I'll have a go at this poetry exercise thing. Write a poem about something that's not typically poetic, but make it poetic. E.G. the toilet, a slab of cement, Masking tape, etc.
Poem for unpoetic things
- Thread starter Feiss
- Start date
my aunt would cook us chicken feet.
A vat of the pickled, amputated things.
We'd break off each toe, and savor
bumps on the yellowed skin.
Examine the hooked toenails,
that once scratched lazily in dirt.
Crunch the translucent tendons,
get them stuck between our teeth.
A summer of afternoons,
my cousins and I spent,
crackling, laughing,
violently dismembering.
The snap of bones
was so crisp, immediate,
as joyous and broken
as life itself.
A vat of the pickled, amputated things.
We'd break off each toe, and savor
bumps on the yellowed skin.
Examine the hooked toenails,
that once scratched lazily in dirt.
Crunch the translucent tendons,
get them stuck between our teeth.
A summer of afternoons,
my cousins and I spent,
crackling, laughing,
violently dismembering.
The snap of bones
was so crisp, immediate,
as joyous and broken
as life itself.
'Accident-al' Music
the accompaniments
of an accident
are like jazz and blues
with just a soupcon
of heavy metal --
muted tinkle
of broken glass
crescendo
of buckling metal
echoing wail of siren
wah..wah..wah
the quiet sobs
of the luckily alive
and the full stop
of those who aren't
the accompaniments
of an accident
are like jazz and blues
with just a soupcon
of heavy metal --
muted tinkle
of broken glass
crescendo
of buckling metal
echoing wail of siren
wah..wah..wah
the quiet sobs
of the luckily alive
and the full stop
of those who aren't
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THE STAPLER
it punches
soft
archaic rhythms
against my outspread palm.
angry venom spits
against the vellum soft,
to form it to its will.
it punches
soft
archaic rhythms
against my outspread palm.
angry venom spits
against the vellum soft,
to form it to its will.
1. the toilet
Speaking to God
As a young man I often spoke to Him
'Oh God' I'd say
Vomiting these words with vengence
But I never got an answer
On the big white telephone
Now older (and wiser?)
I realise it had nothing to do
With porcelain phones or ceramics
He just doesn't listen to crap.
Speaking to God
As a young man I often spoke to Him
'Oh God' I'd say
Vomiting these words with vengence
But I never got an answer
On the big white telephone
Now older (and wiser?)
I realise it had nothing to do
With porcelain phones or ceramics
He just doesn't listen to crap.
I found that cord, the one we'd missed,
looked all over the house
one night
in a panic and a sweat
but never did see.
In a box, under a shoe,
next to bills that should have been paid
18 months ago.
Just a printer cord. It's not
like there aren't a jillion
of them out there already.
But this one was ours
and this one was lost,
and now,
at least,
it's home again.
looked all over the house
one night
in a panic and a sweat
but never did see.
In a box, under a shoe,
next to bills that should have been paid
18 months ago.
Just a printer cord. It's not
like there aren't a jillion
of them out there already.
But this one was ours
and this one was lost,
and now,
at least,
it's home again.
2. a slab of cement.
On a New York Sidewalk
Here we lay on Wall Street
Thirsting for eighty years
Me and my brothers are waiting
To soak up the banker's tears
On a New York Sidewalk
Here we lay on Wall Street
Thirsting for eighty years
Me and my brothers are waiting
To soak up the banker's tears
Boss
He sucked me into his office,
florescent lights aglare.
Peered at me over glasses,
with a steely stare.
You're on the internet too much!
When do you get work done?
You google-chat all day
and you text from nine to one.
You're always on absolute-write
devoting yourself to poetry
describing the loves you've lost
going quiet over a tree
Cut it out now!
Report's due at four
Have it on my desk
or you're out the door
He sucked me into his office,
florescent lights aglare.
Peered at me over glasses,
with a steely stare.
You're on the internet too much!
When do you get work done?
You google-chat all day
and you text from nine to one.
You're always on absolute-write
devoting yourself to poetry
describing the loves you've lost
going quiet over a tree
Cut it out now!
Report's due at four
Have it on my desk
or you're out the door
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Key to Our Security!
Oh, joyous reunion!
I missed you so much.
I searched and searched;
creating disorder of orderly places.
Our security misplaced;
precious items out of reach.
Oh, joyous reunion!
I found the safety box key.
It was the last place I looked
after ten, heart-stopping,
anxiety ridden months!
Oh, joyous reunion!
I missed you so much.
I searched and searched;
creating disorder of orderly places.
Our security misplaced;
precious items out of reach.
Oh, joyous reunion!
I found the safety box key.
It was the last place I looked
after ten, heart-stopping,
anxiety ridden months!
The Garden Hose
In summer, a sip
from its cool clear tongue,
lifted from the green,
the waterfall of quench
whetted my desire
on a hot day
of choked engines
and thick clotted
fumes of grass
half cut.
And now, in winter,
the bitter remembrance
of burst skin,
the shrill morning hum
of water falling
against the barren trees.
A seductive temptress,
an oak slickly coated
with morning ice
from a slit green tongue.
In summer, a sip
from its cool clear tongue,
lifted from the green,
the waterfall of quench
whetted my desire
on a hot day
of choked engines
and thick clotted
fumes of grass
half cut.
And now, in winter,
the bitter remembrance
of burst skin,
the shrill morning hum
of water falling
against the barren trees.
A seductive temptress,
an oak slickly coated
with morning ice
from a slit green tongue.
Nirvana in a Coffee Cup
Guatemalan elephants
Roaming my savannah
With Jersey cream, Rasta canes
And fifteen bars of water
To stop and see
Tranquillity
Nirvana
In a coffee cup
Guatemalan elephants
Roaming my savannah
With Jersey cream, Rasta canes
And fifteen bars of water
To stop and see
Tranquillity
Nirvana
In a coffee cup
They tell me death is poetic,
but tell me how it can be,
that my friend's suicide mom,
could ever be a poem?
Except that when she hung herself,
she swayed in iambic.
but tell me how it can be,
that my friend's suicide mom,
could ever be a poem?
Except that when she hung herself,
she swayed in iambic.
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Seems a bit evil to put this after the morbid one above, but oh well. Let her rip.
There's nothing like a fart to clear the air,
after you've called his mother a whore;
a controlling, full-of-herself,
manipulative, STD-ridden whore at that.
When he's minute muscle twitches
away from being a man
who's never hit a woman
to a man who once smacked a woman.
Turn your bottom toward him,
and puff your a$$cheeks cheekily,
stink up that sourpuss stink face,
and turn that frown into a grimace.
Give him a whiff of your innards,
and he might realize you still love him,
underneath yesterday's chicken,
deep deep bowel deep down.
****GOD I'm mature!!!!!!!!!****
There's nothing like a fart to clear the air,
after you've called his mother a whore;
a controlling, full-of-herself,
manipulative, STD-ridden whore at that.
When he's minute muscle twitches
away from being a man
who's never hit a woman
to a man who once smacked a woman.
Turn your bottom toward him,
and puff your a$$cheeks cheekily,
stink up that sourpuss stink face,
and turn that frown into a grimace.
Give him a whiff of your innards,
and he might realize you still love him,
underneath yesterday's chicken,
deep deep bowel deep down.
****GOD I'm mature!!!!!!!!!****
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