All 21 entries tagged Poetry

Not for the faint of heart

Seriously, what's the deal with rimming anyway? Seriously.

If you wanted to taste what I ate yesterday,
You only had to ask.
If you think I could be cleaner,
Then, well, that’s a pretty easy task.
I mean: what are you, a cat?
To be honest the only worming
I’m comfortable with down there
Is the kind I’d tell my doctor.
And it’s not like I ever asked you for anal, is it?
Now you seem to quite enjoy it,
And I don’t want to spoil your fun,
But that slippy-swirling sensation,
Of tongue lashing my rectal passage,
Lathering up my rear iris,
Feels more like diarrhoea than
Any kinky kind of act.
But, well, if you really have to
A little to the left please?

And can I at least double-fist you?

: 20 Oct 2005 22:03 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (2) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Spiders

I'm stuck in her web
I'm the fly to her spider
She's caught me and I'm crawling
Towards her eight lovely eyes.

If I can see them I'm happy
And I can see that she's hungry
She'll eat me right up
And I'll be lost inside.
Too polite to struggle.

To the fly that's what love is:
Giving yourself entirely,
Letting her have you.

'Welcome to my parlour'

To her I'm just another fly
Accidentally ensnared
And not really wanted in the web I'll die
Teeth crunching exoskeleton
Shatter it, my insides splatter out
Disgusted by the feelings that I hide
She doesn't hear my final cry.

'Said the fly to the spider'

For behind her stood a little boy,
4 years old if he's a day,
Clutching in his sticky palm
A stick,
A toy,
With which he tore her web away
And squashed the spider in two now stickier fingers.
Fly, still dying, screams at her insides,
Foul, dark, spurting, revealed on kid's nails,
And on sticky palms our innards mix together.

But on another day, another spider,
And another fly,
A kinder boy just chases them away,
And they escape,
The fly showing hunter how to hide,
And live,
Spider teaching prey to hunt.
Together.

'As flies to wanton boys'

To the spider that's what love is.
The fly who gets away
With her.

I'm not that fly,
I never get away,
But some day:

“Welcome to my parlour”
Said the spider to the fly.
“Have you met my friend
the four-year-old?”
Replied the unsubtle, unsly fly,
The suicidal glint of love in his eye.

: 07 Apr 2005 15:30 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Love Tastes Vaguely of Almonds

Before you die,
Not quite sure why,
You realise there was just a taste.

In books with endings
You figure out before they end
It always had it's place.

I don't like those books
And I don't like the taste
They leave upon my brain;
A hint of missing talent,
Of paper waste,
Of the cliche that kills
Imagination.

Because of all the ways that we could die,
It just comes back to this one,
A hint of almond on the tongue
The warning just too late.

Those books make me feel like that
Like I've digested arsenic
Or cyanide (or whatever the hell it is)
Into my brain
With no warning ‘till death takes my thoughts.

Love’s like that
It takes your thoughts away
Until none are your own
And you wander and wonder
In a lovelorn stupor,
A romantic coma,
A lovetorn illusion,
Original thought buried in recycled ideas.

Like the footprint in the flowerbed
Easily seen as the flowers are stripped,
And on her bed.

There’s blood on the sheets,
As you forgot to remove the thorns,
You thoughtless lovelorn fucker.

When you get the taste of love
Imagination dies
Replaced by one thousand little gestures,
Someone prepared earlier.
Originality in love is a lie
As even the romantically unromantic is cliché.
Man’s search for original gift of love
Mean’s there is none.

There are only so many times
That the butler can do it
Before he gets too tired.

There are only so many times
The poison can taste vaguely of almond,
Before you spit it out.

: 04 Apr 2005 00:02 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Bottom, part 1

I’m trying to forget her
That girl that doesn’t like me
I’m trying not to like her
The girl who doesn’t want me.

I bury my head in the sands of literature;
Other times, other places
Far and not so far away.
In sonnets, stanzas, sestinas,
Epics, novellas, fable and fiction,
Men who were great,
Men who were not,
And men who just were.
And of course the women who made them fall,
Whether accident or other’s implement
Or own deliscously deliberate fault.
There’s always a woman.

