"arty" poems
come in many styles,
walking, soft top, striped,
you name it , they make it,
market it.
now then i buy cheap ones,
5 pair a go quite comfy,
with dots mainly.
we talked of clough ellis, his yellow
breeches, long wool hose to knee,
all arty and architecture.
she liked the woolly ones, chose
a dull colour over pink.
a day of rearrangement.
as you were.
sbm
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 1:53 AM UTC
When you're a writer, you get invited to strange gigs
sometimes, where usually, the audience is arty farty
or even a bit precious and pretentious.
You know, the blue rinse set.
But I was once invited to recite poetry in a bar,
where I knew my audience might be ******
or maybe even abusive, and wouldn't give
a **** about writing.
Yeah? Well, I'm a bit of a word warrior, really,
so I didn't back off.
I stepped right in for the fight.
I said straight up that my poem was especially
for people like them who thought that writers are
wishy-washy, woffling, **** weak and luke-warm.
So then I said,
PPPHHHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrtttttttt.
Very loud.
I told them this was some royal raspberry,
just for people like them,
who thought this was going to be another boring poem.
And then I threw in a few words like, ah, **** doggy fashion,
finger up the **** you know, just to liven things up.
I told them what I really thought.
***** You! Especially seeing as how you think poetry’s
some wimpy, bleeding heart, limp **** stuff. Right?
So let's get right down and ***** here.
Which is much more interesting, eh?
And do you know what that says about you?
No? You bleeding, blinkered, blind-as-bats
broomstick-up-the-arsed, boring, bonehead ********
So don't call this poet piss-weak any more
or I'll hit you bang between the eyes
and up between your thighs.
I've got some things to say you'd better not ignore.
When it comes to words, I'm a gouger and a biter.
I'm a brawling, hard-as-nails, no-holds-barred street fighter.
I'm a writer.
Yeah, well, no surprise here. That made them quieter.
I'd shut them up. So what did that prove?
I'd just abused and confused them.
It made me think, well, why did I bother?
Poems are for believers and lovers, aren’t they?
They don't need me to fight for them in bars.
Poems just are.
Yes,and some of them might live
as long as the stars.
Mike T Minehan
Jun 14, 2013
Jun 14, 2013 at 9:56 PM UTC
Who is this poet?
Is he faithful to his poetry
as good as pretends to be
or his heart is ever on the darkside
nowhere near of what he writes.
Who is this poet?
Is his hat real or fake
he’s weak and easily breaks
he aims only to teach
never follows all that he preach.
Who is this poet?
Is he really that sweet
joyous and good as his wit
does he expose truly his heart
or the real he hides behind his art.
Who is this poet?
Does he have in him
all his painted dream
the lover’s happiness
he does profess.
Who is this poet?
Is at heart he's that pure
what with words he conjures
or all them are just his arty wile
he's merely spinning tales in style.
Jan 29, 2015
Jan 29, 2015 at 7:30 AM UTC
The Marshmallows decided to have a top Party
Dressed gaily in white, pink, red, green and yellow
They mingled and floated around looking arty-farty
We're going to dance in town not partying in a garage
And guess what, We won't invite Toffee he's not like us
Go melt and burn says Toffee with rightful disdain
who wants to party with a bunch of soft silly buffoons
Overblown and presumptuous you lot melt in the rain
Nothing to you all but egging and hot air you poltroon
Who wants to dance with mixed up softies with no brains
I am Toffee hot and hard and always ready for the bite
You can't lick me in a hurry and I take a while to crack
I am brown with brawn and brains and ready to fight
Got rhythm with the moves, tastes and flavours top whack
Not some boring twirls or stumps gathered together tight
Come try me if you dare and see me squash you down flat
I'll go into you hard your softness yielding like knife on butter
Can marsh you with my strength till you're nothing but mellow
Or stick to your puffy wooly state and squeeze you still flatter
Till you beg and squeal your surrender showing you're shallow
I am not like you and don't think, see, look or taste like you
I am brown and sweet, hard and chewy and I really don't care
For emulsified vain brainless no substance marshmallow tools
Who can only be brave and big when all packed together like
So go party and kid yourselves softies I don't party with fools
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:34 AM UTC
“There's loads of boring stuff. Like Sundays and Tuesdays and Thursday afternoons. But now and then there are Saturdays.” ~ ‘Doctor Who’
People think that Tuesday afternoons are boring. These are the type of people who get up at three-pee-em on a Saturday afternoon then pa-a-a-arty all that night.
