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An artist, creative and imaginative
Powerful enough to place, into mere words,
The phenomena that take place in his mind.

Marveled enough by his surroundings
That evoke anger, gratitude or happiness
His mind efficacious, his talent omnipotent.

Bourne of superior intellect
Taken in by souldiers of courage and
Raised by wisdom, pain and knowledge.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Each day the Poete rises from his rest
Each day the Poete more powerful than the last
Each day the Poete expresses greatness from within.

Rhythm and brilliance flow deeply in his veins
Beauty created by the molding of his words
Truth is spoken through the realness of his verse.

Poete Prophet, able to see what's hidden beneath
He sees the lies abstruse in sugar-coated deceit
He reveals the fib's tales and makes them his gospel.

I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.

Exquisite verse, natural and unrehearsed
The Poete will forever be mind blown
And continue to expose the joy in his word.

He writes not for tangible wealth or
Useless recognition, but he blesses his pen to paper for the simple appreciation of veracity.

The Poete steals sight from the blind,
He takes weakness from the strong,
And owns the shades of colour, all to create artistry.

See I'm No Poete, just a Mindless Writer.
baygls 4 lyfe Jun 2014
poete lets meh eksress mah felings. et also lets meh leyt oot meh emotoins two
Somehow the rest of the day
Fleeted like our fragile thoughts.

The preoccupied crustacean
Washed upon the shore,
Thanks to the high tide,
A swirl of earthly obsessions.

An old woman awoke early
In the morning to water her bonsai.
Who is that at the front door?
Who could it possibly be?
Was it the childbearing of symmetry
From a timid chamber?

Does a poet create poetry or does poetry create a poet?

Read and decide for me.

Originally written 4/10/11
Revised 10/18/14

(c) 2014 Brandon Antonio Smith
Ronald Jones Sep 2016
huge black hulk of sunken sagging bedding
his armchair has seen its better days
his mousy derelictions from society's dictums
have born a wastrel with feet of clay
a bookworm hiding from the birds of prey
a lover unloved except for that long ago kiss on a Paris quay

cigarette burns and sudden coffee spills
scarce paper and broken quills
tribunal assaults on ambition's embattled frays
he holds fast to this chair
through many a  disorienting maze
holds fast to this comfort flop of better days

canaries mourn the demise of his old dog lassie
while johns down the street rejoice over their ******' chassis
and the ice cream man takes a breather on the Santa Monica sands
listening to the far away poet
wrap up his film in the can
for video night at the local poetry slam

milk wood meetings in slumberous afternoons
enforce the guilt of absent attractions
though grateful bon ami erases
evidence of the satisfaction
then often leans back in his chair
falling asleep on a half remembered line of Poe or John Clare

awakening wishing once for a computer
though he thinks them a crime
a luddite at heart
neighbors revile him for being an old ****
yet sometimes he sinks deeper into his chair
imagining taking the big step if he dare

burp me mrs sweeny pleads
to her lover who raps her on the back
2 or 3 times and a fourth for FOOD luck
as on the bachelor's chair they commence to ****
though after stepping into the morning's widowed wind
all seems bleak and commonly thin

but both he and she kept the loss of a sedentary promise fearfully within
You can't choose what kind of poet you are.
Classroom or cult, laureate
or in the garret just for the hell of it.  
Mardy bard dangerous to know
or Cheese Poet, Volgon poet, Barry Kent.
Synaesthetic  Symbolist or Imagist
streamlining stanzas. Postmodern punner
or Romantic stunner-***-slummer.
Winherback onetimer or lyricynical
loverat roborhymer.  Syllable sentinal,
prosodic stresshead, tweak freak w/
iambic pentup rage & a rictus gaptoothed
nonictus. Or Beatnik bongo bard
whose Kerouachilles heel is itchy feet,
wanderlust metre, growing up to be protopunk
poet safetypinning syntax into blank, well,
pretty vacant verse. Poetryslam
champ, boisterous Banjo Byron
spouting professional confessional
McGouggherel. Or egotistical sublime
enjambing scars, obscurely immaculate
poete maudit peaking posthumously.

The potter or the sculptor.
The potterer or the sulker.
An immortal name seldomread,
or 1 anon for alltime & typeface,
yet whose fudged floruit was a crow's nest
for the Eye of Providence, agamottoptically
scoping an atlas of experience;
whose traveller's tessitura was compact in
1 couplet the Common Lexicon dibsed.
Blackbox syrinx talking to self
in glossolalia of Xanudu.
Or mellifluous hyoid expiating
a black ice conscience.

