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poetry sucks

i write poems


  • 2 weeks later...

my attempt to write bad american-style poetry about issues


The male prostitute was going

To the left of the screen though not

Hoping to walk off it wholly

Into the ether (where I am). He was

Speaking Polish, that being

The language which he knew best

And therefore warmed him

On the cold nights and killed him

On the warm ones. He had been

Doing this since

He started: time was like that

now, so incredibly circular

And rotating so fast

That it would cut a dick clean off

If it ever came to that. It probably

Won’t though, thought the other man,

in German (the results of economic equality

are overwhelmingly sad), standing

Off stage left and looking at the sky

Like he always did, savouring

What had happened, reducing it

Softly to nature.   



then normal poetry which i probably posted already or might as well have done 


In someone else’s how (d major) 



Slightly to the left of okay

But isn’t that

The boy you weren’t ever

Going to talk about again? Then – I think

It was then – the way

Things had been started to otherwise

Themselves: new shapes, covert

Obsolescences you wouldn’t want to

But kept being

Caught dead with. The ocean


I’m afraid I don’t believe a word of this

I’m afraid that if I did

It still wouldn’t approach truth

Not even a fitting strangeness I’m



Then the ocean really did



We take matters like this very seriously


Then the ocean really for the last time


If we let you off, what about all the others


Rain, a drooping magnitude, an insular spectacularism, bereft of rainbows, and, or and/or light, never more brusque, more occasional that this, sinning its way home, into your breathing and off


Your name approaches itself

If I told a cliff to jump

Over you

Would anything


Your name in huge letters but where?



The waves fuck majestically, the garden

Of no one contracts, but only slightly



The police officers can’t stop dancing this is probably your chance

But look

You didn’t take it

And the ocean cools into a glacier


The whale you were looking for

Is frozen meat



Licks your ear




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  • 2 weeks later...
new old city

from metro to skytrain, the stations are the same
a little daylight makes little difference
either way
you can march distorted 
ellipses on the draughty platform
profaning memories while waiting
usually i feel like a misshapen thing
forced into a diligent set of tissues
insistent on their function
pedals on a wet black bike also
move with a tedious beauty
even the dark crack between train and platform has a purpose
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lol i can never translate the real things in my head into nonpretentious noncrap on paper/digital form, oh well


edit i mean theyre not real. of course. whatevr


im pretty sure no one can or has ever translated anything that was in their head into anything that was not in their head


the criteria by which what is real can be measured is by what - maximially - appears to be real (things outside the head) so those things are therefore real

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i was drunk when i wrote that, i guess what i was trying to say is that i "write" things sometimes in my head but as soon as i try to get them down in actual lasting writing i forget half of what i wanted to say and they become distorted and disingenuous. not sure how i feel about yr definition of the real, i mean i dont agree but its not a wholly bad definition

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hm but id be happy to be wrong but i can't see a way of this, it's like checkmate:


if we don't have access to the real, it doesn't make sense to use it as a descriptive category (since we don't know / can't know what / if it is); if we do have access to the real, then we are real, so may as well not even use the word. 


like the real is a HUMAN category, if ever there was one 


dont worry if u r without time inclination to discourse on the real that's even better

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  • 1 month later...
  • 1 year later...

To My Friends Downtown


We live in a desert

called Los Angeles


and we're all just looking for water.


Some throats are so parched

only the words, "L" and "A" escape.


We live in a desert



and we're all just looking for water.


They paved over all the sand

decades ago.


somehow we still taste it in the

back of our throats.


We live in a desert

called L.A.

and stand on street corners shouting

"Hey Buddy!"

but they pass by with sealed steel bottles.

we only ask for a small pour if they're ever

dehydrated enough to stop.


a long time ago someone said

that if we'd let him run the asylums

along with everything else

he'd overflow the fountains on every


and we'd be whetted so well

we'd forget

as it all trickled down.


me, I've been holding a cup out of a middle

class window for a decade.

I moved down a few floors,

and I've caught a couple drops.


sometimes I stare at clouds.

water in the sky.


mostly, the clouds pass.


sometimes they rain,

and a third of this town doesn't know what to do.

on those days, my friends and I don't stop anyone.


the rain's not the same as the water they sell.

but maybe. one day. you and I.

we'll get that drink.


I know a place.

It's in this desert.

Called Los Angeles.

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