poems scattered around the room in my never ending fool's errand as poet laureate of Watercolor's perfect world of happy accidents. We drool and weep out of context but scratch a portrait of Sexton asleep in her car in the garage. We copy Plath's ****** scene of geese escaping winter to warmth. We suffer cures of lobotomies.
poems scattered around the room in my never ending fool's errand as poet laureate of Watercolor's perfect world of happy accidents. We drool and weep out of context but scratch a portrait of Sexton dead in her car in the garage. We copy Plath's ****** scene of geese escaping winter to warmth. We endure cures of our lobotomies. Brilliant light was smothered. Grey men 4 years old on knees.
We don't write poetry. We give it birth. It's been inside us bits and pieces in dreams nothing as it seems We are kilns sun hot melt your whole **** life and pour it on cooling trays and hope for the best.
I submitted a piece of me for your consideration. Weigh me on your scales compare my ugly creation. It lives in squalor with other poem ****** ignored forgotten forever until one of us will finally be adored.
8 Ducklings through Mom are enough to astound. 6 Alcott Lane, Greenhills. Winton Woods playground. Christmas Terry loved a TV I loved Beach boy record Kevin loved math books we shared Umbilical Cord.
Each poem I write always seems less than your poems. Love won't leave me alone.
I drink alone in the attic room of a boarding house furnished minimal. Lamp, chair, ashtray, a small bed to crash. I write my Collection on paper with classical music on a tinny radio. I'll die young like Dylan.
Drink alone at noon in my tiny attic room of a boarding house with a noisy mouse. Lamp, chair, ashtray, small bed I can lay. I write poems musical on paper with classical music on a tinny radio, in Dylan's blessed glow.
I've lived all your lives. I've felt all your joys and suffered your pains. My poet is empathy who shares your shadows and neighborhoods and ***** dishes and ******* and broken hearts and promises made among tangled webs we navigate so poorly.
She seems happiest working in the dirt. She looks like a gypsy. Wild midnight hair, coal eyes and autumn's complexion smelling of earth, grass and dying leaves she takes my breath away and bends my knees as I beseech her to hold me close. She lives around the corner. I live in poet city where nothing is as it seems.
Bowling alley fun imploding I sit at ground zero vacant pins echo while exploding I am deaf to the phony cant another tortured soul poet feeding addictions. Watch me bleeding my poems on paper scream as I grab me and flee.
I live in a garret on 59th street above a bookstore and an Irish bar. I listen to Classical music on a cheap radio and smoke Parliament cigarettes.
I compose poetry. I feed my creativity with whiskey through my afternoons and write until my thoughts become mundane. There are brief moments of brilliance.
Can you give us everything? Your family forgotten for lovers? Selfish demands for ***** and **** and vitamin shots. Misbehave at readings. Asleep on a curb at 3am. You write the voice of God. Do not go gentle into the night.
I drink wine and write some thing or another reach in my aching pool fears and tears and mother we **** a rubber ****** purple breast milk denied Dad fed at her fountain I think she always lied.
My poetry happens when I rip my emotions from their safe harbors and throw them into my riptide of drink and music and crazy and jump from thought to thought ****** like a puzzle with pieces tossed but I see lines and words hook to words and touch nerves and art.
My poetry happens when I rip my emotions from their safe harbors and throw them into my riptide of drink and music and crazy and jump from thought to thought ****** like a puzzle with pieces tossed but I see lines and words hook to words and touch my heart.
Do I need to buy an acre in your tome for my poem? I subscribe and put my heart into your submit page a center of a storm pages torn efforts worn I laugh at your scorn.
After all it's just a hollow conceit. Spill my guts upon a page to muster some semblance of brilliance. Shine a spotlight on me and gasp. When all's said and done I'm the lonely poet in the garret reading pencil scratches on old envelopes wishing they were in Anthologies.
After all it's just a hollow conceit. Spill my guts upon a page to muster some semblance of brilliance. Shine a spotlight on me and gasp. When all's said and done I'm the lonely poet in the garret reading pencil scratches on old envelopes wishing they were in Anthologies.
A beer or two for courage. More might fuel the rage. I stand before my lovers dolls on a table of others I read my confessions now I'll ask your forgiving some can some don't know how bitter and still angry living.