I don’t get on with these people.
No, for me, Tuesdays are glorious. Tuesdays are ‘me’ time.
Tuesdays are full of art, like French and English and cinnamon lattes in Costa as I read a book.
Or I write.
I create some poetry or prose – nothing spectacular but something that means I’ve said something about the world.
Then, sometimes, the afternoon is empty.
I don’t have a tutorial, I don’t have work and I don’t have people. I can just bake and dance and sing without having to pretend.
I love Tuesday afternoons.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 12:51 PM UTC
Miryam unzipped
the tent flap
and looked out
pretty dead out here
she said
Benedict looked at her ****
hiding behind
the blue jeans
come back in then
no point
in going out yet
she zipped it
back up
and crawled back
beside him
and lay down
looking up
at the blue tent canvas
what do you think
Morocco's like?
she asked
Morocco
he replied
she laughed
I know that
but to experience it
apart from what
was in the booklet
they sent
with the other stuff
she said
have to see
when we get there
he replied
are you sure
that ex-army bloke
won't be back?
she asked
not for a few hours
he's gone to see sights
in Malaga
lucky us
she said
make the most of
he said
she gazed at him
is there no
satisfying you?
pretty much not
he said
she smiled
I’m sure people
heard us earlier
she said
your fault
if they did
he said
all that noise
and giggling
and oh oh oh
more more
I didn't
she said
you're making it up
pretty much so
he said
she kissed his cheek
to think I thought you
were the quiet one
she said
I am quiet
as a mouse
he replied
what if he comes back early
and we're making out?
she said
he won't
he's off to see
where
Picasso was born
and other
arty things
Benedict said
people might talk
if they see me
in here too much
she said
they can't see you
in here
he said
they might hear me
then be silent
he said smiling
trying to unbuttoned
her jeans
she watched him
biting her lower lip
seductively
and turning her head
at an angle
who said you could?
shall I stop?
he said
no don't you dare
she breathed out
she held his fingers
and helped unbutton
until it was
all done
there now you
she said
and unzipped his jeans
with one motion
why would he want
to see
where Picasso was born?
she said
taking off
?her jeans
and what other arty things?
Benedict undressed
listening
watching
takin
her tight ****
in the blue bra
museums
art shops
galleries
that kind of thing
boring ****
she said
putting her jeans
and underwear
to one side
yes guess so
Benedict said
what if
he changes his mind
and comes back?
she said
laying down
next to him well he'll get
a free lesson
in biology
won't he
Benedict said
she smiled
and kissed his neck
and said
utterly ****
what the hell
what the heck.
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 2:02 AM UTC
but that could be said of anywhere.
However, some places
seem to have hypnotic hips and easy eyes
with a mischevious, seductive scarab grin.
Like magic, it pulls me in.
Here, labels like good or bad are trite,
there is only this magnetic whirling
energy culling myself and others inside
simply because we picked up the phone and showed up.
But now it's our responsibility to find balance
amidst serene listless apathy on the beach
and party hardy into the midnight arty energy scene jack & coke down the rabbit hole we go.
Some Bedouins say Dahab means "time goes,"
which has me convinced Moses and his folks weren't lost
in terms of location but lost when it relates to time,
trying to find a middle path
between excess and sloth
in this south Sinai town.
Yes, not two but three schools of thought,
forming a triangle in this hypnotizing spiral;
two points of excess and one of balance!
All three balance each other,
and it's hell trying to stay in the center of this eye
of this metaphorical storm of enlightenment.
Naturally, gravitational forces pull some to the
gray matter island headspace of echoed sins
and carnivorous lascivious pandemonium.
Not everyone will find what they seek on the warm beaches here,
or the raving, bubble foam dance parties in strobe light nights.
That's just the way it is;
there's not enough room for everyone in the center.
