Everyone else's less wonderful poetry thread

mixed_biscuits

mixed_biscuits

_________________________
Eathly, we rerose and

Picked baccae anew from

Wafery leaf,

On knarry tree,

By smeked clouds. ;)



We perched packs thereof

- muonic blots -

On sweeny shoulder,

Unlaid stirrups,

Gobbed our oxlike steeds

With ansate bawdry. :D



My bacca dhooly was exemed:

A spadix marked

The groved spot for loungy relaxation.


:cool:
 
P

poetix

we murder to dissect
astra

Star, pinprick in the blotted canvas of my
infolded heaven, point of remembered light
unconstellated, uncorroborated, I
am lensing intermittent pulses out to your
red-shifted sector. Come from where you are.
No. Stay right where you are. But scan
your own skies, see if you don't clock something
phasing in the night, an astral stranger
fated to vanish but hesitant to depart.
 
luka

luka

Well-known member
Horny holocaust tourist



Looking inwards across the death plane



Tone quaver abjure move yield tonnage comp gas twelve

apple scum bold glory toy



Twine yips goose package fat lining



Brood forest fright night moon crest curdle camp



Sodium scum surge against chip shop fat livery



Raw meat chopped together placed on a deckchair



Living inside an intestinal rhizome that floats just below the surface



Breeze into the shallows dorsal fin submerged poised to kill

Hubba Bubba display rack porn shelf shop man porn shelf eye babes



Naughty knickers look shelf upper eye limit nip



Horny housewife lusts waffles beans chips pesto and pasta



Fill up knickers with fishy findus fingers slouched over saucy sausages

Yob bloke nap fixture fondant wicked cone section

clone beckon bake tangent colloquial crepe nodule

Oak wizen tablet wand

Dove cerise crimp bode burgeon bodice babe

Hook angle bugle rampant fork host

Fondue parlour rope deed

Standard stamp dance dip swamp

Loll fairy distant lamps just kingdom gulch

Ocular luge bantam grip pulp visor master meek minder

Teep tip tackle vile bade Boulder border lip older order lap author odour

Acid Basque Quail Acid Basque Quail nightingale nightingale aluminium pop bottle

Peeve siding map gristle

Hoist joist rooming lodge loop trip switch drape canvas

Alarm last happy riot clutter glans baste ride mantic fever

Nave broom stunning petulant performance

Gristle Stimmung strapped back to flat inquest suggest a sausage

Corpulent orangery rolling favours face first feast

Motel squirrel tapir tape tip tackle toast table toady toad in the hole hale table

tamp tide table tar table tone dun table bun table bone bane table bode table

Hung between the fleshy hind quarters mastic bonds obviate sheath necessity

Mope table maid table wheel table whale table white oat table

Moat table boat table turn tide taupe table top table stop pop pup table sup table

sip soup table soap table ship shape table slip table sham soak table oak table

Scratch screech



face cards screech wounds cards force face scratch



Cake face bake scratch face cards force flames

Her emotions were, shall we say ‘flammable'

Revoke table. Gruesome railings black wrought iron hem the terrace. A storm gathers and

breaks over the adjacent bread harbour. Whales break for it. Gummy spiders collapse in the teeth.

Roaring from the mouth wretched fronds of jelly the tongue in there somewhere wrapped up like an escaping eel

Mouth gravy flapping the humble scrivener's trade

Banned quotidien object. Gruesome Bride Hideous Groom.

Gravalax bagette olive pate smudge inserted cucumber cheeky slice

Dainty penis hike trekker trail before humble breakfast frugal fare natures way this way
 
