"entries" poems
all of the words
you speak
today and tomorrow
are in vain
for you do not wish
to throw rocks at my window,
you know very well
i am already on my doorstep
waiting for you
you love me in songs played
on tuesday afternoons,
gaps in conversation where
three words are meant to fill it
and faded journal entries
dated when time was blind
you’ve written disguised goodbyes
beneath my eyes
and subliminally (explicitly)
whispered (shouted)
to move on, move on, move on
each moment i’ve tried to draw you nearer,
you do your best to push me further away
but even from a distance,
you are still holding on
let me go
let me go
let me go
so i may finally
let go
of
you
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 10:22 PM UTC
Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant
The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth
The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive
The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately
The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak
The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating
The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach
The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides
The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass
The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 1:37 AM UTC
Oct. 25
Everything is different and I don't want to explain things.
Nov. 1
I crave the glittering, garish city lights, the loud raw music, the feeling of being completely and dangerously free.
Nov. 16
My heart hurts.
Nov. 17
I want to love you. I want to love you so much that I can't stop writing beautiful lyrical poems about the stars and my heart beat and your skin and I just want you to love me too.
Nov. 18
I think that if he knew me, really knew me, at all times of the day and night, he wouldn't love me.
Nov. 20
It's really funny how people can change.
Nov. 24
This is not paradise; this is hell.
Nov. 24 (later)
I'm materialistic and shallow, but frankly I don't give a ****
Dec. 14
My heart is literally pounding so hard I can feel it moving up and down in my chest. I'm blushing.
Dec. 20
And the butterflies live on, perpetually fluttering around in little circles in the pit of my stomach.
Dec. 21
He says I'm like a daisy.
Jan. 1
I downed a bottle of sparkles and sang like a drunk man would and he told me he loved me.
Jan. 25
He's so sweet and I think I love him.
Feb. 8
Long, content sigh.
Feb. 14
I'm going to blurt it out all at once because I'm feeling giggly so he stopped at the side of the road and kissed me and I feel like I'm floating.
Feb. 22
I feel trapped.
Feb. 28
He's always on my mind. Always.
March 13
I broke up with him. I'm not upset, and I'm worried about that. I don't feel anything at all. Are feelings supposed to just walk away and disappear like that?
March 29
His voice is irritating. I'm not a damsel in distress.
April 2
I think young love is only a glittering, fleeting illusion. I'm not sad about it.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 7:30 PM UTC
i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j; with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked away in
their beds and midnight
car rides and candid smiles
and lists written in blue
ink and wildflowers and
mountains and birds singing
and books and movies that
make you cry and nicknames
and flannels in the winter
and soft music and loud
music and moments recorded
only by memory and pumpkin
pie and forever stamps
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why i
love all the things i love
you will never understand
me
Apr 24, 2014
Apr 24, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
(1)
There’s one thing I must get off my chest
that’s bothered me now
even 50 years on
with the passage of time –
my English teacher then
she always told me when I grumbled
homework was too difficult,
she’d tell me: “That’s a piece of cake”
And I’d go home discombobulated how
anyone could eat paper
or homework
and she said this not once, but every time:
“It’s a piece of cake”
(2)
And my parents and I looked at it
every which way and from every point of view
and concluded in our Perfect Ancient Native language:
*“This English teacher is a loony. She is wooly-headed.
She is the lamb Mary lost, silly and muddle-headed.
How can homework be a piece of cake?
Anyway, we don’t eat cake – we eat samosas.”*
(3)
And yet the English teacher would put her nose
up in the air
and remonstrate: “It’s a piece of cake!”
Oh yeah, would you like tea with it?
