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LiveJournal for Literature Anonymous.
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| Wednesday, July 20th, 2005 |
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| what is poetry? | ||||||
| Sunday, May 29th, 2005 |
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Seeping through the ironies of luck Are the crooked smiles of lovers Justified in their remorse, lamenting For their once-cherished justice And the movement of sound has Devoured the bleeding hearts Caught between the tragic embrace Of the lovers’ crooked smiles Crawling at a shattering pace I am re-born into what I was Fleeting sacrifices I have made Were destined to be mistaken As mistakes made for you Trusted by those standing tall On greased heels and firm knees Facing the wind with a biting Vengeance of sentimentality And the movement of sound has Enveloped those caught staring Towards the fleeting abyss of The lover’s skyward glare Crawling at a shattering pace I am re-born into what I was Fleeting sacrifices I have made Were destined to be mistaken As mistakes made for you And when I settled into dust I was found to be unharmed And I was not alone I was not alone |
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| Wednesday, April 6th, 2005 |
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Now that the remnants of what you are Have devoured the art of solemnity Consolation will be sought between The lingering wisps of love Caught between the padlocked kisses Of liars trapped in sweet remorse Fought for by the sheer desire Of memories rescued in vain James Dean is turning in his grave With a steel-toed wonderment of The forever cluttered and tamed Everything ends, nothing ever changes Now that the notion of notoriety Is lost among the stifling shards of shame Triumphant glances will be shot Towards the vigor of regret Locked in a tomb of indifference With haste, we will live on and away Distraught and fooled by a stingy sage The staid retain their pestilence Stranded in the loneliness of Acting out of taint and jest Sacrificing the least acknowledged Everything ends, nothing ever changes Now that the staple of the affair has Interlocked the pages of disbelief The yesterdays will be forgotten With the tomorrow that will not be Taught to be the miracle of allure The whispers disappear unattained Brought upon by this brilliant mistake The remnants of what you are bedamned Fleeting steadfast forgetfulness has Stricken the passion of the beloved Disgust of the unexpected lover Everything ends, nothing ever changes |
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| Sunday, March 13th, 2005 |
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We’re all dealt the bad hand When we’re lingering in love So I linger a bit longer On the smell of your perfume We’re all hypocritical When we use the word hypocrisy So I suppose it’s possible I’ve misjudged the novelty Of irony I left my mark under her chin Where the cotton meets the skin I left my last stamp of misguidance Confusion, pride, and romance Where the cotton meets the skin We’ve all been sent careening Down the blistered sun-scarred edge Of a certain empty gesture That is the memory of fleeting We’ve all been found to be lost Without a crying shame and Without a pocket to cry into Just singing the same damn song Of irony I left my mark under her chin Where the cotton meets the skin I left my stamp of indifference Slander, stupidity, and romance Where the cotton meets the skin And in a state of foreseeable disaster I can stammer my way to victory Stumble timidly like the man I’ve never been and never will be Curse my words under my breath Like the man I never was We’ll all be merely dancing When you’ll ask me “How is this fun?” And that’s when you’ll hear What I’m screaming at the sun We’ll laugh at what we did And mourn what was never done As we’ve graduated to children Trying to grasp the idea of love And irony I left my mark under her chin Where the cotton meets the skin I left my stamp of impotence Stability, fear, and romance Where the cotton meets the skin I left my stamp of silence Anxiety, anger, and romance Where the cotton meets the skin It is probably evident that, since the last time I wrote a song, I have been listening toa lot of Elvis Costello and Paul Simon, and have been influenced by them. A lot. |
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| Saturday, November 27th, 2004 |
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It’s spoken through stingy sage that Sulfur shores were formed by a Constant river of gin and scotch Flowing through a desirous heart Lost among the calamity of passion and The two-ton secrets of solemnity Forever existing, no longer sure Of their own mutuality It’s been said that one could find Beneath the chandelier graveyards A criminal of disasters, a jester for The final page-turning machines Sought among the simplicity of insolence And the stripes along the jaw-lines Of the breeding grounds, this soil Isn’t out to stud quite yet It’s been seen through the thinnest eyes Of the scourging scores of scowlers That the heart of Saturday nights Are littered with the hearts of minds Caught among the shrill desires of The callow children believing In their insolence, yet they Aren’t the furious end of death |
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| Friday, November 5th, 2004 |
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Cryztal and I had a lengthy, philosophical couple of sentences last night and decided it would be for the better if  litsanon came to an end. It really just never got off the ground like I imagined, although a few people did have a good spin behind the wheel. I'd like to extend my personal gratitude to all of you took part in my "vision":  kittenonthekeys, crystal_ivy, abandonedsoul, cirrhosis, hirotheavitar, i_love_tenchi, lunar_endeavor, metlwolf, sheepywonder, rosicrucian, squeebothorass, and whisperstar.And, of course, a very special thank you to my special friend and lover, i_am_bottled.x-posted in dferahgo
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| Thursday, November 4th, 2004 |
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David assigned me a poetry project. So I started to write a poem but I broke it into three. And then there is the one that I posted in Crystal_ivy. Hope you like them. ( TheCollapse ) ( ICollapse ) |
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| Saturday, October 30th, 2004 |
