination to operate - i like them more than most of the ones you wrote before and other than the kind of comfily dark, sometimes deathly, rurality i think they are quite diff too and it's cool that you can write that diff 

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i wrote this v fast (5m) and is v long so read it v slow (100hours) and v short (i dont know what this means)

 

NO 

 

FUCKING

 

TITLE 

 

TITLE 

 

 

i dont love you because of you are;

i love you because of you're not not.

 

the emblematic structure of your personhood

tires me out, in a good way - it is as though

i was fingering the very outer limit of boredom

(smooth), which meant by implication that i wasnt inside boredom

which was exactly what i needed to know

at that time

 

there are things to be said about your eyes

i am not the person to say them but i am the one who says

that such things are there to be said

 

who else does that for you? and you certainly don’t do it for yourself.

 

perhaps you should thank me half way through june? 

 

i am already waiting 

 

more about the things to be said:

 

they are not said but they are there to be said

and there not being said is part of that being,

as much as how much would be if they were

 

you see

your skin is the weatherman of my soul

 

i get the news

the forecast

 

it comes at me straight

 

it informs me about tomorrow and sometimes yesterday

it is numbers and colours on a screen

 

the weatherman who undresses depending on how bad

the news is

 

the news about the weather, i mean

 

you run naked around in the weather studio when it snows outside

saying

i am meaningful

 

you have never been more right even in

the orange tshirt from

before - do you remember,

next to that van? maybe

it was jo's van

 

you ate a strawberry

then the van was going away, down the road towards

some more roads

with fruit for sale in little boxes

at the side

the fruit inside the boxes was probably red too 

 

the thing about boredom, hm,

it's like a long road with signs encouraging you to turn back

but when boredom is a landscape the signs on its roads are not true - you have to keep going -  it is only at the very end of boredom that you actually reach joy,

not at the beginning - if it had been at the beginning, wouldn't you have memories of it?

 

i mean, isn’t the whole point that joy carves memories out of the very strangeness that

it turns certain parts of the world into when it passes through us

on it's journey towards our children and their pets and

their ideas about how we feel about the whole “joy” thing?

 

the answer, as usual, is yes.

 

it will be yes in the evening, too, when you’re actually here for once.

 

but now everything is sad for you

until the grapes arrive in the basket and you can only look in wonder

your mouth mouthing grape at the grape

your legs feeling good, like legs

your arms your arms until

 

the lightning arrives like suddenly seeing your arms lit up more than before and saying

whose - in just that way it breaks the sky but only for its own duration

(very short) but it is all very pretty to see, because of the porch and the window

and the sky and the country we are in, which happens to be america

 

for once, actually america!

(i am talking about green grapes, of course, even when i say my own name i am talking about green grapes

and you know how many i mean)

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no invite

 

i got your message & felt like i needed to have my mom come pick me up

please don’t do this don’t describe


the places your ass has been

 

lying makes the hands tingle, oh god 


you catered to a block 


that we pretended to dismiss


the clouds in my safe


only appear if it is your idea

 

hey, unhealthy, go away


you make only my angry good

 

i was riding high upon a shadow


til your gods attended 


breakfast in my garden

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no invite

 

i got your message & felt like i needed to have my mom come pick me up

please don’t do this don’t describe


the places your ass has been

 

lying makes the hands tingle, oh god 


you catered to a block 


that we pretended to dismiss


the clouds in my safe


only appear if it is your idea

 

hey, unhealthy, go away


you make only my angry good

 

i was riding high upon a shadow


til your gods attended 


breakfast in my garden

 

there are many many many different tones in this i think 

 

 

if this poem was anthologized everyone would write that garden meant vagina 

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GOT MORE

 

Eight o’clock in the world.

Time for a poem.

There are other times but they are for

other poems, or other people, or

indoor squash in the late winter

with Tula. She is so, so usual.

Her hair unmakes decisions

from deep in the contours

of my childhood.

 

We will drink tea. We will drink coffee.

We will drink wine. I can already see it:

the table is clean. You are here. The wind

abates. The cat is friendlier now, and tender.

Everything about everything says summer

in a voice which becomes known for

the quietness which it says is finally

buried in the suggestion of the bone

in the hand which I hold - yours, you.

Very much so.

 

You see it correctly.

Even the barns, with the stare you loop

over them, like a lace being tied.

The image hardens, bound

to memory, and therefore

to me also, me of the September vines, the one

grape - remember? Remember. Please. As timeless as it was stupid,

as windy as it was nervous - I mean the sky.

Personally, I felt wonderful.

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