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Nat Lipstadt Sep 2018
"there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth"



my poems are splats and drips.
you make them into paintings that hang
in your own private museum,
signed by you, truthfully, forever,
as first viewer,

kakashi's wife Feb 2017
dear Jackson,
i saw you again today
with her.
i was going to talk to you until she pulled you into a kiss
and so i left it to another day

dear Jackson,
i saw you again with her
but this time she was looking away
and you looking at her, and i wondered
what were you thinking about?

dear Jackson,
she wasnt with you today
so i sat next to you and you told me
you had an argument with her
so i gave my condolences and you said not to worry

dear Jackson,
you were by yourself again today but came to me
you seemed really down and so i offered you strawberry milk
you smiled, and thanked me
i know she hates strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
you were with her again today
smiling this time and laughing
she had a banana milk in her hand as did you
and so i left

dear Jackson,
i didnt see you today
i wondered where you were
as i sat on the bench
drinking my strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
she was screaming at you today and you screamed back
she stormed off leaving you alone
as you sat with head in your hands
and i drank my strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
i gave you another strawberry milk
and you thanked me with a small grin
and we sat there drinking
and enjoying eachothers company

dear Jackson,
you should smile more
it really suits you
its just a shame that today
you smiled because of her

dear Jackson,
there was a strawberry milk in your locker
and she said it was from her
and you accepted it and kissed her
forgetting she hated strawberry milk

dear Jackson,
its been 5 months since weve spoken
and i sit here every day wishing
and drinking my strawberry milk
as you smile together
i was going to talk to you,
but whats the point.
inspired by milk and love
Martin Narrod Sep 2016
Operational anxiety. The words I've been using don't make any sense to me anymore. It's all quiet and I have so many questions. The mountains shout, "*******!" over the Gros Ventre. And I'm lifeless and apathetic about lessons. I just turn on the Philip Glass and go for **** misunderstanding. More of it is coming and somehow I allow it in. A me circle of despair, loss, and immense love. My subjects must be growing curiouser and curiouser. Some of these adverbs dress in white dresses with black boots and carry scars on their palms while they bribe you off their tears to crawl back into the dusty desert graves your skin wants back.

My oven mitts aren't even of animals. I stare at the deer and moose from our second story balcony. My wrists hurt in a loss of practicing this habit. Subject matter that burns through the nights where I don't sleep. I torment myself in nursery rhymes that don't rhyme. Beds that don't water themselves, and the stories that keep my fingers soggy and pruney, drowning their dactylic digits in infinite keyboard unfulfillment.

The music is familiar. It throws its knife-wielding notes into my gut- my innards are bleeding, and my headache is growing stiff. I could mutate like Alex Mac and operate in a vacuum. I could be an incubator of self-aggrandizing disastrous behavior, an awful diaspora of introspection, a sickness that starts in soft flesh and tissue and summarizes me in the faces and heads of people and children that never turned their heads to listen.

I am wrestling your poems out of your hands. A royal couplet you try to explode against your innards, and a ****** prose that cascades upon the walls, in a mushy textural, even artistic mess of crimsony soulless words you throw around, things haven't changed but you I think you were just pretending to be haunting.

Winter hoarfrost and summer sweating. Integers upsetted by short-acting suns and cold and chilling dips in frigid waist-high water. The rocks are slimy and I don't feel like the fires are still coming. I point my nose to the water and take fifty paces. When will I have my forty-two minute day. Children are ***** liars and ought to have no sugar or treats. But let's not feed them from bowls we place on the floor.

My fingers are freezing, my cheeks, nose, back, and elbows too. I am smoking and never going to stop. I have met Joe Black and he tells me he used to command David Berkowitz into shooting people in cars, so I tell him the only thing certain in life is death and taxes, and that we need a new dishwasher, a cheaper place to buy ice cream, and a rough concrete square of floor I can torture myself for experiencing too much as human.
Martin Narrod Aug 2016
Eleven to you
Star-crust in de stijl courts
Silhouettes and shadows
Speed boats race around the lake

On and on and on and on and
Guilty pleasures and guilty moldy blues
Sandwiches on the weekends
Pasta and pesto or gnocchi every other day too

Common mysteries follow the bayou
Heavy heads laden in niello swamps
Does acrostics in the daytime
Pleasures herself with crosswords on her days off

Sacks of coffee, potatoes and ivory- beer at 5am
Three fingers lay across the stitch
This needlepoint is something good
No one died but someone could

Heavy on the hops, melancholy Wednesday's
Miracles in wrestling Russian masters
Thwarting automobiles without their governors
Faster and faster they go
Growing faster and faster they show
Martin Narrod Jul 2016
White-bodied black bird raven like creatures that sit everywhere and obnoxiously yell to each other from the wilderness we live inside.