Now, my parents, bless their Ancient Souls,
have gone on into the next world
And I’m left wondering about the secret madness
of that English teacher
who’d ask me to eat cake when I expressed genuine concern…
Well, my parents have passed on, as I said,
and I’ve moved on
as is plain and radiant to see
to master idioms and vocabulary
Punctuation, the catenative verb and Usage;
and, as for that wooly-headed English teacher,
I’m sure she’s moved on into
a comfortable nuthouse
where the staff makes her eat her cake,
and make her think she can have it too -
cos that’s what they do to nuts, and such instances
(4)
And now that I have got that off my chest,
I can comfortably resume memorizing
Volume 3 of theOxford Dictionary
as I perambulate
and copy 100 entries from Fowler’s “Modern English Usage”
as I victulate
which is all part of my nightly ritual
since she told me to do so some 50 years ago
(cos I happened to look at her Union Jack knickers
when she sat high on the table, and I stood up *****
cos that's what they made us do in the cinemas)
- and that helps to put me into a state of dormancy, to hibernate
till the sun ushers in a new day for me –
and a new cake for that wooly-headed English teacher,
she, I can presume with certainty,
elegantly reposed and superannuated
Now, I’m glad I’ve got this off my chest
and mastered my idioms and phrases
and I can go eat my samosas
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 28, 2013 at 8:21 AM UTC
It was about fifteen years ago
No romantic notions
No grand stories
Just another part of my strange journey
For a high school dropout
It was a wooden bed
In a blue storage trailer
One and a half month long
Sleep deprived
Long drive
From site to site
One week
Per city
Doing my laundry
At laundry matts
With strange pretty girls
Hanging at a bar
Playing slutty slot machines
No drinking
Cause I was only nineteen
It was two vets
From different wars
Smoking *** in the morning
It was my first *** buzz
Staring stupidly up
At the ceiling
The strangest set of strangers
Bathing in the back of a semi
Getting lunch with a lemon punch
Using carny credit
It was sketching for a distraction
No artistic satisfaction
Very few journal entries
And those journals are now lost
Searching for myself
As all young men do
In the end it was just another job
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:38 AM UTC
cherry blossom was his smoking hot girlfriend.
they moved in together, probably in 2007.
he met her online, he was married to a woman
who he said was a fundamentalist. they had four kids,
three daughters and a son.
he wrote a lot about how his fundamentalist wife had turned
the three daughters against him. as the years went by,
he forgot their birthdays and ages because it hurt too much,
so he wrote.
"cherry blossom, you're going to make it
with your unbroken man who i hope to thank
one day for making you happy", he wrote
in a journal entitled "the last one"
dated late September of 2012.
they broke up in mid August 2011
from a journal entry dated at the end of October 2012:
"ten things you want to say to ten different people"
cherry blossom was first on the list
cherry blossom's unbroken man was second on the list
cherry blossom's son of a different baby daddy was third on the list
his own son was fourth on the list
his daughters were not on the list at all.
he was glad she was with a good guy. he didn't have to worry about her. unbroken guy was a good guy, he loved unbroken guy for that. her son was a good guy, he was glad that her son got to hang out with him and his son.
according to the public messages his friends left on his profile and the last time stamp on his activity feed,
he must have died almost three years ago,
in mid August, 7 years to the exact date
he had posted a journal entry explaining
that they had broken up and cherry blossom was moving out.
7 years is the same amount of time
it took for jacob to get rachel as his wife
after being deceived into marrying leah.
he had other journal entries too,
they go back to 2008, so some of them
cover his time with cherry blossom
cherry blossom was smokin hot,
they had *** parties
cherry blossom got all the attention
because she was smokin hot
he had bottomed to his vanilla fundamentalist wife
who turned his three daughters against him
but cherry blossom was his submissive
so cherry blossom was the way
cherry blossom introduced him to swinging, **** and gang bangs
his fundamentalist wife, who he never got a legal divorce from,
turned his three daughters against him.
he had 342 friends and 13 followers on his fetlife profile,
five left public messages on his wall after he died.
cherry blossom was so smokin hot.
Mar 23, 2021
Mar 23, 2021 at 8:54 PM UTC
The sad part is that most of us, writers,
are almost ashamed to say it out loud.
We do it like a bad habit we can't escape.
****** junkies with the leash around our necks.
Treat it like a disfigurement; our
malignant entries spread like cancer from
under our pathetic, hypocritical hands.
We're sad.
Depressed.
"Heart broken".
Angst ridden.
Jaded.
Coping.
Coping.
Learning to cope,
but often failing.
Stepping on each other;
a sea of cadavers with
no bottom, surface, or center.
Full of brilliance/ brighter than the sun.
Collectively, we are a diamond made from ****
A uselessly expensive commercial good,
nonetheless.
The next Bukowski will be a child molester,
or a sociopathic spree killer. Too bad
no one wants to be the great writer of course.
What greater shame could there be?
What bigger embarrassment could exist?
What insult and tragedy is more than being
a writer?
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 3:47 AM UTC
After weeks spent parading around, letting everybody and their mother know the day is near, we are finally here. It’s the night of your 21st birthday. 3 shots, 2 beers, and a joint or four later, and I’m feeling pretty alright.