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I have been ... bored. ( these two are relatedCollapse ) ( on sexismCollapse ) ( on religionCollapse ) ( what do YOU think this is about?Collapse ) ( on ... carpentry?Collapse ) |
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Graciella of the purple down bathing in beauty softer than sound. Crowded in by dancing demons she lacked nothing to believe in. Driven wild by pre-pubescence love was yearning for the essence. Silent, pure, pretty but plain, she did her work, never complained. When sunlight dawned on her pretty face, happiness vanished without a trace. Her life knew joy, only in bed where dreams brought memories long since dead. A cure for solitude was plainly found in a dreamers love song, a lovely sound. All she wanted was protection but ended up searching for perfection. a lover, dreamer, and a poetess she held herself, yearning for tenderness. her life was a story, an open book encased in a love song, a word, a look. She wrote it out one day in a letter craving for love, she thought she'd be better. Crying alone, she wrote her epitath, "A perfect lady, a perfect death." I'm still not happy with it. Something is amiss... So have I thouroughly depressed everyone? Yeah It's what I do best. I really like this poem because it's based on basicly a mixture of that girl that noone sits next to only because she never talks, and...well...Rachael. I'm sorry, I'm obsessed with writing poems about her. I love her so much. For those of you who don't know her she is forever_silent.she is my best friend ever. hope you like it. sorry im flooding you guys here but im on a creative streak. and if you think its a bit scetchy, keep in mind that i wrote this while footballs were whizzing over my head threatening my life. |
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| Thursday, October 28th, 2004 |
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Hey. For anyone who is participating in the Corrupt Nursery Rhymes Theme , a good website to go to is www.nurseryrhyme.com</b>. Now I am going to do the best I can. Hey, mister, mister the man with the riddle went and killed the moon you though it was funny when the policy shorted your mind ran away too soon. I don't know...maybe not. Hey...everyone should listen to the song It's Oh So Quiet by Bjork. I love it! Oh and PS. Thanks David. I am a dinkus |
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Marry, marry.... - quite contrary! - How does your god ingrow? When silver sells, and crock law-spells The petty maids control. ----- Let's declare a Corrupt A Nursery Ryhme theme, shall we? As always, being on-topic is encouraged but not manditory. (I'll even expand it to include other kinds of corruptions, I just thought the nursery ryhme idea was fun.) |
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| 1 opinion|what is poetry? | ||||||||
| Wednesday, October 27th, 2004 |
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"The State" The state of matter's in a flux. The state of the union is the crux Of all of our oppression. Poverty is all that stops the bucks From trampling, indeed it sucks To be a classless American. The state of your mind is revolting When you spend all your time consulting The television for company. The snake in your head is molting Can't believe you don't find it insulting - It's the end of your liberty. In a dismal apartment, Windy City, I lurk in the dark and sip coffee. The alley is wet with static Of a universe ceasing to be. Like any system spreads to entropy. No sense in being a fanatic, Clinging to this or that philosophy. All the slogans once free Now war prisoners used against us every one incorporated desperate destroy refuse they can't take away what we don't want, embrace them and self-destruct |
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| Tuesday, October 26th, 2004 |
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the pain comes fast quick as sugar melts on the tongue slow and easy dripping down his heart bleeds his arms are filled with an ancient remedy. stick it to me, doctor take my life with the giving steal my breath from my lips i take thee only thee make the end count make the last moment a moment of ecstasy. take from me the will to live, if only a chance to die in the winter of an addiction far too hungry for the taking. lovely and greedy for the making. far too delicious to give far too dangerous to keep. far too....far too....far too....far...... |
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Streets The city needs more sidewalks more hills and piney groves more churches with little old ladies and their lead cased cash registers. the city needs more people not eyes, a mouth, a chin. the city needs more laughter not television, remote control, order in. the city needs more family meals more daddy read this one! not daddy..can i go? the city needs what urbanites never got the city needs more love |
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Autumn always gives me the melancholies I'm feeling indescribable A tear or two well up when I heard the news The world it doth mock us a reasonable sounding man floating in a warm bubble bath - share the spotlight! ((Follows suit)) |
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Hello fellow literaries.. I am really excited right now. I have just discovered a new kind of poetry. Now before I tell you and before you think this is an odd sort of plagiarism hear me out. You know how people take photographs and even though they are taking a scene out of nature, life, it is their own work? well I have discovered something similar. Even though some people simply don't have poetry in them, they speak it all the same. They are just not aware. I wrote a poem taken from snatches of what people say in Livejournal. You might see a few words of your own. Most of it is my own though...ego i guess. I hope you like it as much as I do. Notice the Blank Unfortunate Events I don't think I care there is a secret love of mine. Theres nothing romantic i am speaking of a certain kind of awesome stripped forest, with snow on the ground Naked..within a realm of humilation noone will touch it god, what if I fail i never have passion everyday things are changing my body is stiff and sore what hours I have notice the blank cross posted in crystal_ivy
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What can I, as a mod, do to get you bastards posting in here? Do my homework for me.