In my mind I craft a drive-in theatre
And away from reality I speed.
On the screen my imagination plays
Brings to life all the things held in my head,
I see the film where Lancelot slays Gawain’s brother,
So he could rescue a girl
So Gawain challenges him and he accepts
And they don’t fight to the death:

I saw Sir Gawain swing his sword,
And saw Lancelot raise his shield,
Eyes locked, they saw the loser without words,
And both saw how he would refuse to yield.
Lancelot of the Lake, the knight, the lord,
And Gawain, each a master of the field,
Flew together, lances sharp tips like eagles soared,
But landed like lances.
Lancelot, the greatest knight who still lives,
He cannot help but win,
His tip splinters into Gawain’s chest again
In the wings (on the eagle’s) I watch, Gawain’s life his to give.
Gawain challenges again to avenge his kin,
I watch in the hope the lesser man might win.

But my imagination twists
Off the screen
And out of my grasp,
Squirming it makes a picture I don’t want to see.
Every thing that I imagine
My imagination twists to her.
Maybe she is twisting it
Making me think of her.

I saw Gawain again, in Technicolor,
I saw her again in a pretty dress
Gawain was wooing her with all his power
She was the damsel causing me distress.
Gawain the not-quite-perfect knight,
Applies his charms and then she’s his,
Then he becomes perfect in his own right
And I’m forced to watch their first kiss.
And I can’t look away as he lifts up her dress
And I catch a glimpse of her perfect breast,
How painful it was you can’t even guess,
Yet the more I saw the more I fought less,
There was a bizarre fascination I confess.
Like when you turn up unprepared for a test,
And if you survive then count yourself blest.

I tried not to look,
At the porno my film had become,
Tried not to see her breasts and bottom,
Tried to make Gawain go away,

I closed my eyes,
Breathed in deep,
Let the drive-in go,
But my imagination had fucked me right over.

Literature had failed, so I tried friends’ advice
And we went down the pub.
After all
At the bottom of a pint,
Everybody is just fine.

: 03 Apr 2005 23:49 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

So what?

So What?

So what if I’m a poet?
So what if you know it?

Should I present to you a few poems on parchment?
Try to pick out the few aren’t terrible,
And won’t scare you?
Try to trick you into telling me
I’m actually quite talented.
I’m not. I’m just deluded, obsessed and
In pain.
Sometimes that looks like talent,

But it’s not.
It’s a twisted tin chain,
With delusions of silver.
It’s a clay pigeon you pretend’s the real thing.
But illusion smashes when you shoot it,
Or when it falls on your ears.
Clunk.

So what if you care?

I’m not a performing pony,
Turning cute little tricks
For you to sigh at and say
“Ahh, that’s so sweet!”

I’m not even a performing poet
My words are mine, and ours alone,
No one can put them in their mouth,
Steal them away.

My words are for me
And my band of poetical brothers,
The metaphorical masses of my fellow unwanteds.
I’m a romantic revolutionary,
A poetical partisan
I’m the Pablo Neruda
Of the middle class white angst-filled male.
I’m the fucking Che Guevara
Of the rejected lover,
Leading the romantic revolution,
A non-military coup on emotion,
And with our banners of metaphor
Our uniforms of simile
Our rifles of oxymoron we will overthrow
Your preconceptions.
‘Nice guys unite,
It’s time to be bastards!’
The Marxian slogan of a younger,
Self-obsessed age.
And girls like you will see,
Too late,
How nice guys are in fact just great.

But by then we’ll have thrown off
The shiny tin chains of our oppression,
And claimed our rightful place
Above or beside
As we decide.

So if you think that I’m a poet
Then whether or not you know it,
If the poetic revolution comes at all
You’ll be the first against the wall.

Now tell me that you care.

: 26 Mar 2005 13:15 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

So then

So then

So then you liked me
And then I felt smug.
Then sad,
In mourning for nice.
Yet there was no time for mourning,
When finally I had you,
(And in the having, lost you too)
The sum of my pathetic fantasies
That I had to lose, then missed
And amongst the crocodile tears,
Found you,
Who I thought more wild and dangerous
Than my tears,
But now are tamed by my lack of thought.

So the you that I had found
Was not the one I sought.
And you found me in the change around,
Due only to the cruelties that we wrought.

For when niceties failed,
Sitting in the corner
I watched your lips curl into a laugh,
(I glimpsed you through mind’s shadows)
Imagination might have made you snarl,
At my words that never were elegant enough,
To capture the illusion,
Nor shrewd enough to reveal delusion.

Cruelties won,
Harsh words eventually reached your ears
In a circle of slanderous gossip,
The adolescent equivalent
Of throwing paper balls in nursery,
And I saw you snarl,
(Teeth ripping fantasy away)
Though it could have been a smile,
At my lies that proved I cared.

