MTS poetry meld

heyjude

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Hello new friends! I know nothing about poetry, so naturally I'm a great fit for this room. I've challenged my MTS friends to see if we can mesh our two subjects. Feel free, poet-friends, to return the favor in our aptly named "Mrs. Gray, in the library with a lead pipe" forum.

Below is my offering for the day. Feel free to leave kudos in this thread or by rep. And please, post your own!


A man
in black
with a knife
or a gun
(does it matter?).

Slips unseen
through this
thread
and that
looking for
bad poetry
that doesn't rhyme.
 

kaitie

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Poems for the serial murderer in all of us...

So I can't write poetry. This is a well known fact (and one I've been oft mocked for). In spite of that, I hereby present you with a poem. About serial killers. Dedicated to Jude.

*****

Blood
in the moonlight
is like liquid
darkness.

I imagine this is how a black hole
must look
from the inside
a sheen of brightness
reflecting on a viscous nothing
that might once have been
something.

*****

I'm still working on my murderous haiku...
 

kaitie

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You cross posted me! Merge us pwease. :D
 

heyjude

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Excellent, kaitie! Can't wait for the haiku!

(Do haikus rhyme?)
 

kaitie

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Nope, but they usually have something referring to a season. I did two. :D


*****
The amaryllis
reaches its tendrils toward
the blood rusted knife.

****

On the wind the scent
of corpses long forgotten
and past winter storms.

****

My dictionary gave me amaryllis. I was gonna use solstice flower based on the Japanese, then I remembered it's technically the equinox flower, and equinox had too many syllables. So I cheated. Anyway, here's what they look like if you've never seen one.

2949031485_d7bfa03b87.jpg
 

HistorySleuth

Researching History's Mysteries
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Killer Cat

OK, I just did one for an art gallery exhibit opening. The artist took a rusted piece of metal and made a cat head. It was quite the scraggly looking cat. The art piece titled "Le Chat" sold, so I put my poem in a frame for him and signed it. He was thrilled! So since it is sort of about murder, I'm sticking it in. (I put it somewhere in poetry, but this is the corrected version.) Since it is a funny piece of art, I did a limerick.

Le Chat

"Bonjour!" said Le Chat, as he sat on the wall,
and tried to coax over the birds.
"Your singing I see,
is très joli.
Won't you come here so you can be heard?"

"Oh no!" said a sparrow. "You can't fool us,
as your meal, in an instant, we'll be.
Our song you can hear,
very well from right here.
There's no reason for us to agree."

"Pardonne moi?" said Le Chat. "My hearing's not good,
next to me I will hear you much better.
If closer you came,
on the wall I'll remain,
we'll enjoy your sweet music together."

"We shan’t," said the robin. "We see through your trick.
Each day you've been looking much thinner.
If nearer we came,
we'll be prey for your game.
You shall pounce and then have us for dinner."

"Au contraire," said Le Chat. "I have a sore paw.
I can't pounce, I can't run, can't you see?
I assure you'll be safe,
there is plenty of space,
if you sit on the wall next to me."

"I shall come," said the hawk, "and sing a sweet song,
as I sit on the wall as you wish."
So over he flew,
passed a moment or two,
said the hawk, "Le Chat―très delish!"


The next one I'll try to be more human(e).:D
 

Good Word

still crazy after all these years
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In the dark and stormy
night
someone screamed real loud.
 

Feiss

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Denouement

Like the others'
an Extra-strength black garbage bag
is number 31's resting place.

Into the mouth of the shroud
go the white arms,
sandpapered thumbs
and fingertips.

Disembodied gestures of farewell.
slush of limbs,
faint thumps
of a halved torso.

Amniotic pinks,
limn tear-paths over haunches.
The slow rush of love
leaking ardor
into the black maw -
bid adieu.

Scattered eye-lashes,
fingernails, careful gashes.

With a firm yank
on neon enclosures
I recall his eyes
as we said goodbye.

That longing.
That gratefulness.





Why is it that I take to serial killer writing so joyously?
 
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Priene

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As I was reading Agatha Christie
a face-masked psycho pounced, and missed me.
 

Rebekah7

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I think this poem is perfect. It shows the essence of a killer having a piss poor day and the symbolic pain of Hefty bags.


Murder is a song
Of beautiful pain

Love bleeds softly
Out her throat

Body bags cost
Way too much

Two strong Hefties
Will have to do

The garbage man
Is playing hooky

What am I
Supposed to do now?

I'm not Dahmer
She isn't meat

I already have
enough fucking trophies

Dude, lightbulb moment!
This is perfect!

My neighbor's lawn
needs some fertilizer
 

Ken Hoss

Storm Rising A Kelli Storm Novel
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Okay, it's not really a poem, and it's definitely not original.

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who put his best friend in a bucket.

The guy was a bum,
And he used him as chum.

So don't get your fish from Nantucket. (I hear Gloucester is good though.) :evil
 

kaitie

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Okay, Ken, I love the limerick. And I completely agree Jude. Creepy but fun. I still have yet to find a way to do a funny one. I have a hard enough time writing humor in prose haha.
 

HistorySleuth

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First I'll zap her with a taser
Cut her up with granddad's razor
Sever off her arms and legs
Stuff her in some stretch flex bags
Then I'll wait until it's dark
And bury her in Central Park
 
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HistorySleuth

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Monday’s victim has no face
Tuesday’s victim begged for grace
Wednesday’s victim was sexually giving
Thursday’s victim is no longer living
Friday’s victim is full of woe
Saturday’s victim won’t be let go
But the victim that dies on the Sabbath day
Is seasoned and fried as a juicy fillet.
 

kaitie

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Omg haha...those are both funny and reaaaally horrible at the same time.
 

HistorySleuth

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I'm a little bit afraid of HistorySleuth now...

So are my kids, who peered over my shoulder. :e2cry: They gave me the weirdest look when I walked up the stairs this morning with garbage bags in my hand -- honest it was just so they could clean their rooms!

Here is my killu ... I mean haiku.:e2smack:

***
The sharpened knife sliced
smoothly, caressing his skin.
Too late for safe-words.


***
 

MarkEsq

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I walk in the room and see shapes in the bed,
One’s my wife Ann, the other is Fred.
My mind explodes and I pull back the covers
And startle my friend, my wife, dirty lovers.

I pack heat all day, I’m a cop so I must,
It’s the one thing, it seems, that now I can trust,
I shoot him in the chest and enjoy it the most,
I can see in my mind his quick-departing ghost.

And then it’s her turn, in the side of her head,
Then drop the wiped gun on her side of the bed.
I call 911, I have nothing to hide,
Poor me, wife and buddy, a murder-suicide.
 

heyjude

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And we're back! By popular demand! (You freaks... haha. #47 on the list of reasons I love you all.)