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Pay me.
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Collaborate with me.
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Sexual favors.
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Nothing - my name is Ida and I post here all the time!
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Other (please elaborate below)
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If other, please specify |
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| Monday, October 25th, 2004 |
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I admit, I like writing poetry that is kind of a response to more famous poetry. It's fun to feel like you're bickering with the revered greats, even if they're dead (often long dead) and can't exactly bicker back. Partly this poem is in response to Frost ( hereCollapse ) but mostly, I figure, it's in response to those shitty motivational posters various institutions like to hang on their walls. (When I get a classroom, I'll be the comic-strip-hanging kind of teacher, not the motivational-quotes-hanging sort of teacher. Although I know teachers like that who rock hard [hi Kat!], it's not my cup of tea. And I do have one exception, this really cool life quotes poster. Eh!) You know the kind: "Rather than walk the road already paved, go where there is no road and MAKE YOUR OWN." Dun-dun-dun. So anyway, here's my response-poem. ----- "Where There Is No Road," by David Puthoff In that hoary wood I found your frosted road less - yet more, now, travelled. Tempted I was to walk it. To add to those footsteps, hundred following yours, my own. Yet, I remembered your words. I passed the road now travelled to go and make my own. Everywhere I went in that dusky wood A footprint lay where I knew not it should. Others, I saw, had heeded your advice. Many. I grew frustrated, looking for a road my own. Only, with every branch I lifted, I found a soda can, a sandal strap, a used condom, all left by countless careless pilgrims of individuality. Fine, then. Fuck your roads. I will climb a cliff, I thought, a road suitable only for madmen. The rocks bite my fingers. I am thrilled by the enlightening descent thrilled by the inkblot of my body after the ascendant fall. |
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| Saturday, October 16th, 2004 |
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I spent three straight years in the kitchen of hell wondering what life is who’s gonna kill me in the end. Wandering around with a spoon and a knife wondering who God is what is life I’ll tell you now The moon aint setting on a dirty day. We need to find one more sinner to pray I’ll tell you now. Apathy and entropy and Heaven knows what goes on with a tv and a soda pop gut. I’ll tell you how I lived three years in the kitchen of hell, wondering who will save me and what I can sell. I heard a man say, "To the promised land I’m going tomorow with my fingers in the sand." God loves children and their teenage mothers. Jesus loves sinners and the lost confused brothers. So let me tell you all about the kitchen of hell. I loved there for three years and I can tell Noone passed go and gets in free but life helped me learn and God helped me see That even the sinners and the haters get love All from a man who was sent from above. So let me tell you all about the kitchen of hell cooking like an egg in a Texas dry spell Walking around with a question and a tale All about God and the kitchen of hell. |
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| Friday, October 15th, 2004 |
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When Byzantium lies in dust Where will you be, o voice? O scarlet songbird notes, What gaudy hearts will hearken? For four thousand years the city stands Each architect building high, Indeed, highter still and madly When built upon adobe backs, Steel girders through ionic Columns and down into dusty thatch. So stands your fable city, each Age Vomiting up the next. Atop each edifice gold does shine But sparingly and below, in sewers, In alleys, in holes and lost homes, Not a scrap of gold adorns a pen, Nary a ripe ruby in a Pharoah's eye. Of course it has all been taken. The earth spills no new gold, all is Taken, robbed, from those before. Today's architect was yesterday's Vandal. Today's Goths will be tomorrow's Wright. Eternity's gold holds no value in Rotten tombs of yesteryear; Those who pillage, rape, and plunder, not the dead, hold gold dear. So crow your wretched song now, o bird, Despairing not in your endeavor; Take comfort in how we value you And in that nothing lasts forever. |
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LiveJournal for Literature Anonymous.
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awake.
cranky.
hungry.
confused.
creative.
excited.