 |
Poems On Site: 198,500+ Comments On Poems: 427,000+ Forum Posts: 105,000+ |
Custom Search
|
|
|
||||
| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 29-May 15:40:07 AEST | ||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
|
||||
|
Array
(
[sid] => 152202
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Traditional Family Pathological Oven Competition, Yes!
[time] => 2009-08-12 18:05:21
[hometext] => (Just roll with it. Language opens up when you abandon conventional meaning.)
[bodytext] => Klondike utter failure. The veins swirling into tides and Tom is watching, crying. Toothaches molded into the asbestos. Isn’t that funny? Look at Tom’s watch it’s lazy. Big hand moves when it’s convenient, little hand full of oatmeal and self-loathing ferocity. Heat the can of vulture eyes, under the wooden canvas. Jesus makes the wedding plans and cooks too much spaghetti. Who in god’s name is gonna eat all that? Bone salad tables. Other men’s searing agony. Going somewhere memorablein time, The quest to be forgotten, or otherwise despised in history. You are not God’s brother, your hair is broken in folds and gaps, Wavelengths and yellow streaks. Scrape under the fingernails for Chocolate, or maybe grapes. Somewhere, a dog is laughing, so laugh too. Numbers, patterns, spiders. It’s the movement, the trance of good reason, The devastation of undercooked seafood. You’re not the Big Cheese, you’re James Howard, You ate a flower yesterday for no good reason at all. You talk sometimes on the phone, with squirrels. Hungry telltale vines with yielding castle-like formations of jelly and bad aftertastes. The gatekeeper beckons with an ivory hand, Carpel-tunnel, poodle-rag, jungle hubcaps, The book keeper waits. Poop. Delving into the ivy and liquidated profits, Revenue nougat, deficit caramel, My left kidney aspirations and the things Ted said about gas stations in Cincinnati: you can’t develop goats there. Today we’re trying to navigate the dull, The formation of sugar molecules under badger’s thumb. The likeness of Tom Jones, The memory of Simon’s hamster skin collection. The blank stare of stoned dogs. Diddy doesn’t do it daily Or draining dad’s desert with the quiet salad tongs And the longer ways of steady, forgiving words. Doing everything. Jealous of the nun closet, It can see out the window to the beach where crabs battle. No waves. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 141 [topic] => 74 [informant] => Wakingdream [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => surreal )
|
Menu
· 
Poetry
Community
Members
Areas
Reference
Search
Top
Others
Poetry is much like a great photo, a single "moment in time" capturing many feelings and emotions. Yet, they are very alive; creating stirrings within the readers who form visual "pictures" of the expressed emotions within the Poem. ©
Opinions expressed in the poetry, comments, forums etc. on this site are not necessarily those of this site, its owners and/or operators; but of the individuals who post items to this site.
Frequently Asked Questions | | | Privacy Policy | | | Contact Webmaster
All submitted items are Copyright © to their submitter. All the rest Copyright © 2002-2050 by Your Poetry Dot Com
All logos and trademarks in this site are property of their respective owners.
Script Generation Time: 0.052 Seconds. - View our Site Map | .© your-poetry.com