I'll keep playing. It's fun. I like having a readership. iggy’s list iggy’s unwritten list is a bad place to be he scratches and he scratches with deft celerity iggy has the money he wears his suit sans tie senator, take his call and do it don’t bother asking why iggy might be russian he might be a jew capitals season duckets wiz and redskins too iggy eschews the bait he takes and makes the knocks iggy doesn’t have to answer to your ****ing ballot box versace clad arm candy benefit for the zoo obama doesn’t know him george denies it too iggy has the iron iggy has the pride the young herald reporters tragic suicide he drinks the rodnik vodka chilled he watches on the news so that someone can win always someone has to lose
Oh wow, really good stuff Moe's....Engages the senses. "The blown-glass sky must be lit orange and red. I must hear the crisp crackling of charred catacombs. I crave the sound of succumbing fixtures and mangled isotopes producing a symphony of roasted aged oak and exhumed skeletons. I awake in a field of gray lilacs, all smelling like ash and the brine of the Aegean. She sings out my name in painted syllables. Every vowel is a seamstress spinning a turquoise tunic. Every consonant is the breath of a newborn filtered through shale and amplified on the tongues of elephants." This passage is especially awesome.
Moes, are you a fan of the Beats? There is quite a bit of witty stream of consciousness riddled throughout those guys. The highly abstract imagery and symbolism you use reminds me of them. I'm a fan of Gregory Corso myself but could never really get attached to anyone else. Gregory Corso: 1959 Uncomprising year—I see no meaning to life. Though this abled self is here nonetheless, either in trade gold or grammaticness, I drop the wheelwright’s simple principle— Why weave the garland? Why ring the bell? Penurious butchery these notoriously human years, these confident births these lucid deaths these years. Dream’s flesh blood reals down life’s mystery— there is no mystery. Cold history knows no dynastic Atlantis. The habitual myth has an eagerness to quit. No meaning to life can be found in this holy language nor beyond the lyrical fabricator’s inescapable theme be found the loathed find—there is nothing to find. Multitudinous deathplot! O this poor synod— Hopers and seekers paroling meaning to meaning, annexing what might be meaningful, what might be meaningless. Repeated nightmare, lachrymae lachrymae— a fire behind a grotto, a thick fog, shredded masts, the nets heaved—and the indescribable monster netted. Who was it told that red flesh hose be still? For one with smooth hands did with pincers snip the snout—It died like a yawn. And when the liver sack was yanked I could not follow it to the pan. I could not follow it to the pan— I woke to the reality of cars; Oh the dreadful privilege of that vision! Not one antique faction remained; Egypt, Rome, Greece, and all such pedigree dreams fled. Cars are real! Eternity is done. The threat of Nothingness renews. I touch the untouched. I rank the rose militant. Deny, I deny the tastes and habits of the age. I am its punk debauche .... A fierce lampoon seeking to inherit what is necessary to forfeit. Lies! Lies! Lies! I lie, you lie, we all lie! There is no us, there is no world, there is no universe, there is no life, no death, no nothing—all is meaningless, and this too is a lie—O damned 1959! Must I dry my inspiration in this sad concept? Delineate my entire stratagem? Must I settle into phantomness and not say I understand things better than God? http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/175642 Whenever I write drunk I feel like I tap into the same brainwaves as the free versing po-mos. "Grammaticness" and "phantomness" are words I feel like I would be penning myself if I had a few shots of whisky in me, heh. It's crazy how, for the most part, that poem above is written in metric rhythm (though the line breaks are non-metric).
i wrote when i was either depressed or my mind needed to vomit words. much like a teenage girl. maybe had to do with all the sylvia plath, emily dickinson, and elizabeth bishop i read.
Big girl Big girl Have you any wool Yes moes yes moes 3 bags full Big girl big girl take me for a fool yes moes yes moes let me touch your tool big girl big girl first wont you listen to my poem no moes no moes just put it in my loyen big girl big girl it doesnt work like that due to all your fat ill have to be nimble like a cat and take off my hipster hat while i reach around my back and play with it. oh moes oh moes shut up and pull down your pants ive not been touched in ages cept by my brothers lance big girl big girl thats why i yonder for your affection for thou hast what i call experience most revealing, to my eden henceforth.
Stick to trolling America, your verse lacks real character because you hide behind a false persona. Post some real verse, or are you too chicken****? Thought so.
Angry he was Keyboard he smashed Like a plate of potatoes He liked his keys mashed Big girl in the background Asked about the commotion Moes stared right ahead Past his tissues and lotion And moaned, "Gwendolen, life is so hard Everyday I wince, from the cuts of a shard Society frowns upon me Like Im some sort of r****d" "Moesha, Moesha" came Gwendolens cry Perhaps if you got off the couch and werent so high Ppl would see you as a human and a horse trot nigh CURSE YOU WRETCH CURSE YOU GOOD YOU KNOW THAT'S TOO SCARY YOU KNOW IM NOT HOOD THE SAFETY OF MY CLOSET AND POETRY NEARBY TO MAKE MYSELF FEEL GOOD, ILL TELL MYSELF LIES ABOUT MY RISE FROM THE ASHES, AND RONNYS SURMISE VICTORY IS MINE IS MY WAR CRY FROM SPIDERMAN COMIC TWELVE, AND AMERICAN PIE MY FAVORITE MOVIE, FOR I WATCHED IT HIGH.
Necrobump I had said the magic words And so I must repent Chauffeured sweet police car ride Metal bracelets, accessorize They put me in a holding place They passed out the pills People stare out straight with vacant eyes I'm sure they stare there still I slept a wink then to the nut hut Another cop lead the way They took away my belt and shoes No ****s given that day I went through the process Sick, and feeling like a fool Depression and substances Diagnosis dual AA meetings were constant 3 or four a day We were bribed with coffee You had to sit to get it, it was the only way I don't care for coffee But the boredom set in my bones And we inside glass, Dr's orders, houses Don't dare throw the stones The hopeful 12 steppers have a phrase for everything Listen to the stories, you shouldn't talk at first bottle babies, dope fiends self-brainwash You embrace the hell out of the bad, so you avoid the worst Amid coffee and snacks The sponsors stack the decks, playing on the fear If you don't need this program son Why the hell do you think you're here They say they have the keys for My cell and private hell They say it works for everyone Who's willing honest truth to tell I speak nothing but the truth I still drown my sorrows, 80 proof But something happened 3 years later ****, I was sober through the worst of it So if I'm as honest as my sin. I know I'll never HAVE to drink again For now I eschew the help and hide away my better self 12 steps are well and good for millions see But the missing step eludes me
Try to learn about different meter types and try to get away from rhyming verse, might make the metaphors seem more poignant or sincere.