And this is where we learn to accept ones place,
because only then can we move on to another plane,
on another beach with more to learn and some to teach.
Aug 27, 2013
Aug 27, 2013 at 7:43 PM UTC
Glasses are the international sign for nerd
But also for genius, and if we're to be honest
It all makes sense, the two go hand in hand
Those who read generally have a wider knowledge
But I've been brought up with the thought
That everyone has the same level of intelligence
And I like that idea, because we're all different
And we're all good at different things
Some people are arty, and others are businessy
And I think the world is perfect the way it is
Because everyone is the same, in their own way
With, or without glasses.
Mar 5, 2014
Mar 5, 2014 at 6:42 AM UTC
Brimming with black steeds, green bowls overflow with walls of raining lava in ****** mode
Pinning down paradise beneath your brown thumb, see it wriggle away in mockery of your arty drivel
Only you can thrash on, as magically as a thought which pops in rude bursts
- - - then away it flies
In a silent harbour of study, all the imperfections of my breathing that the mirror glances back at me
I try hard not to swallow failure wholemeal, in the course of a day - - - I choke so many times
And angel wings brush by in shy embrace, but I shove its clemency flat on its face
And in vehement denial of anything beautiful - - - it is not present, save through you
I can submerge so easily, if only to succumb to the silence and the peace
The muted bubbling around my head and throbbing against my ears and pressing on my arms
So comforting
Instead, there’s too regular clicking to the detriment of supple joints
And licking of lips and silent brooding in steeped corners
Any effort to siphon the stillness in the air is severed by intrusions
And the lake beckons me - - - my broken feet follow
Jan 1, 2014
Jan 1, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
[9/28/13 6:07:47 AM] Saeng Graham: on earth does not mean , they were born from the same time realm
[9/28/13 6:08:02 AM] Saeng Graham: this puts them in perspective
[9/28/13 6:08:07 AM] Saeng Graham: well - for example
[9/28/13 6:08:15 AM] Saeng Graham: my twin akemi whom you heard sing
[9/28/13 6:08:22 AM] Saeng Graham: well she's actually my younger twin sister
[9/28/13 6:08:24 AM] Saeng Graham: fire
[9/28/13 6:08:32 AM] Saeng Graham: but because we both are from 2 years apart ,
[9/28/13 6:08:45 AM] Saeng Graham: and are bOTH gemini
[9/28/13 6:08:47 AM] Saeng Graham: there's a counter balance
[9/28/13 6:08:51 AM] Saeng Graham: -
[9/28/13 6:09:07 AM] Saeng Graham: i THINK
[9/28/13 6:09:07 AM] Saeng Graham: so i think -
[9/28/13 6:09:09 AM] Saeng Graham: maybe
[9/28/13 6:09:12 AM] Saeng Graham: thata
[9/28/13 6:09:24 AM] Saeng Graham: you are my counterbalance - imaginary friend from your childhood
[9/28/13 6:09:42 AM] Saeng Graham: and you are mine - kinda like doing pulling each other up throughout time and space
[9/28/13 6:09:52 AM] Saeng Graham: ''''''''''''
[9/28/13 6:09:55 AM] Saeng Graham: so.
