Brashmania Creatina Polyvergo : Lozi's Poetry

Stepping down from ruined cores,
a neverending path of chalky death.
I creep forward,
watching twelve figures descend.
1...7..but where's the 10th?
Her crowlike hair,
whisked leftways in the salty breeze.

Darkening tempest overhead,
the devious frigid shape.
She follows no one.
The crowd of eleven pay her no heed.
Does she care?
Does she care?
Her cloak of mud-sick brown.
A toastlike hue,
reminds of me of the fish i cooked for breakfast,
in my hutlike abode,
beneath a crackling vent that was once new.

Crowing girl,
you remind me of a nightmare.
Someone I lost perhaps..
Or something I gained.
As you stumble in a clumsy manner,
my hand rises and parts the waves.

How beautiful you look,
your face lit up in fear.
How graceful your slender arms,
bent up against your tears of fright.

Aghast I must let the waves die,
you're forgetting,
I let you live.
You're forgetting,
you can't turn back.
You're forgetting the torn, jagged stones you slipped on yesterday,
when you died,
and I saw.

 

very nice...it sounds like it should be a song...

 

Ahhh! You make me sick when you walk down that aisle!
Your too-bright dress with your too-bright shoes!
That achey-breaky heart you said would die before you wed,
but instead you beam that smug smile,
poisonous, snakelike wench.

And there you go, with your baby blue garter,
the sort of thing that a...baby wears.
And fairylights hanging from the faux candlabra,
Tacky, yet pristine decor that stinks.

Your lips are darkened red,
the vampish sort you abhorred.
Your teeth are bleached, oh fancy that!
For men who adored you, unrequited.

The cut throat glasses, filled with wine,
not champagne because you're "saving for your honeymoon"...
in croydon, why?
Do you despise the sea that beckons from afar?
Does the sand make you itch and forget your love?
Does it break the pretence?

Oh no, young slave to freedom,
you can't leave
and there he is,
the man of dreams.
The one with eyes as bright as June.
The one with hair: downy soft and gay.
The one whose cheekbones raised his status.
The one who took MY heart first.

 

Perhaps staying at home was the better idea ?

Did he take it, or did u want to give it ?

 

alas i know not! i only wrote this. i don't know whose heart it's referring to...sorry.

 

i've never been able to understand how people can write poetry about things they haven't experienced..? i'm just thinking, i thought poetry was inspired by yours or people you knews experiences? or atleast has some relevance to something you think or feel...

but if its been plucked out of the air? what is its purpose, meaning etc?

 

i think it's an adaption of vague feelings that seem to surface sometimes, but put into a different way perhaps...

 

(i'm afraid i can't really do the band justice, but i had a go anyway! here it is)


Hey you,
out there on your own,
won't you listen to the vibes behind the door...

as we open up your cochlea, pretend the lunatic is in your head.
Dream the dream that is alive,
not dead to the world.
Instead your breath is coming through in waves,
i cannot explain what texturefilled eeriness disturbs these walls.

Unseemly, slight offkey.
Balanced yet un.

The very twangs and screams of Gilmours 'tar,
struck twice and slid,
then bent to make some...revelled fantasy.
An epic trilogy in 3 that fakes the groans of every hippy.
"Haha!" he cries. "I can't think of anything to say"...

...Which sets off the bells synth samples,
and there the edited, taped up rolls
of cash machines
repeat repeat repeat.
and the rhythmical art unfolds
and envelopes the brain in which you sit,
pausing only to breath,
just in time to scream again
just in time to chime again
just in time to wail
just in time to sax the mixes.

 

hey thats realy good it makes me want to sing money

 

it was for a poetry contest....for shame! *hangs head* thanks for the commment though

 

(the title is wrong, it's actually called 'the puzzle of disfiguration')



My brain is in a fortitudinal mode,
with both sides fractured,
both sides mutilated.
And with each random firing,
the cells begin to mutate:
wiring this way and that, leaning in front of the pineal fireplace.

There goes my everfalling sanity,
it's driven by some power-wielding, hungry wolf.
O silence hear my cry,
beg me to wait for this infernal sleepwake cyclops.
O music, lust after me,
caress my very soul and make me whole.

Forgetting the sentence i am doomed to live out,
i suspect nothing and everything,
whislt paranoia breaks my heart.

You look for me underneath a firelit moon,
and apocolypse pleases this erected night.
June waits for us to part the seal from the chardonnay bottle
and beckons the stars closer,
above their continuing, restless spot dancing.

I loll on top of grassy knolls
in desparation, bite the bacon sandwiches your mother made,
and whistle bits of crumbs.
I wipe the ketchup from your chin,
and cup to keep the juices in your mouth from dribbling out.
Your halflips, a-symetrical, try to smile,
but one side fails, you wonkily grin.

Your scarred, burnt arms surround my waist
and bring me closer to your face,
your brighteyed lenses strike the moon,
because nothing else is false.
Your crooked teeth begin to show,
you sign to me to signal "yes or no".
I pretend to sigh and venture near...

-a moment ensues-

you break the silence with a wheezy laugh
i turn to face you
"are you real?" i wonder.
such a tortured wonder,
yet...yes, such a gleaming soul!

hear my thoughts too, and agree:
you're disfigured on the outside,
but my inner core is a black pot.

 

(not sure what happened with this poem, it's a bit like "wooot?")

Scuffed underneath your shoes
wiith no intent of going back
the very scent i reek of is garlic-flavoured ricin

Every pin i find in your stationary cabinet
goes inside my palm,
i savour the pain to stub you out.