You,
(Cruel, no longer wonderful, you)
Were mine
The dream became real,
Empty air became ice,
Then I realised you weren’t ice, just nice.
And I no longer wanted you.

: 26 Mar 2005 13:15 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

So now

Bit of an odd sonnet this turned out to be, it's about a nice guy who gets sick of being nice, so he stops.

So now

So now I know nice is liked, but not desired,
Now I know you’re unkind, but are.
I seem to think that you’re a liar,
I seem to know you’re life’s deluded star.
I wanted to be liked for who I am.
I didn’t think I deserved your ire.
But I was an idiot, well God-bloody-damn,
I guess to diff’rent heights I will aspire.
As a bastard pulling strings I will go far,
I’m playing with your life, like fire,
I inhale power and perfume like it’s tar,
Your life entwined with mine, both sinking in the mire.
I’m an arse ‘cos you didn’t like me nice.
Now I’m not, does it seem strange I entice?

: 16 Mar 2005 20:47 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (0) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

I Would – A pathetic poem

I would

There’s a girl out there who doesn’t like me,
Sometimes I think that girl is you,
There’s nothing I wouldn’t not do for thee,
But there’s a list of things that I would do.
Badly.

I would pick you plucky, pithy flowers,
Pull them from the earth, imagining your heart
Not breaking,
‘cos I’m not strong.
Dandelions, buttercups, nettles, a little daisy chain,
A child’s bouquet for child’s listless love.

I would write a bad poem,
It wouldn’t have meter or form or
Rhyme or rhythm,
And I’d fill it with a thousand clichés, more
Clichés than stars in the sky:
Cliché clichés.
Totally unromantic, and not the romantic way.

I would be the least romantic man,
In the history of cavemen.
I can’t even claim to be able to provide.
Except a sense of annoyance,
Almost weak enough to be loathing,
I’d be the burr stuck in your hair.
I’d scratch your neck.

I would cling on
To you
Tightly, pathetic, pitiful and wet,
Knowing you are too nice to throw me off yet,
Clinging doggedly on,
Vague attempts at puppy dog eyes,
My limpid resistance a surprise,
Knowing you wish me gone.
But I won’t go,
And I won’t try to fight,
So fuck you and what you want,
I’m not doing this right.

I would do nothing
well.

: 16 Mar 2005 00:27 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (3) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

Shakespeare, a different view

To Shakespeare's Man

1. Thou wert, apparently, more beautiful,
Than dryad, nymph, fair siren's song,
That phrases elegand and plentiful
Did flowst from Bard's mouth, like a river long.
So 't'would everlong run, a monument,
To thy wondrous visage, that men hath said,
If they had half thy looks, would be content
Pyramids, chruches, Helen in her bed.
Yet twerps who read out poems do not know
Your name, place, status, hair colour, nor can
They remember S. placed own worth below
Yours, nor do girlfriends know you are a man.
So we (instead of you, forgotten quick)
Remember Shakespeare, monumental prick.

2. I pity you, who's beauty Shakespeare sought,
Entombed in words, eternally onlooked,
By those like you trapped in schools, or else bought
In sappy cards, copied by kids from books,
Where you are half remembered, not recalled,
As muse of one's talents, who knew himself
(delluding you that beauty fades nor falls)
He would be famed, remembered, and yourself
Would be evidence to what we suspect
But shouldn't care for, it's talent we hear,
Your only remembrance, what could be more perfect,
Is proof that Shakespeare really was quite queer.
So a poem to set you free I offer
Hoping my talents none will remember.

: 16 Mar 2005 00:26 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (5) |  Close comments |  Report a problem

My Spanish poem

Poem I wrote for spanish, sadly it doesn't translate well into english (and I've forgotten what some of the words meant anyway).

Cuando estoy solo

Todo esta
Nada sera

Todo esta, la vida loca,
y es el cielo mas alla de las esterellas,
y el infierno quemaridose come el sol.
Para mi, todo es mis amigos,
Son todos y eso es importante.

Nade es todo; yo no se,
Que no se es siempre mucho y sere siempre,
En la obscuridad de mi mente
Para mi, nada es el desconocido,
y no saber esta desconcertado.

Todo y nada son contrarios,
Pero en la obscuridad
En mi mente
Son un par bueno,
El primero hace al otro mejor mirar.

Mis amigos me protogen
De la oscuridad de la ignorancia
y de la soledad.

: 16 Feb 2005 21:08 |  Tags: Poetry |  Comments (1) |  Close comments |  Report a problem