Your mother brings out your baby book, the entirety of your childhood life simplified into pictures and momentous small enough not to cause the pages to crease, meticulously placed between two hard covers.
She flips through the album, licking her fingertips between every other page and reading aloud the entries with the most significance to her. Suddenly she stops and points to a date.
January 19, 1997. The first time you smiled.
I look over at you and you smile back at me. A smile so radiant, there’s no need to explain the significance.
Jan 29, 2018
Jan 29, 2018 at 11:21 PM UTC
Flowers aren't choosy
Which bee which bug
Come one come all.
Bees and bugs
Aren't choosy either
All entries sweetly natural.
Imagine a flower
Closing its throat
Against a bee it thought a bore.
Who said object
Should excite act
That that was moral?
If only the verb
The act acts,
Why call your sister a *****
Sin and shame!
Abandon the word
Moral. You can see it's immoral.
3.3k
Retype number 3,018--
I don't really think I've written
this many entries for just one poem
it's a beam of light that
scores my thoughts
and begins to type across this board
but in the end
it was a refraction of shadows
hinting at another dream
because these ramblings of another world
are the minds way of scrambling
to form new words
and convey our Neverland
that we've Neverfound
Scented candles add an extra burst
of enthusiasm to wander this page a little longer
because they are my witness
that even Evergeen Woods
have some Cinnamon Bark hidden in them.
the candles are made of wax
and when I pour myself to sleep
perhaps our wicks stay lit
or do we fiddle away
with our dreams.
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
— and from basement entries
neatly coiffed, middle aged gentlemen
with orderly moustaches and
well-brushed coats
2.9k
**** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
take me from this wonder,
this blindness in the night.
Anger me in morning
with the refusal of ugly ***
sleep still on our tongues,
whiskey on my breath.
Treat me to your body
when I am true and I am good,
dance me through your questions
until you are finally understood.
I can hear your longing
though I cannot hear your voice,
you know that I choose you,
though, I never really had a choice.
Tease me with your movie scenes,
your folded, anxious legs,
a calf born into the slaughterhouse,
the conveyor-belt, the hatchling, the egg.
I was doomed to your misfit puzzle,
I was sentenced to decay,
skin seared by your magnificence,
by your gratuitous delay.
Delay from a fulfilment,
a delay from inner peace,
the incremental recovery
whilst dreaming of the sea.
Now I'm drowning in the wishing well,
in the steady clamour of home;
the pill-box in the aquifer,
the faded reference to Rome.
I can memorise your breathing
hair fawning over your chest,
there are countless decent lovers,
but you know that I loved you the best.
So **** me like an alpha,
**** me out of sight,
I am tired of words and meaning,
those blind entries
into the night.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 11:11 AM UTC
I'm seeking to amass a Collection
of the World's spiritual, mythic and philosophical codices.
I want to collect them out of veneration
for those who came before who have tried to illuminate the Paths:
The following is my library of such books of yet.
Entries in bold are my recommendations;
entries italicized are strongly recommended.
-Old Works:
**Egyptian Book of the Dead
Tibetan Book of the Dead
The Bhagavad Gita
Euclid's Elements**
Tao te Ching (I have 3 translations)
I Ching (2 translations and a workbook)
The Qur'an
The Bible
-Newer Works:
Plato and a Platypus walk into a Bar: Philosophy explained through Jokes
*Quadrivium: Number, Geometry, Music, & Cosmology*
The Pulse of Wisdom - College Eastern Philosophy Book
*Food of the Gods by Terence McKenna*
The Elements of Reason - College Logic Book
1001 Perls of Buddhist Wisdom
*Net of Being by Alex Grey*
*Art Psalms by Alex Grey*
**The Portable Nietzsche
*The Red Book of Jung
The Portable Jung***
The Subtle Body - Encyclopedia of chakras, auras and other personal energy systems.
Who are you? - 101 Ways of Seeing Yourself
--
I seek to compile this Collection
not to have a nice looking bookshelf;
nor do I seek to find which one is right.
I seek to learn from each of these
the lessons that are intrinsic in our Lives;
they're all matters of perspectives.
I want to compile the aspects of each philosophy with which I resonate
and integrate them into my own,
forging a dynamic and holistic individual philosophy.
All of these books are Mystical masterpieces.
All of these books provide insights to the nature of our Holy Reality.
All of these books ultimately attempt to express the same ineffability.
All of these books are interpreted then translated and interpreted again.
