nat-yonce - Hello Poetry

Cottonball girls with Q-tip legs dance gently On Epsom salt beaches As waves of rubbing alcohol lick their feet. Father, let us run among them. Let us clean and clear our faces in their festival of mirrors. We shall rebury the awful jewels I found With the failed veiled assassin's prescribed directions. Rx marks the spot. You may keep the map, for it keeps you in knowledge. I do not wish that curse upon my conscience. You may keep the knowledge, for it keeps you in power. I do not wish the crown in that course. Molten Molten Forty milligram Molten Sterilehappy

0

Nov 15, 2010

Nov 15, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC

nat-yonce

Splish Splash

Cottonball girls with Q-tip legs dance gently On Epsom salt beaches As waves of rubbing alcohol lick their feet. Father, let us run among them. Let us clean and clear our faces in their festival of mirrors. We shall rebury the awful jewels I found With the failed veiled assassin's prescribed directions. Rx marks the spot. You may keep the map, for it keeps you in knowledge. I do not wish that curse upon my conscience. You may keep the knowledge, for it keeps you in power. I do not wish the crown in that course. Molten Molten Forty milligram Molten Sterilehappy

17

Hollywood, oh Hollywood. Oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood. It's the end of the roadwork. Your timepiece has come, And it's a swatch. Notch one more crotch on your bedposter - That glossy, ten five twenty-two eight That I have to pass every day on my work to drive. Five days an hour, eight weeks a day Hollywood, you make it so! You make so, And you make it so easy. But no more. I'll not have it. I'll not have your scientists of magic. I'll not have your tragic matches Acting as hatched from practiced scratch, Far detached from my actual batch. I'll not latch. Holly, I enjoy woodburning, And I'll be ****** if I let you talk me into Buying wood in sizes I don't need. "It's bigger and looks better, and it can be yours!" Well, so can the forest, Holly. So can the sticks and bits and wild peach pits. All for free, all for me, All without fashion, death, or **** (Unless I choose to use them). Hollywood, you are my tenth grade English teacher. You should be teaching math, But you been subjected to so much juvenile crap That you sell your contributions As though they were miracle cures for a dying language. BUT. You're in a rut. You don't know it (Most 70-year-old virgins don't), But you are. Go on, get ****** You believe in formulas. Hollywood, this movie (Yes, the one I'm typing and you're reading), This movie would never make it in your classroom. It has no meter, Just a hint of rhyme, And very few explosions sixty minutes in. If I can't mumble it to a children's tune, I get neither "A" nor award.

0

Sep 2, 2010

Sep 2, 2010 at 1:22 PM UTC

nat-yonce

108 Minutes

Hollywood, oh Hollywood. Oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood, oh Hollywood. It's the end of the roadwork. Your timepiece has come, And it's a swatch. Notch one more crotch on your bedposter - That glossy, ten five twenty-two eight That I have to pass every day on my work to drive. Five days an hour, eight weeks a day Hollywood, you make it so! You make so, And you make it so easy. But no more. I'll not have it. I'll not have your scientists of magic. I'll not have your tragic matches Acting as hatched from practiced scratch, Far detached from my actual batch. I'll not latch. Holly, I enjoy woodburning, And I'll be ****** if I let you talk me into Buying wood in sizes I don't need. "It's bigger and looks better, and it can be yours!" Well, so can the forest, Holly. So can the sticks and bits and wild peach pits. All for free, all for me, All without fashion, death, or **** (Unless I choose to use them). Hollywood, you are my tenth grade English teacher. You should be teaching math, But you been subjected to so much juvenile crap That you sell your contributions As though they were miracle cures for a dying language. BUT. You're in a rut. You don't know it (Most 70-year-old virgins don't), But you are. Go on, get ****** You believe in formulas. Hollywood, this movie (Yes, the one I'm typing and you're reading), This movie would never make it in your classroom. It has no meter, Just a hint of rhyme, And very few explosions sixty minutes in. If I can't mumble it to a children's tune, I get neither "A" nor award.