[9/28/13 6:10:08 AM] Saeng Graham: now we've defined that YOUR act form is VERY MUCH NOW IN THE '3D' WORLD
[9/28/13 6:10:17 AM] Saeng Graham: OR AT LEAST
[9/28/13 6:10:22 AM] Saeng Graham: your essence - is possible in that form
[9/28/13 6:10:25 AM] Saeng Graham: weellllllll
[9/28/13 6:10:29 AM] Saeng Graham: then anything is possible
[9/28/13 6:10:34 AM] Saeng Graham: SO IF YOU ARE STILL HERE
[9/28/13 6:10:37 AM] Saeng Graham: AT THIS POINT
[9/28/13 6:10:39 AM] Saeng Graham: I'VE GOT A PARROT ON MY SHOULDER
[9/28/13 6:10:44 AM] Saeng Graham: AN EYE PATCH ON MY EYE
[9/28/13 6:10:49 AM] Saeng Graham: AND I'M ABOUT TO ROCK YOUR ***** ****** WORLD
[9/28/13 6:10:54 AM] Saeng Graham: jokes -
[9/28/13 6:10:59 AM] Saeng Graham: it's double at.....jazz hands -
[9/28/13 6:11:13 AM] Saeng Graham: shot of moonshine
[9/28/13 6:11:17 AM] Saeng Graham: **** of spicy morning zoot
[9/28/13 6:11:22 AM] Saeng Graham: and some roiboosh tea,
[9/28/13 6:11:27 AM] Saeng Graham: a little bit of wine
[9/28/13 6:11:37 AM] Saeng Graham: some smutted rasberrys and age old pistachios
[9/28/13 6:11:38 AM] Saeng Graham: which hum
[9/28/13 6:13:03 AM] Saeng Graham: frightful actually , how ************* scary bryce is.. like....i wouldn't like to have my 'revenge' concocted by him...dark kind guy....nice...but dark....arty kinda dark...so you know it's the kind of super smart kinda dark......but then super emotion kinda dark too....they aren't that hard to spot....
[9/28/13 6:13:11 AM] Saeng Graham: but the bryce i'm talking about
[9/28/13 6:13:17 AM] Saeng Graham: - yeah he's all over the place
[9/28/13 6:13:20 AM] Saeng Graham: always with the bee's
[9/28/13 6:13:22 AM] Saeng Graham: and stuff
Sep 28, 2013
Sep 28, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Many
foreign tourists
simply mistook you
for the
laughing Cavalier
Feb 20, 2013
Feb 20, 2013 at 1:15 PM UTC
Have a passion for music.
A passion for plays.
Must be left overs of purplish haze daze.
A passion for words and good looking birds.
Elegant peacocks and pheasants that flap.
Tail feathers extended in preparation for glory.
Male display is a vigorous thing.
All for the sake of having a fling.
(c)LIVVI
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 5:06 PM UTC
the young egoist licks a blunt blade in the wall
until his tongue bleeds, to feel, yes to feel, feel anything
in these fettid depths where splinters of light
find themselves lost in the subterranean gloom
of his bedroom
where on occasion when it presents itself
listens to grotesques, yes listens with an ear
a plain nasty and unfeeling ear
yet it listens without any phoney, putrid arty language
he hears old irregular clocks
feels the smells under the ground
drinks unquenchable angers
citing their antique tonal ability
to create magic words out of rain and mist
then screaming his voice starts oozing and undulating
creeping through these slow subterranean pampas
compressing and expanding themselves never and at once
he believes it is an unsafe place of frighteningly sincere dangers
then thinks is danger a place, licks the blunt blade in the wall
for even in this desperation
it makes him happy when his tongue bleeds
he tries to perfect conventionally generous impulses
the spit of dreams, his dreams as he dons his mask
his mask of foolscap to write a poem
then encounters angel-devils and demons
who he has the power to deceive
and thinks to himself as he licks
the blunt blade in the wall
finish it, finish it
then realizes it's unfinishable
Oct 6, 2013
Oct 6, 2013 at 7:18 PM UTC
I'm not good in arts
Never hit the bull-eye
In a game of darts
But mine eyes can be arty
Especially when dissapointed, by the one I'm hearting
If my thoughts were painting(s), vivid they would be
Above everything...
The mirror never lies and I've tested this
And everything on it I can see my bliss
See the reflection of my tears, the point is
My mirror never lies
Beauty is in the eye(s) of the beholder, but as you grow older
You will know that there's no order in this
A diamond is a diamond to me, but just a stone to you
Yes its true
Mine eyes are arty
I know this is confusing but, the celestial environment I dwell in
Just took over these thoughts and blew me away
So now I say, try and surf my wave
I'm far away from the normal state
I'm calm, I'm rough, I'm tumbling
Call me a high tide, I'm reaching for the zenith
Cause in it, I find myself
Growing floral thoughts
This mirror is creative, or is it my eyes
Cause I see myself wading
And everybody, waving
As if I'm leaving
All along I've been creating a lake with mine eyes
These none **** brown eyes
Have created a lake of tears
Tears of joy
Man my eyes are arty
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:19 AM UTC
I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive
until everything faded, just darkness
because your words
will only ever remain the harshest
and I'm forever reminded of you...
how you made me skip school
because I could tolerate dodgeballs
and projectile rocks...