woops

woops

is not like other people
luka said:
Horny holocaust tourist



Looking inwards across the death plane



Tone quaver abjure move yield tonnage comp gas twelve

apple scum bold glory toy



Twine yips goose package fat lining



Brood forest fright night moon crest curdle camp



Sodium scum surge against chip shop fat livery



Raw meat chopped together placed on a deckchair



Living inside an intestinal rhizome that floats just below the surface



Breeze into the shallows dorsal fin submerged poised to kill

Hubba Bubba display rack porn shelf shop man porn shelf eye babes



Naughty knickers look shelf upper eye limit nip



Horny housewife lusts waffles beans chips pesto and pasta



Fill up knickers with fishy findus fingers slouched over saucy sausages

Yob bloke nap fixture fondant wicked cone section

clone beckon bake tangent colloquial crepe nodule

Oak wizen tablet wand

Dove cerise crimp bode burgeon bodice babe

Hook angle bugle rampant fork host

Fondue parlour rope deed

Standard stamp dance dip swamp

Loll fairy distant lamps just kingdom gulch

Ocular luge bantam grip pulp visor master meek minder

Teep tip tackle vile bade Boulder border lip older order lap author odour

Acid Basque Quail Acid Basque Quail nightingale nightingale aluminium pop bottle

Peeve siding map gristle

Hoist joist rooming lodge loop trip switch drape canvas

Alarm last happy riot clutter glans baste ride mantic fever

Nave broom stunning petulant performance

Gristle Stimmung strapped back to flat inquest suggest a sausage

Corpulent orangery rolling favours face first feast

Motel squirrel tapir tape tip tackle toast table toady toad in the hole hale table

tamp tide table tar table tone dun table bun table bone bane table bode table

Hung between the fleshy hind quarters mastic bonds obviate sheath necessity

Mope table maid table wheel table whale table white oat table

Moat table boat table turn tide taupe table top table stop pop pup table sup table

sip soup table soap table ship shape table slip table sham soak table oak table

Scratch screech



face cards screech wounds cards force face scratch



Cake face bake scratch face cards force flames

Her emotions were, shall we say ‘flammable'

Revoke table. Gruesome railings black wrought iron hem the terrace. A storm gathers and

breaks over the adjacent bread harbour. Whales break for it. Gummy spiders collapse in the teeth.

Roaring from the mouth wretched fronds of jelly the tongue in there somewhere wrapped up like an escaping eel

Mouth gravy flapping the humble scrivener's trade

Banned quotidien object. Gruesome Bride Hideous Groom.

Gravalax bagette olive pate smudge inserted cucumber cheeky slice

Dainty penis hike trekker trail before humble breakfast frugal fare natures way this way
Click to expand...
Ban this sick filth
 
P

poetix

we murder to dissect
Wrote this to intone solemnly over some music I had no idea what the fuck else to do with:

The head teacher is a patient man. Nevertheless,
He has a job to do, an assembly to address
On the evils of masturbation, the devil’s handshake.
He blinks, and again it is 2021. His notes
Tremble momentarily in his grasp. He clears his throat.
A child breaks wind. There is stifled laughter.
“Today we are going to talk about our bodies”.
More laughter. “You see, I am my body. You
Are your body. That’s how it is. It can’t be changed.
That much is obvious”. A hand goes up.
“I want to be a robot”. “Don’t be facetious.
You are a boy, as anyone can see. One day
You’ll be a man, like me”. His vision blurs.
The children’s eyes glow red, out of their open
Mouths pour viral curses, screeching like a broken modem.
He wakes in sweat, gasping, “God! Christ!”
“I’m not ok! I’m not ok!

The intoning/music is here:
 
Murphy

Murphy

cat malogen
The One Show, egg, chips
work, work, works until it can’t work,
or won’t.

You decide.

Thunder and plunder, egg, chips
work, work, works until dropping down,
through flooring.

Not again.

Ukraine and Russia, egg, chips
work, work, works until haemorrhaging,
through Mariupol.

Bloody pavements.

Traitorous Jermaine Jenus, egg, chips
work, work, works until Geordie’s with money
priced loyalty.

QPR retiree.

Dissensus is quiet, egg, chips
work, work, works until quiet beckons,
through electromagnetism.

Formerly dogging.
 
mixed_biscuits

mixed_biscuits

_________________________
Draw a petalled planche

Pen a rundown ranch

Air of louche insouciance

Étanche, étanche, étanche



A crescent lock descends

Miserium’s end, forfend

The come-hither eye

Should shut: good chance, goodbye



The dappled dribble

Smoulder’d stubble. GRISÂTRE

All my rubble set quite fast

In the sunspell after
 
woops

woops

is not like other people
mixed_biscuits said:
Draw a petalled planche

Pen a rundown ranch

Air of louche insouciance

Étanche, étanche, étanche



A crescent lock descends

Miserium’s end, forfend

The come-hither eye

Should shut: good chance, goodbye



The dappled dribble

Smoulder’d stubble. GRISÂTRE

All my rubble set quite fast

In the sunspell after
Click to expand...
Macaronics
 
P

poetix

we murder to dissect
Grateful for this autumn rain, suffusing
dampness, the season's gathering itself
lately in; wet grass unmowed, tufting around
a plastic children's slide, a garish rocker.
I put the bins out last thing before bed.