48

Forgot Soul of dew Hurled. Dried by midday. ‘Tis a sensible hour. He is the one who is called Forgot. I am the one who is called Soul of dew. I am the one who is now Hurled Into an evanescent being, Only to dry Much too soon. Forgot soul of dew, hurled. Soul of dew Hurled, Forgot was too late.

0

Sep 2, 2010

Sep 2, 2010 at 1:11 PM UTC

nat-yonce

Forgot Beep Raised

Forgot Soul of dew Hurled. Dried by midday. ‘Tis a sensible hour. He is the one who is called Forgot. I am the one who is called Soul of dew. I am the one who is now Hurled Into an evanescent being, Only to dry Much too soon. Forgot soul of dew, hurled. Soul of dew Hurled, Forgot was too late.

17

Johnny in the garden Cut his hair real close Now With the mower. Says he's got a fever, But you don't believe, Yeah, He's a liar. Spanish Inquisition Rocking through his heart It's Trying to find that Very special section Lets him love again. No, We can't have that. Let's drag him down. Shards of glass and pistols, Mirror in the face, We're Out of focus. Dart him in the eye. Dart him in the eye. Dart him in the eye. Johnny's in the attic, Hanging by a bulb. He's Left the light on. Music's running over Running out of time See How he's running. Let's tear him down. But we don't play that anymore. Johnny's got a different score. It's a song of roaches And cathedrals that he sings - An ode to ***** scatterings. A white ribbon on his right middle finger. Cigarette in limbo, Space between the ears. Dust: Mite-specific. Books of strings and theories Numbers on the shelf Un- Finished papers. He's so fine. He's so fine. He's such a Passionate disposer, Decomposing you. So Decomposing. Let's yank him down. Johnny, in the innards. Lot of help, those ribs. How Much protection? Never in a million Needle in the hay One Into many. Brother John is dying, Agonizing pain- Ful- Ly apparent. Choke, choke, choke. Dance, dance, dance. Chance, chance, chance. Johnny Roach is down. Johnny Roach is down.

0

Sep 2, 2010

Sep 2, 2010 at 9:34 AM UTC

nat-yonce

Johnny Roach

Johnny in the garden Cut his hair real close Now With the mower. Says he's got a fever, But you don't believe, Yeah, He's a liar. Spanish Inquisition Rocking through his heart It's Trying to find that Very special section Lets him love again. No, We can't have that. Let's drag him down. Shards of glass and pistols, Mirror in the face, We're Out of focus. Dart him in the eye. Dart him in the eye. Dart him in the eye. Johnny's in the attic, Hanging by a bulb. He's Left the light on. Music's running over Running out of time See How he's running. Let's tear him down. But we don't play that anymore. Johnny's got a different score. It's a song of roaches And cathedrals that he sings - An ode to ***** scatterings. A white ribbon on his right middle finger. Cigarette in limbo, Space between the ears. Dust: Mite-specific. Books of strings and theories Numbers on the shelf Un- Finished papers. He's so fine. He's so fine. He's such a Passionate disposer, Decomposing you. So Decomposing. Let's yank him down. Johnny, in the innards. Lot of help, those ribs. How Much protection? Never in a million Needle in the hay One Into many. Brother John is dying, Agonizing pain- Ful- Ly apparent. Choke, choke, choke. Dance, dance, dance. Chance, chance, chance. Johnny Roach is down. Johnny Roach is down.

72

That line is shorter than this line. That line is longer than this line.

0

Aug 15, 2010

Aug 15, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC

nat-yonce

This Poem Is True

That line is shorter than this line. That line is longer than this line.

2

This line is shorter than that line. This line is longer than that line.

0

Aug 15, 2010

Aug 15, 2010 at 5:24 PM UTC

nat-yonce

This Poem Is False

This line is shorter than that line. This line is longer than that line.