I'm sorry, please forgive me/another chance perhaps?
these words echo through my skull,
the one you kissed goodnight, then smacked.

I'm obviously the living ill,
a wretch created from the pulped death.
your winning smile beguiles me, but oh wait...

there's your mother, her pearls dripping.
your job sickens me, pimps and whores?
what kind of atrocity have you become?

It makes me weep, to think of you.
a child in school, a gentlemen.
you went through high school, did SO well...

and then you joined the army.

THEY BURNT YOUR C-CORE !!!!!!
THEY MAULED Y-YOU!!!!
YOU DIDN'T EVEN HAVE THE STRENGTH TO FIGHT BACK!!!!!

I can't scream anymore:
it choked my windpipe when i saw you with razored hair,
and pulsing veins in anger.

You met me before you left,
and bought me roses/
even proposed,
and stupidly i said yes.

But now i regret

now i doubt

And it was all because you came back,

changed and broken
weak and repugnant

...I even pressed your trousers, the flared ones.
But you flung them from my hands and grabbed my wrist,
driving us home to revell in your operatic macbeth.
(what has your mother got to do with anything?...Andy?...oh no, not my baby, don't take her pleeaassse!!!!! please...please..)

 

Seeing as she is such a speed demon and pumps out poems like theirs no tomorrow.. i thought i'd give her a whole thread to herself stuck up for the time being.. so if your in the mood for some mind bendingly no sense, nonsensiqually deep and damn crazy poetry... come on in!
​

 

Spetophiliac

Well, hello there Master Futupo,
your cape looks bigger than before,
You eyes have turned to coknuts,
your belly to half a caut.

May you forgive me my intrusion,
Mister Futupo
for painting your skies a different shade of beige
than what you're used to.

Bringoistic fortune teller,
settled overhead the shadows loom
a distance cackle from the bushes
sends shivers down my spine...

and here, to your left is the Jipolette:
a strange creature-
half blind with hornrimmed glasses/
tastes with a minty tongue/
hair, oh none/
and a claw that rips through memory.

Sore enough yet from your tropical tour?
I guessed as much, so here we are.
Our second and final guest this week
is the Diabello-
all said really,
and obvious fellow.
With red eyes/
red hair/
red skin/
red tongue/
and an orange forked tail.
But, beware... as he adores the taste of knighted men.

So, Sir Futupo..
want to see an Ocelot?

 

Belinquent scents from unknown worlds,
their consumation unfurled.
Lingering, pursing lips touch petals of dewsupped stemming tulips.
A vacant smile passed mouth to mouth,
and every southern sparrow flies,
north or west,
it matters not,
for freedom leaves the roost.

This small, brown bird,
not yet a chick,
worm hungry, oh again it eats.
munches on it's mothers beak,
and waits for nighttimes cloth.
The blanket made of noir black silk,
its patterned sparkles domineer
the very fragrant tulips bud
and suffocate the birds eyes.

I see nothing,
I smell nothing,
I hear nothing.
No waking cry nor larksong, no.
But here i feel the waters edge,
The lapping forks, so crystal wet.
And overhead i feel the wind,
brisk gentle blows over myself,
another bird released its wings,
i felt it, you see.

 

I find that whereever my eyes roam,
wherever they fall,
the objest in my glance is always mirrored.

Any slight miscalculation ends up in my slaughter:
my love,
my clothes,
my face,
my air,
my problems,
my happiness..

where is your love,
your clothes?
your face?
your air?
your happiness?
What problems befall thee,
gentle stranger?
Your figure cocooned in hazelbrown engine oil,
but another,
oh another...


i fail to recognise the other...
what sad, moping, felinefaced beauty is he?
with his hair so fine and his flowers rare...
the chrysanthemums he picks for me,
but engine oil man,
i don't deserve thee.

To worship such a man..
oh how it pains my mind.
the moralistic senses draw my heart down...down....down
and then i fall to the ground on my knees
In hysteria

The incense induced high leaves me empty
The jd in my tea dries me out...

Oh i'm dying inside,
but living..
or am i?
which way am i turning?

God, help my soul as i pick up the pieces.
Wave your wand and set me free from the doubt,
the mystical leery pain,
of unrequited love and selfless adoration.

 

you astound me... you paint the words alive

 

*bows* thankyou for your kind words mr delorean

 

an ethereal princess
made from nucleargems and brightly coloured sapphires,
painted in rouge and other faint lovelies.
the sort of tint that hints of springtime,
in a bluebells faded purple.

blue,
perhaps a definite .
fragrant blossom
is your eye, and the other too.
Both those misty particles mould a symphony of illusion,
but the funny thing is
the illusion is real.

as your brush caresses canvas
tear delux strings from the heart,
to stroke a curving arc
of semi-rainbow love.
aloof, the geriatric flowers
dented, but through the artists eyes
a spell of frozen beauty anoints the page.

 

Planets in a box, planets in a box.
where DO you get your bovine dreams of well-drawn figments?
Wide eyes...of simple dreaming--well what would you think to that?!


Vapour in the moon, vapour in the moon,
burninate my destined doom of ultime dread,
the stars will never rest til you are dead!


Choked up man, choked up man,
Beneath the coldhard aristocracy,
I watch every dynamite hour die, whilst supping my box of tea.


Prisoner in my box, prisoner in my box,
Your very soul illumes my dreams,
your beamish need for freedom lights my eyes.


Childlike inhibitions, childlike inhibitions,
haha! Their galaxy knows no ends!
You can't stop them imagining past what is possible,
can you.


Why do I weep red tears, sweet race?
Do I wait for you to end the silent fantasy?
I pause for you to lock the box…