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Zywa 7d
The squatting men place

the spittoon further away --

and aim into it.
Novel "Midnight's Children" (1981, Salman Rushdie), chapter 1-3 "Hit-the-spittoon"

Collection "Low gear [2]"
Nigel Finn Jul 6
The Big Poetry Collection
Zywa Feb 17
The speech is followed

by silent applause, the hands --

just raise the glasses.
"Het Bureau - Het A.P. Beerta-Instituut" ("The Office - The A.P. Beerta-Institute", 1998, Han Voskuil), page 854-856

Collection "Not too bad [1974-1989]"
Zywa Jul 2022
Company is nice,

always I want it, always --

it's too much for me.
"Hoog en laag springen - Faxen aan Ger #4" ("Like it or not - Faxing Ger #4", 2021, Nicolien Mizee)

Collection "Out of place"
Zywa Mar 2022
A human doesn't

belong to humanity --

It is not a group.
The concept of humanity is fictitious

Collection "The drama"
Zywa Feb 2022
A group deforms you:

you must conform, be alike --

or will be kept out.
Collection "The drama"
Zywa Dec 2021
A jar full of worms:

they're trying to creep away --

without a leader.
Collection "Mosaic virus"
GaryFairy Oct 2021
Maybe someday people will speak of a great group of logical poets. It will be a group though. Maybe a help group for the more fragile ones. Not the type of fragile you are...the type that breaks. Carry on army, and tend to your fellow army members' wounds. Maybe someday you will see that you have fake bullets. Fully automatic, with hollow points and full metal jackets

You like my poem, then i'll like yours
we don't have to call it reading
even if yours could heal my sores
mine would be all i'm needing

i like your whole style of no style
nothing to do with form or function
you say it's not a one way street
when i see you at every junction

to be honest, it fills me with fear
hitting like becoming my being
then i will get roped into even more
when less is all i'm seeing

because this group is the real world, on a page, in cyberspace. My mind isn't real, because you can't see it, and it can't hit the like button for me. I must be as insane as you think i am.

It tickles my pickle to see the same poets that pointed at me years ago writing the same exact poem over and over. Talking about writers block like it's real. I stick to my guns and my guns are automatic. If you have a block, you're not a writer. You are still used for building though. Building what you hate, building what i love. I know some are blocks of ****, but they fertilize, at least. Thank you truly. If you hadn't kept putting me to sleep, i wouldn't have had so many awakenings. I do see the good, in blocks. One thing about a big block is that it gets cut into pieces, to make smaller blocks. Then you get mixed in with other blocks that you want no part of. I guess then, you and the other blocks just stand for that one building. You know...the 1 million square foot ranch. It has a basement, but no upstairs.
The best thing is, seeing the same poets contradict themselves with real life. Copycats. As far as form and function goes...deformity and disfunction is fine with me. After all, my favorite poet wasn't even a poet. Just some blind guy tripping on acid.
Joaquin Armijo Oct 2020
Little dots of light
In the endless void
Too far for my reach,
They come and go, leaving me


Sometimes in groups, sometimes just one
Little dots of hope, little ***** of light
Dancing they go, where? I don’t know
But unlike me, they’re not


But one time i tried my luck
And jumped towards the dots
Enveloped by light, they dance
Why don’t they flee? Why don’t they run?

They gently caress my soul
Sea of light fills me whole
Because the dots were never fleeing
I just hadn’t come close
And thanks to them, I’m Alone
No More
A poem remembering the first time i ever made friends, who i love deeply
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