My poetry starts with nicotine. After awhile I mixed in alcohol. Catholicism is a main ingredient. Puberty is a wicked mix of Absinthe. Next I add a father broken from war. My mom could be friend or betrayer. I had to maintain a delicate balance between being real or just amusing. Amusing is easy. Real is impossible yet here I am confessing my sins.
Poets are rats in no man's land. Death rotting on the bone is a cratered field of dead poems. We charge into the endlessness set our words on fire and fall onto them as sacrifice.
Can we pour tears on the page? Paint war's horrors in poetry? Draw portraits with words? Make you feel love? First kiss? Broken heart? Pet's death? Parent's divorce split in two? Anguish of love in back seats? Can we poets make you feel it? Life's butchers pacing beats always end up eating ****.
It's the little things. Second hands in school clocks like hammers striking anvils too loud. Bored seconds are forever. Years later are now. We argue about everything. I'm always the fool.
I fret over this old typewriter's ancient keys. I look for perfect words to write perfect rhymes that refuse to be born. I miss the simple times, young me at bedtime begging god on my knees.
You don't have to be clever. You don't need to rhyme. You have to be honest. You need courage to write truth upon pages for others to read and risk their judgement. Favored or reviled. Both have sharp edges. Poets are never innocent.
They want to be heard for their poems. Money has no eye for some Bukowski. Dylan Thomas would have been ignored. Genius has no formula to chalk on boards. Poets want a public square to nail their personal crucifixions and bleed out loud.
They killed the Kennedy's and MLK and Malcolm X and Lenny Bruce and Marilyn. They stole our truths and made us ignorant. They gave us the best politicians money could buy. They live inside the DC Beltway and grow fat on our silver. We grow tired of bread and circus and fixed elections and peaceful protests burning buildings and cars and cops. We want our country back in one piece. If I pour gas on me and light a match will it convince you I'm committed? Will you **** on my ashes and dine in opulence? You sold our jobs to the cheapest bidder. You were supposed to represent us. You bought anarchy and unleashed it upon us to tame the unrest. The 1% are the puppeteers holding all our strings. We dance their dances with our feet inside approved footprints. Nothing's left to chance. They own our God. The pen's mightier than the sword, poet! Wield truth and set the world on fire.
My poetry starts with nicotine. After awhile I mixed in alcohol. Catholicism is a main ingredient. Puberty is a wicked mix of Absinthe. Next I add a father broken from war. My mom could be friend or betrayer. I had to maintain a delicate balance between being real or just amusing. Amusing is easy. Real is impossible. I live life down Alice's rabbit hole.
I eat live toads in the daytime put it in the bank and spend it in the night with drunken poems I write listening to magic songs that put me in frames of mind to put my puzzles together again.
I walk the streets with a poet's heart look for an ending or promising start pound loaded keys into my poetry tapestry of letters end perfect key. We crazy poets ride the night train screaming lines of our vague insane. I rope words with a beast's vitality and put them on pages of my vanity.
I slept through the end of time and woke in nothingness. I had a room inside my head. It was a poet's nest, a garret where inspiration hangs like moss from the rafters. I get drunk. I write for eternity.
I'm belligerent and lazy unkempt and very crazy. I'll die trying to rhyme serving my prison time. Break my poem to pieces nailed to a cross like Jesus. Bloodless corpse alive again forgive poets our mortal sin.
Save the truth from extinction write what bought cowards fear don't sell your souls for silver keep your loved ones near eyes always on North Star. Slay dragons with a poem. Word warriors fight together Never slay dragons alone.
I have a poet's vision rhyme your flaws with laser precision. Many poets have claws. Suckle poem's milk it means everything. Just wear your **** silk, careful what you bring.
Don't the sun look angry in her skies ugly politicians feeding death's flies lying in the foul stench of their lies all shrouded in state funeral disguise.
I live in the promised land. America. We have everything we could ever want but never enough to stop wanting more. We laugh loud and conquer the world an inch at a time as body bags stack higher. Soldiers moved from live column to dead.
Senators welcome the Dirt, hands up in the intern's skirt. Bed her soon he has a hunch, with free drinks at free lunch the free nights in fine hotels free gifts from all the swells. We're open handed for any lie best politicians money can buy.
Senate is now older than dirt hands up in the intern's skirt bed her soon he has a hunch with free drinks at free lunch free nights in finest hotels free gifts from all the swells we're open handed for any lie best politicians money can buy.