Illiterate poet whose bodyofwork
is a worked bodypart or twerked bodyart,
whose elegiac/tragic/epic life
doodled on some hearts.
Linebyline, nulla dies sine linea,
the poem we write (the 1 we're
the 1st to read everytime)
is a gazehound of logotherapy,
who catches the lure of jouissance
only in a lapidary freezeframe
of its trilliant gait, tho' it runs
the creativewritingcourse of a lifetime.
But even doggerel w/ a dedication
doesn't indicate afflatic altruism,
pah, poets are just cadging favours
w/ scrapsofpaper, w/ jingles &
janglednerves of abstract value
only slightly less iffy
than common currency,
depending on the exchangerate
between the personal & the universal.

Therefore: reader or patron,
oldfriend or 2nd wife;
or puppydog Boswell, Padowan amanuensis;
mechanical hare muses past, present & future:
when swell of soil breaks upon
some bone glade enclave of dwale & boles
& a badgersett for my scarpered soul,
the granite surfboard wiped out upright
will puff out its slab & entreat
of you the epitaph I now entrust:
RIP, Lysander E. Hardy-Pearce.
He couldn't help the kind of poet he was

(but if angels should sing me to my rest.
I'll know I was the kind of poet noone read).
Eugene Solomon Jul 2011
" A poet doesn't invent;
he is a liar who speaks
the truth and listens.

Un poete n'invente pas,
il est un menteur qui dit
la verite et a l'ecoute ."
Born avoidant (well, aside from being born at all),
inchscrutable as croutons under the futon, all

I've coveted is cover since a snorkelparka'd
helix, a weasel helix, from the snorkelparka'd

hydra of inscrutable happenstances
that clusterheadfuck this dappled happenstance,

home sweet anomie, Planet Earth.
Gardencentre Peklo na Zemi of astrotearth

antichthonic, inauthentic, even by where we buy
hardhitting chrysanthemums that buoy

my spi...buoyoyoing!  British budget impulse SCUDGE.
I love her but I begrudge her her scudge.

I love her but I begrudge her her polymorphic
pervert, our pending polymorphic

pervert who'll **** the udderade of the underaged
from Mum's scudgedup blebs. Negasonic middleaged

wordbod, I'll wear my 'World's Greasiest Dad'
tee, see out a sellout poete maudit grandad-

hood, but won't I still livelive this double life,
indicting her & in her debt for this nicelife.

com #invertedcommas I embrace in gardeninggloves?
Marsellus Wallace's Joy Division ovengloves;

the **** sphinxen & the tonguetied sphinxen
of the phenomenological shopfloor; situational sphinx

of Damocles' eyebrows over snorkaparkel'd
hydraheads, the Ultimate Question parked

like a rattletrap; old family recipes;
Zeus' zippo, Hoho Erectus the recipi-

ent of this original hot merch snaffled
by Prometheus Trotter; worth snaff all

to a shiquid lit. worthy like me, a squillion mid
burning Os in my Promethean pockets, a cool
squillion ******* mid;

1/r = 1/0 = ∞ but w/ all the ions .ed & the t-quarks x'd;
nuclear football override codes should TACAMOs get

honest to goodness alchemy, lapis philosophorum
(for the poet is legit filius philosophorum,

transmuting his pilgrim shadow into tanorexic El Rey
Dorado, his basement of basemetals, where nary a ray

of Fama gaily bedights, into a golden garret);
in Thomas Twitterton's garret,

Patricia Lockwood typing a tesseract out
of Pepe, tidepods, bobs, vagene: O what could out-

mean benign & grounding domestic stupor, Stepford Lice's  
Scudge Sundays of Love w/ his Sleaford wife, Mrs. Lice,

who checks out the checkout Unilever Nestle Kraft & Mars.
But a Steppenwulf wife would mar s-

olyent green & pleasant garden centre scudgey life.
Born avoidant: happy wife, happy life.
It was for good, I just did it once and it was for good. I realized that there is nothing like an ex-lover, where love been it sticks there forever, nothing impossible as unloving who you once loved. Yeah, you left me, I wasn’t probably enough for you but I assure you, you were for me, I wasn’t probably as perfect as you wanted me to be but I loved you with all my imperfections, probably you weren’t seeing the future with me but I honestly cherish our past and the whole bunch of memories we had. I could have done anything to keep you by my side but the universe always revolves to bring new changes, what meant to happen happened. Please always remember I loved you, I still do, and I’ll forever do.
#mali for life

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