we drop like anchors into the noise sleep until it hurts and look out at damage born to the metals the plastics, the wires we have a dream it wants to destroy we are cars on the road we are pictures in albums we are voices in type we are drunks in the dark sleeping with flesh awaking alone looking at each other with dull burning eyes with high ringing ears with the traffic laughing crying smiling screaming it kills us
I imagine Heaven is a place where we are comfortable with who we are, our roles in society and relationships. perhaps there is no such thing as heaven in the long-run due to our own creative natures, inquisitiveness & propensity to make mistakes. Perhaps heaven is a place reserved for the dull and listless or those who have the stallion of desire well broke. Perhaps Heaven is the place where we recognize that we have enough knowledge and have no desire to seek further. 'Perhaps' is a wonderful word, I like using it. Perhaps Heaven is only occupied by idiots and children, and those who come to the realization thru experience. ---------------- I debated with myself whether to post this as a philosophical thread inviting comments from the Ancient Masters amongst us, then thought better of it, and posted it here. 'Hope you don't mind.
Yes, thank you for the insightful criticism. And you're right, I am brilliant. But to tell you the truth I couldn't have done it alone. If my poem succeeded, it's all because of the wonderful people at hipforums, whose keen critical eyes and tremendous ambition to be the best they can be will always inspire and empower new generations of poets for many years to come.
your midnight voice from the depths, in the walls when my head is a cavern grotesque with stalactites and gloom and I'm hunched by the light by the pool in the corner before the light goes out and we no longer see movements can't prove tangibility and we're not sure what happens and we look for a memory to hold onto but when it comes up it's ridiculous some mannered moment some just-remembered face-- I knew someone once I would never go back to, I'm just not the type nothing is worth holding onto, after voices and flesh or even some human gesture that tells me they're real and separates them from the ghosts in the halls in the cars in the streets in the stores on the sidewalks on buses with their eyes on the floor thinking whatever they can whatever it is that they think before they go home and get ready to sleep trying to know they aren't dead so they know they can feel something good in themselves like it matters, or isn't just leisure, but I want you to know in the middle of this the last thing I see before it goes out.
I love this, I think "nothing if worth holding onto" is so true. I wish I could convince myself of that. I think its perfect.
create your desires until they interfere with everything stop your sleeping suddenly she matches them all, so begins your nervous set of dates. you rise from the shadows of loneliness to some tasteful dinner table and pretend to smile when she passes all the while its swimming that memory in your head in this world of animals there are no superiors only your chemicals telling your chemicals to move into receptors you might forget you have in the midst of a moment for example that glow around her head is only a chemical telling you something that you want to hear and you love the lie it brings you to places like this sets the table serves the meal and tells you that later maybe later it will happen.
i really like your poetry here...the first one is my favorite, but the second rocks too, especially the images in the first part of it...in the third i like where you put the break in the stanzas, like your thoughts were interrupted...i enjoyed reading all of these
visit abandoned amusement parks dedicate poems to trees enjoy the delusions of schizophrenics throw off insights that resonate deep despise the pretentious but give them a chance find archaic humor in stunning new light lead friends back into their own hidden youth escape from these ghosts lift your fragile spirit
as they descend, press my head rain stung to the rock, rats on the streets around our feet our bare toes come out for their teeth gnawing old flesh off old man, doesn't feel it in the grey where the smoke floats smells like decay, wells in watery eyes the garbage dump on main street behind the abandoned, boarded-up windows of what could have maufactured, those shells from an all-time low hiding people who know what suffering is people still strong from it, impossible to read they walk through each other uncertain at any moment it could come to a stop child with his toe over rats in a pool rain coming down in the rusted out deep end tiles chipped to dust in a trickle of rain rats over rats in collapsing of trees boughs broken down hunched like farmers spine children sleep on the floor, exposed belly rat after rat over the stomachs scurry and into the hole in wall closets rats in the streets over debris in the rot of the world-- gnashing their teeth, dripping with blood.
baby bright day comes up beachside sun like a palace so skybound then space wave after wave of those baby bright eyes flickering waves take the voices to shore together again in the wake of stormy dawn anthemic to a fault and sandy, shell-strewn novel whose black space refracts standout thought brain jeweller places each peg in each hole hopes for the best and eclipses.
I only read the first one, my attention span is a little short right now, but I really enjoyed it. It's very smooth. I'll come back here and read some more.