The way I see it,
I may as well do it for myself; draw my own conclusions:
Think for myself.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 4:13 AM UTC
our journaling discipline
formed in six steps:
Narration
some warmup words
perhaps drawing or photo
pen now at ready
where we jump in..
Emptying
first we list
what's to be emptied
put it all down
pleasures and pains..
Removing
these are obstacles
label future and past
futilities recognized
we've trimmed our list..
Anchoring
with shorter list
peering behind entries
find lurking there
Light of the moment..
Listening
this is Creation
WE are creating
cleansing the old
Writing new birth..
Reflecting
mind now diffused
a Cycle made clear
a Voice was heard
new Narration appears..
***Now WE step
into our day
riding our Cycle
pedaling our Way...!***
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 10:05 PM UTC
There is no whiskey in his room tonight...
Instead,
There is a half-empty glass of-
Rock shandy, Pepsi-cola, Dr.Pepper,
Or something black.
Something minuscule,
even though he has not sipped from it.
He has not looked at it- his tongue
Was only dry for two minutes before he
Locked the door.
For the only presence that made it hard for him to swallow
Was in the form of something that he was still trying to release...
at 2AM.
Release at 2AM.
There is a typewriter in front of him and he is feeling as permeable as
The glass that is sitting next to it.
'as permeable if it had a closed lid made up out of carbon' he thinks.
'Closed lid', 'Carbon',
'Closed lid'
He does not know what to type.
As distance diminished it's existence throughout the years,
He began to realize that Letters were starting to transform themselves
Into Diary-Entries and vice-versa.
The art of belittling seclusion through the method of fictionalizing himself
Was turning more into a hobby than an art and
he did not know what to do except to accept it as a tragedy
That nobody else needed to know about.
"Tragedy:" he types.
"I don't know how to forget about you."
'And etcetera,' he thinks.
In his minds eye he sees a girl in a school far away.
She's holding a camera and a textbook and a picture of a boy
That isn't him.
She's walking into her new life and one day she will go a week without
Thinking about how it feels to know interest and feel it shared
from someone who thought it never existed.
One day she will go a week without thinking about the boy who stared at empty pages
And wrote letters about bitter meals that his tongue thought could never be tasted.
One day she will go a week with just the thought of how glamorous a life spent alone is...
Before she meets someone there...
Who will make her taste something that is less bitter than him himself.
'I hope that's where my story ends.' He thinks.
And then imagines himself embedded into
Dark bitter things.
(Tobacco, caffeine, dark chocolate.)
He sighs and stares at the words he has already typed.
He can imagine these bitter things spilling into his glass and changing its taste with each
little drop.
"You were dead to me before you even walked out of the door..." He decides,
And puts it onto the paper.
He lifts the glass and takes a sip and then puts it back down again.
'One day she will go a week without thinking about me..." He thinks.
Release at 2AM.
Dec 7, 2014
Dec 7, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
Preparations are gearing up for the iD Dunedin Fashion Show, which this year opens with a tribute to Australasian style on Anzac weekend.
The 120m-long platform of Dunedin's railway station is again the venue for shows on April 24 and 25, which are preceded by the iD International Emerging Designer Awards on Thursday night at the Town Hall.
Saturday night is sold out and about 100 tickets are still available to Friday's show, organisers say.
Labels Carlson, Mild-Red and NOM*d, brands synonymous with Dunedin fashion, were in the original show in a local bar in 2000 and they're still show stalwarts.
Company of Strangers, Charmaine Reveley, DADA Vintage, Storm, Perriam, Deval, GG (from Shanghai), Liann Bellis, BEATS clothing, Jason Lingard and Jane Sutherland are also strutting their stuff this year.
The shows open with a section titled Together Alone, Revisited, put together by Doris De Pont, featuring garments by four New Zealand and three Australian designers shown at an exhibition at the National Gallery of Victoria in 2009.
International guest judge Doris Raymond, the star of documentary series LA Frockstars, is also bringing some garments with her for the show.
The owner of vintage emporium The Way We Wore has a fabulous collection of outfits and she will talk about them at an event in the city on Friday.
Six fashion graduate designers from the Otago Polytechnic School of Design will also show their collections in the shows on Friday and Saturday night.
Garments made by the winner of the emerging designer awards are also in the show.
The finalists were selected from nearly 100 entries from seven countries and 14 fashion schools.
