All 21 entries tagged Poetry
October 20, 2005
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, thatís a pretty easy task.
I mean: what are you, a cat?
To be honest the only worming
Iím comfortable with down there
Is the kind Iíd tell my doctor.
And itís not like I ever asked you for anal, is it?
Now you seem to quite enjoy it,
And I donít 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?
April 07, 2005
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
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
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,
Spider teaching prey to hunt.
'As flies to wanton boys'
To the spider that's what love is.
The fly who gets away
I'm not that fly,
I never get away,
But some day:
ďWelcome to my parlourĒ
Said the spider to the fly.
ďHave you met my friend
Replied the unsubtle, unsly fly,
The suicidal glint of love in his eye.
April 04, 2005
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
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 Ďtill death takes my thoughts.
Loveís 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.
Thereís blood on the sheets,
As you forgot to remove the thorns,
You thoughtless lovelorn fucker.
When you get the taste of love
Replaced by one thousand little gestures,
Someone prepared earlier.
Originality in love is a lie
As even the romantically unromantic is clichť.
Manís search for original gift of love
Meanís 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.
April 03, 2005
Iím trying to forget her
That girl that doesnít like me
Iím trying not to like her
The girl who doesnít 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 otherís implement
Or own deliscously deliberate fault.
Thereís 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 Gawainís brother,
So he could rescue a girl
So Gawain challenges him and he accepts
And they donít 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 Gawainís chest again
In the wings (on the eagleís) I watch, Gawainís 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 donít 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 sheís his,
Then he becomes perfect in his own right
And Iím forced to watch their first kiss.
And I canít look away as he lifts up her dress
And I catch a glimpse of her perfect breast,
How painful it was you canít 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 friendsí advice
And we went down the pub.
At the bottom of a pint,
Everybody is just fine.
March 26, 2005
So what if Iím a poet?
So what if you know it?
Should I present to you a few poems on parchment?
Try to pick out the few arenít terrible,
And wonít scare you?
Try to trick you into telling me
Iím actually quite talented.
Iím not. Iím just deluded, obsessed and
Sometimes that looks like talent,
But itís not.
Itís a twisted tin chain,
With delusions of silver.
Itís a clay pigeon you pretendís the real thing.
But illusion smashes when you shoot it,
Or when it falls on your ears.
So what if you care?
Iím not a performing pony,
Turning cute little tricks
For you to sigh at and say
ďAhh, thatís so sweet!Ē
Iím 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.
Iím a romantic revolutionary,
A poetical partisan
Iím the Pablo Neruda
Of the middle class white angst-filled male.
Iím 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
ĎNice guys unite,
Itís time to be bastards!í
The Marxian slogan of a younger,
And girls like you will see,
How nice guys are in fact just great.
But by then weíll 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 Iím a poet
Then whether or not you know it,
If the poetic revolution comes at all
Youíll be the first against the wall.
Now tell me that you care.
So then you liked me
And then I felt smug.
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,
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 mindís 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.
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.
(Cruel, no longer wonderful, you)
The dream became real,
Empty air became ice,
Then I realised you werenít ice, just nice.
And I no longer wanted you.
March 16, 2005
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 I know nice is liked, but not desired,
Now I know youíre unkind, but are.
I seem to think that youíre a liar,
I seem to know youíre lifeís deluded star.
I wanted to be liked for who I am.
I didnít think I deserved your ire.
But I was an idiot, well God-bloody-damn,
I guess to diffírent heights I will aspire.
As a bastard pulling strings I will go far,
Iím playing with your life, like fire,
I inhale power and perfume like itís tar,
Your life entwined with mine, both sinking in the mire.
Iím an arse Ďcos you didnít like me nice.
Now Iím not, does it seem strange I entice?
Thereís a girl out there who doesnít like me,
Sometimes I think that girl is you,
Thereís nothing I wouldnít not do for thee,
But thereís a list of things that I would do.
I would pick you plucky, pithy flowers,
Pull them from the earth, imagining your heart
Ďcos Iím not strong.
Dandelions, buttercups, nettles, a little daisy chain,
A childís bouquet for childís listless love.
I would write a bad poem,
It wouldnít have meter or form or
Rhyme or rhythm,
And Iíd fill it with a thousand clichťs, more
Clichťs than stars in the sky:
Totally unromantic, and not the romantic way.
I would be the least romantic man,
In the history of cavemen.
I canít even claim to be able to provide.
Except a sense of annoyance,
Almost weak enough to be loathing,
Iíd be the burr stuck in your hair.
Iíd scratch your neck.
I would cling on
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 wonít go,
And I wonít try to fight,
So fuck you and what you want,
Iím not doing this right.
I would do nothing
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.
February 16, 2005
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, 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.