Nature gets on with things, its secret ministries
as Coleridge said a slow work of repair
sometimes felt inwardly, even as ageing
scrabbles at the façade, chips pieces off.
Perhaps - no, surely - both these things are one,

a reconciling to which I in turn
may reconcile myself, the locus of
control diffusing as it sometimes will.
As a small child, as children are, I was
all one thing, all the time. (Astonishing

how soon their bumps and grazes evanesce -
a knock like that could hobble me for days.)
Now gratitude unfolds me, softens edges,
brings sense back to that first indefinite
noun-less profusion amid scrape of bins.

Which is to say that nature multiplies
its own good, folds us nonchalantly in
to works begun before our need of time
found worldly purchase; and that it is good
to put the bins out in the autumn rain.
 
P

poetix

we murder to dissect
Make it a snow-globe, shakeable from stasis
into a gelid flurry settling
on alpine starkness, moulded plastic firs
deep-set in dandruff, pert within their sphere.
Wobble detection trips a jingle, one
of those old-time tunes you’re just supposed to know -
The Cuckoo Waltz, for sake of argument.
Shelve in antique emporium, last chance
saloon for gewgaws, books no-one has read
in forty years, unplayable guitars.
The books have titles like “The Mushroom Cult:
an English Priest Reviews the Evidence”;
“New Waves in Knitwear”; “Davro’s On The Prowl”.
The culture of your childhood is washed up,
flotsam and jetsam, on these final shores.
The globe, though, indestructible, a capsule
winking among the ruins, its jingle looping:

coo-coo, duck duck,
dum dum diddy diddy dum

coo-coo, duck duck,
dum dum diddy diddy dum
 
C

catalog

Well-known member
@0bleak and I have done a collaborative song, sort of.

He wrote a poem, I think the first one he has ever written.

He was gonna do a drawing, but somehow the poem came out instead.

This is it

The Truth

The truth is in your state mental hospitals.
The truth is in the man that has convinced himself that he is Moses and walks around all day in a robe asking when he will be able to next have a cigarette.
The truth is in those that stole the clothes that you brought for yourself when you went there. Props to them!
But not in those so-called experts that sit in judgment of the patients.
Not in those that recklessly administer drugs.
Not in those "professionals" that tell you your name is that of a child.
Not in those "professionals" that say you're a rebel without a cause without actually wondering why you might be rebelling.
Not in those "professionals" that throw every diagnosis in the book at you.
Not in those "professionals" that seem like they would just as much rather make you feel worse about yourself than help you.
Not in those "professionals" that seem like they're just looking for ways to trip you up - to call you a liar.
Not in those "professionals" that tell your mom that it's time to for him to sink or swim when they don't anything about you besides what your mom tells them.
Not in those "professionals" that don't realize you can't even literally swim no matter how hard you tried.
Not in those fathers that exasperatedly gave up on you while trying to teach you how to swim.
Not in those fathers that would exasperatedly tell you that you can't see the forest for the trees.
Not in those fathers that even decades after your diagnosis, which only came about from pieces you first had to put together yourself, still behaves as if they don't understand or as if they ever really bothered to read anything about it.
Not in those fathers, when at a large extended family Christmas party, and should have known about what your diagnosis said about your social skills, when you bring up the fact the no one talked to you, asks if _you_ tried talking to them.
Not in those fathers that say that even after you had previously brought up how no one talked to you a your own birthday party.
Not in those fathers that have somehow convinced themselves that you had friends while growing up instead of just spending almost all day of almost every day just watching tv.
Not in those fathers that still insisted you keep playing sports even though you hated it and everyone would laugh at you, and the coach would very angrily and exasperatedly say, "You throw like a girl!"
Not in those fathers that were obsessed so much with sports that is almost all they ever talked about even though your eyes would glaze over.
Not in those fathers that couldn't understand that one of the reasons that you felt like such a failure is that there is so much emphasis on sports from both him and the wider culture, yet you can't even throw a ball.
The truth is that I love my father.
Click to expand...
He sent it to me in a private message, I was blitzed so didn't read it properly but I loved the last line and it made me feel quite emotional, as my dad died when I was 5 and, to a certain extent, I've been looking for him all my life.

So, almost as a way to make myself read it properly, I read it out loud and thought I would record the reading.

So I did that and it turned out I did actually really like it.

Anyway, @0bleak then made some loops, or found some, and we put my reading of his poem over the music.

And here is that

Listen to collab.wav by Feedinthru on #SoundCloud
on.soundcloud.com

collab.wav

Poem the truth by 0bleak
on.soundcloud.com on.soundcloud.com
 
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