There's a strong showing from Australian schools, especially from Sydney, says judge Tanya Carlson.Read more here:www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses
Apr 15, 2015
Apr 15, 2015 at 10:35 PM UTC
*Inspiration pretty much finds you
even when you walk outside
to await the newspaper.*
A summer poem for a winter's day.
___
morning slow sleep walking,
reviewing my
evening sleep attire,
am I appropriately dressed,
to publicly receive
the somber weekend
Wall Street Journal?
which is hopefully waiting for
my rational embrace
where
the driveway meets the road.
as I walk, I note the:
seamed stitching
on my shirt,
a series of
crisscrossed stitches,
pattern of acute angles
stitched in Thailand,
or perhaps Bangladesh,
and when machined,
did the seamstress dream that
with a single blink,
dream metamorphosis
stitches become
crisscrossed out entries
in the diary,
that I don't keep,
the notations naked and rendered,
I don't want you
to know about,
so scratched into oblivion
but in a orderly fashion
before spilling them freely
to any misfortunate innocent Joe,
nice enough to ask me,
how ya doing...
impatiently waiting on a country road
for recycled newsprint
impressed into the service of the
Canadian Pulp Navy
a paper mache arrival overdue
via a technology of delivery
some what quaint, a photo dated
impish young boy
upon bicycle,
with angel wings
who when he passes,
winks at me, seeing my impatience,
(his cheek delighting my cheeks!)
and with robust throw, salutes,
Mission Accomplished.
as I wait
the muses attack,
a formation of
no-see-ums insects bite
ruminations brain-inserted
war correspondents now embedded,
a fifth column
to betray me
and I wonder about:
newspaper printed words
stale seconds before
they are writ,
which makes think
about time,
about making plans,
to do lists,
about how fast my coffee cools,
about how slow my skin colors,
About the first time I put words
about doubt & certainty
on paper
summoning up the courage
to look foolish and
how great it felt,
at the time.
**I fresh slap realize
these "poems"
are my diary,**
so for the record,
let it be duly recorded,
the paperboy delivers to me
the New York Times,
in error,
a cosmic sign
that this is where this
deuce minute walk
into the mind of a gnat,
should randomly end,
and be
crisscrossed into
oblivion.
summer 2012
Jan 21, 2014
Jan 21, 2014 at 12:16 PM UTC
members you'll note
a new event on the club's blueprint
which was so cleverly devised
by the committee's mint
all entries are to be marked
I really crave popularity
so ensure you write this
in letters of clearest clarity
the most original piece
shall garner the prized first place
those that are too ho-hum
won't receive any grace
the council of jury
want to see
compositions stating
look at only me
they should have
a bragging tag
with the lionization
of unique flag
it's time to get
your submissions in
as the competition
is there to win
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 5:10 PM UTC
*[Note: Not one of Subject B's 17,891 journal entries found
mention anything about Why Time itself had stopped.
Refer to Subject X's Archival Journal: Chapter 16
Science of an Improbability (pages 356- 387) for further research]*
___________________________________________________
February 14th, 1955
Dear Dr. Einstein,
What's up Doc? I decided it's Valentine's Day. Unequivocally! And it's a Saturday! Saturdays are my absolute relative favorite. Always have been, I think...
See, up until "yesterday" I thought it might have been almost a year since the whole time thing. I look older, that's for sure. Measured myself up on the kitchen notches and I'm just about as tall as Derrick was when he was 13-- which isn't much, we're a short family. Dad topped-off at 5' 7" and was super lucky to find my mom. She was 5' 7" as well but hated heels. Anyway, though, it could be less than a year. It gets really confusing with the sun always in the same spot, which is why I decided it's Valentine's Day. And it's Saturday! I've already cut a picture of Howdy Doody and put it on the TV.
Okay Doc, that's all. Just wanted to wish you a Happy Valentine's Day. Might move my bed up to the attic to get a better view of the everlasting day.
Sincerely,
Robbie Wilson
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 12:34 AM UTC
boarding a freighter in san francisco harbor
destination kobe
best described in a longer poem
where the city itself longs for the sea
with childlike longing
the journey best in stripped down journal entries
about rest of crew and assignments aboard
but also and more interestingly about the historical development of buddhism
in china and japan. chan/zen.
myths of the mountains. animism. grace and gratitude at a dying animal.
a she-fox sneaking in at night in the guise of a beautiful woman.
man sleeping. man and woman an altar.
poems to robin in a temple garden. pleiades chanting
my words above.
Jan 15, 2011
Jan 15, 2011 at 3:16 PM UTC