Wet birds. Soaking in mod colors affixed to the numbers the looms set in the torn threads of an old tank top named with the characters of Dune.

And in sweetly moving breaths of air the peaks pull through this range of mountains seen from our back deck.  

Friends, join us as we balk putting away cardboard boxes as not to put a hinderence on the relationships with our neighbors and instead traverse the moose-trails the tourists stop and crop their lenses at- only to make to Brouhlim's.
Written in my new home of Jackson, Wyoming
Frederick Noakes Apr 2016
The spirit of Jacksonia lies in the tides. But sometimes we never see what the moon hides. The spirit of Albion lies everywhere at all times.
Mrs Robota Aug 2015
He traveled the seven seas and conquered the world
Inherited the riches of the kings before him
Little did he know of the monsters under the bed
Creeping in the shadows, following
The man obsessed with the mirrors on the walls
Who hoped to be someone different
He really thought if he collided face to face with the problem
The misunderstanding would come into clear view;
In a fit of fury the man threw the bottles at the TV screen
Which played E channel's siren song
He was strong for only so long
Now he's anxious trapped in this cage
Ripping up all the magazines that report little white lies
They hypothesize, materialize, advertise
A false delusion that takes away the substance of a person
It's only a matter of time before the king
Who traveled the seven seas and conquered the world
Inherited the riches of the kings before him
Falls like the kings before him.
This poem was inspired by celebrities I admire. When I wrote this poem I was thinking of One Direction and Michael Jackson. I thought of Poets of the Fall, Nine Lashes...etc.
At what point does one's status
Change from normal to elite?
Is it when a career is ended ?
Or is it after just one feat ?
When does a "Boy of Summer"
Reach that the end ?
After playing at a high level,
Is that when he ascends?
Hitting streaks, get watched each year
But most just come and go
They try to reach game 56
Like Joe Diamggio!
Legendary status
was bestowed upon this man
Hitting  for 56 straight games
no one who's followed can.
Ted Williams was an all star
The "Splendid Splinter" with the bat
His records's stood since '41
And that my friends is that
A .406 average is baseballs holy grail
It's one that every batter
Tries to reach , But they all fail
These marks made these men legends
No more "Boys of Summer" here
They've moved on up in status
To one that no one will come near
But others, have no records
They played a solid, workman game
Do they deserve the recognition?
Will you even know their names?
Al Kaline with the Tigers
The World Series... never his
But in Detroit...he was baseball
A Legend you can't dismiss
Reggie Jackson...there's another
In October he was great
but for all the other times he played
He was just average at the plate
The list, you see, is endless
It's one you think of and discuss
Is he now of Legendary status
or  a "Boy of Summer", just like us?
Over time he may make Legend
Over time he may drop back
But, you can always ask the question
Each time you hear the bat go "*****"
So, If you are a fan of baseball
Just watch the game like me
You can watch these "boys of Summer"
And just wonder...what will be.
Dear Emma Watson -
Shall we make love
The object of
Our spiritual quest

Surely an altogether
Better option
Than pairing you off
In a commentary box
With one John Motson
Discussing twenty two
Pairs of socks
Chasing a piece of leather?

If spiritual questing
Is not for you
I will make do
With tightly tied pairs of shoes
Existential emus,
Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes.

Whilst hoping you find
Your Sherlock Holmes,
Miss Watson
I will content myself with
Cataloguing my collection of
Black and white combs.

I also have plots on
Which I need to work -

Wednesday Addams's love of
Moon dried tomatoes

Or Erica Roe
Somewhere in Portugal
Growing sweet potatoes
For sale.

Don't let anyone tell you
There ain't no perks
To being an Omega Male.
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