...After all they are merely skin deep bruises
And the hatred produces
nothing but swelled bones and broken muscles
till everything was a struggle
But they are merely skin deep bruises...
It was not the dodgeballs that sent me crying
it was not the rock hurling that sent me home early
it was the poisonous ravenous tongue
that slithered on lies like it was at a skateboard rink
trying to drink the life and soul out of anything alive.
So you sent your fake condolences, your pity parties
made something 'arty' pretending that you were a friend
yet a fiend coated in a cloak of condescension
you've mentioned death by my ears enticing my every step
hoping that I fall to wreck and fail to ever stand tall, *****
to be a pawn in your hands, your master plan
just holding back the tears as my palms push away
all your damaging words pretending that they never hurt.
I spent years and years rephrasing, repeating, remembering
'talk to the hand because the man isn't listening'
but the tears glisten in my eye sockets and though I
can convince myself I wasn't listening, I guess
I couldn't convince myself just enough...
You tore at me till there was nothing to tear at,
you prayed and preyed that I bit the dust,
hoping that there was nothing of me left,
and so...
I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive...
because in that brief moment the only way to escape
was to remind you that 'there's nothing left,
you can't **** me today, or tomorrow,
because I have been nothing but dead'.
I held my breath just right
trying to figure out if I'm alive...
Turns out I did survive
And as I finish up this write,
I'd like to remind you
that you are all beautiful,
that you can survive
in the ways that I have
because the gentle touch of a rain
never cleanses the wounds
nor numbs the aching pain,
it merely reminds you
that there's another sunny day.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 2:00 AM UTC
That five-seven-five is a scam,
Just nature plus seasonal spam.
A frog in a bog—
Wow! A leaf! And some fog!
It’s a tweet with a syllable jam.
Now limericks think they’re so sly,
With their jigs and their wink of the eye.
But their punchlines grow stale,
Like a bar yuck from Yale—
It’s the dad joke of poetry. Why?
Oh Shakespeare, forgive what’s been done—
Fourteen lines on a love that won’t run.
With their iambic moans,
And romanticized groans—
They're just Tinder swipes dressed as the sun.
Repetition’s the name of its game,
But by stanza three, it’s all shame.
You repeat and repeat,
Till your brain hits delete—
Was it clever, or just all the same?
Acrostics spell TRY HARD down the side,
A format no critic can abide.
Each line bends and breaks,
Just for symmetry’s sake—
And the message gets lost in the ride.
Free verse gets a pass, but just barely—
Too often it screams “Look, I’m arty!”
With no rhythm or aim,
Just vibes and a name—
Like a drunk giving TED Talks at parties.
---
There once was a muse unconfined,
Who laughed at each rule tightly lined.
When pure thought took flight,
It outshone every rite—
For raw truth outclasses form every time.
Mar 27, 2025
Mar 27, 2025 at 5:07 AM UTC
the art i feel
is part of our daily
smart
to do it heart
we must start
realising
light
is part
bright
and part
might
darkeness
to it
guises
and starks
empty comes
out white
the two do not right
speechless is swiped.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
Fig.1. It was 5 days - 4 days? - but I can't forget it.
(By a road, brown buildings in the back, the filter is green - you
said you didn't know why. Half-smiles.)
Fig.2. Do you remember that you sent me this? Twice.
(Same place, I kiss your cheek, you pull a sad face, a man walks by
in the background.)
Fig.3. God, that stupid headband.
(Repeat again. Faces pressed, I smile big, you smile up, my hand is
on your shoulder.)
Fig.4. You said "The dots make it look arty." but that wasn't why I kept it.
(Art gallery, two shots.)
(At the bottom it says - I know that I will miss you.)
(Nowhere it says - I will keep this because you will forgot to.)
Jul 9, 2014
Jul 9, 2014 at 2:39 PM UTC
She lives in the green room.