2

"You know, I used to be good at math," He says, A cigarette cradled in his fingers, Spilling ash on his blue jeans. He rearranges himself, removes his jacket - It's much too hot for leather now - And reveals a Dean t-shirt. Too cool for school, I suppose. "The rules just got too crazy, too specific. Too dependent and tangled. Well, too much so for the effort I was willing to exert." He's frank, I'll give him that. How does he make utter sloth seem so innocent? Too cool for school, I suppose. He calls himself a Methodist. Not like that, though. He says he's just figured life out. He means the hows, not the whys. The stops along the tour of personal success. A Methodist. Too cool for school, I suppose.

0

Aug 11, 2010

Aug 11, 2010 at 1:10 PM UTC

nat-yonce

Portrait of the Artist as a Young James Dean

"You know, I used to be good at math," He says, A cigarette cradled in his fingers, Spilling ash on his blue jeans. He rearranges himself, removes his jacket - It's much too hot for leather now - And reveals a Dean t-shirt. Too cool for school, I suppose. "The rules just got too crazy, too specific. Too dependent and tangled. Well, too much so for the effort I was willing to exert." He's frank, I'll give him that. How does he make utter sloth seem so innocent? Too cool for school, I suppose. He calls himself a Methodist. Not like that, though. He says he's just figured life out. He means the hows, not the whys. The stops along the tour of personal success. A Methodist. Too cool for school, I suppose.

21

As it Is Was, Were that Is To be a Has Been.

0

Aug 10, 2010

Aug 10, 2010 at 5:01 PM UTC

nat-yonce

Belief

As it Is Was, Were that Is To be a Has Been.

5

Lonely Jazz Man. Man of Jazz. Man for Jazz. The solitary piano player Rattles off old standards In the hotel lobby As the busy patrons pass. He breaks between numbers, But hears what he expects - No applause. That's because He is out of his time. The place is wrong. He plays for no one, Even though he is not alone. He plays for no one, Not even himself. Nimble fingers - Blood to Black and White. Bled by Green.

0

Aug 9, 2010

Aug 9, 2010 at 5:36 PM UTC

nat-yonce

Since Time's Gone By

Lonely Jazz Man. Man of Jazz. Man for Jazz. The solitary piano player Rattles off old standards In the hotel lobby As the busy patrons pass. He breaks between numbers, But hears what he expects - No applause. That's because He is out of his time. The place is wrong. He plays for no one, Even though he is not alone. He plays for no one, Not even himself. Nimble fingers - Blood to Black and White. Bled by Green.

22

Hide-a-ways and drive-a-ways And Solitary Spots in between. I say "Robots are good looking When they wash and do your cooking All the time." You say "Poems are the best When you can put them to the test, And they still rhyme." But they don't have to rhyme. At least, I don't think they do. Of hidden drives and allergies A tall hedge is like a violent sneeze, And you break the windshield of a car. You break the windshield of an oncoming car. To the dusty sneakers of the world: Get wet, get ***** get defiled. I say "Problems are fantastic When you wrap them up in plastic, And the answer's there." You say "Plastic wrap is pointless Unless pointedly anointed as a joie de guerre." How morbid, Claire.

0

Jul 30, 2010

Jul 30, 2010 at 4:19 PM UTC

nat-yonce

Of Hidden Drives and Allergies

Hide-a-ways and drive-a-ways And Solitary Spots in between. I say "Robots are good looking When they wash and do your cooking All the time." You say "Poems are the best When you can put them to the test, And they still rhyme." But they don't have to rhyme. At least, I don't think they do. Of hidden drives and allergies A tall hedge is like a violent sneeze, And you break the windshield of a car. You break the windshield of an oncoming car. To the dusty sneakers of the world: Get wet, get ***** get defiled. I say "Problems are fantastic When you wrap them up in plastic, And the answer's there." You say "Plastic wrap is pointless Unless pointedly anointed as a joie de guerre." How morbid, Claire.

26