Where the curt air's laying thick.
Walls like apple crumble.
Cracking to the resonance of the latest passing train.
A box of tricks and secrets held,
within her PC brain.
Halo of electric light.
It's aura, hanging on the arty ceiling,
like a sulky angel would.
She's killing time for company.
She mutters to her ego,
awaiting it's response.
It's response is somehow null and void.
The lady's confidence destroyed.
Hit round the head with all sorts of capers.
Her failings lashed together with cigarette papers.
No pun intended, surely no joke.
Rather bizarre considering the lady doesn't smoke.
(C)LIVVI
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 11:28 AM UTC
Shrouded in black,
Dear heart departs,
As writing soul flies,
Engraved deep epitaph ,tablets of ancient stone,
Memorial stones morose, sombre in grey with fur of yellow lichen,
Pavements, flagstones,inscribed with memories dear,
Glimpsed in morning, mourning sun, alone,
Words eroded after many years bathing, soaked with maiden angels' tears,
Dried out again with sunshine's kiss,
These words they state,
May we not forget past soul,
Lyrical words lift a song from sad heart,
Screams emotional rescue at times,
Letters of love filled with devotion,
Causes sweet release of emotions,
Words pasted on pages,
Imagination creation,
Words trap interest at first glance, Love in words,
At first sight, perchance,
****** them catch them,
Keep them close in your heart every day,
Fill up life, with words unfurled,
Words in technicolour,
Clouded in blue,
Use of profanity,
Well that's nothing new!
Orated in Shakespeare's play, sung in aria,
Opera adorns ears,
Words used in crosswords or cross words,
Word Play!
Child educated in fine art,
Writing divine,
Such worthy art in need, indeed!
Mouthful of words all arty and farty...bouncy, total joy!
Phraseology,plays intense on a mind, a poet at play,
Livvi Kent 28/04/2013
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 5:48 AM UTC
Tentatively I took a step towards you
You caressed my heart in your hands
Your menacing stare beguiled me and I was in awe of your sacred beauty
For once I was lost in a sea of mispronounced words and jumbled sentences
The syntax was filled with errors
And I had never thought I would blink my eyes again
As the tears refused to leave my eyes
They painfully glazed my face
And struck me as terribly arty
I felt as if I were an artist In this play
Grasping my lines
Stuttering over them
Grabbing onto each word
Like a cheap ***** grabs cash
From the man with money
And lusts after the sweet stench of the money she earns
I once was lost
Yet now I am found
By your burning radiant fire eyes
Blazing with sensation and perfection
I love you
And I bask in the blistering heat
Of your pyre
That cleanses and
Causes death
To my
Old morbid heart
And persuades me with passion
And pursuit
I am yours
in
My sensational romance...
Jul 27, 2016
Jul 27, 2016 at 8:51 AM UTC
She works a strange offbeat job
The type that requires things to be mis-matched
Where the place is decked with contradicting oddities which have
acquired small black dots and scuff marks of which origins are unbeknown to the keeper
Her thoughts lie like breezes between crumpled coffee stained pieces of paper haphazardly kissed with ink
Her work does not require fruit but it does sugar, salt and vinegar
Her hair is never neat but is always perfectly messed
She always leaves a little milky bitter pool in the bottom of her tea cup
She goes on with her head swirling in celestial affairs
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 3:05 AM UTC
In this poem I am going to
try and be as pretentious
as possible, and use words
which make me seem arty.
Rather than calling the sun,
'the sun', I shall bestow upon
it the name of 'evening's golden
disc', or something. And talk
about its effervescent amber glow
reaching from behind the clouds,
because it makes me seem
well educated. Doesn't it?
Who knows, perhaps I could
become an artist, just for one
day. Not a 'proper' artist, but
one who frames a potato, or
something stupid like that. I'll
wear a Tie Dyed T-shirt and not
wash for days. I'll experiment
with drugs while 'evening's golden
disc' creeps behind the horizon. I'll
use the word ironic in every other
sentence, just to show that I 'really'
know what it means,
and I really will watch paint dry,
as I can see behind the mundanity
and into a world where only artists
live.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 11:58 AM UTC