e
New Member
Posts: 2
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Nov 28, 2001 10:25:10 GMT -5
Post by e on Nov 28, 2001 10:25:10 GMT -5
'poem' - an allegory of human/ity (perhaps in a cave, or perhaps not..) 'poem'.. *hgrmm* 'poem'...... *cough* ..Oh!... sorrow Oh black`nd, stricken Oh.. !.. despair (!) .. d-e-s-p-a-r-e .. a-i-r.. MY EyE..s furrowed out - o`ut and tendrils as .err tears. Blooooood.. like hatred, (or wishing) or -no "streaming down my cheeks" '- OH yea-yea-year-s . Not`een then twenty (a score, that is) To have bOne-s turned dust.. *by* loss/ O-o-o-0-0h - oh, DeatH! Trusted, Compan/sh/;ion, Ir(rides^cent oooBLUEooo #And sharp, yes, in the tempest of fever`d vision##! Oh - people (.) Live (.) In (.) Caves (.)  Ect! post modern or Brecht, Husserl and Ted Hughes too. |
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Nov 28, 2001 14:28:42 GMT -5
Post by ScaryDan on Nov 28, 2001 14:28:42 GMT -5
heh. cool. me like.
xoxo
dan
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Nov 28, 2001 18:07:07 GMT -5
Post by luceluna on Nov 28, 2001 18:07:07 GMT -5
hey there ennui ;D great work  l'il dan |
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Nov 28, 2001 20:44:59 GMT -5
Post by Poeticsiren on Nov 28, 2001 20:44:59 GMT -5
Your style is completely different from anyone's on here. I'm glad to see it and read it in its variation. Good job. Post more. L. |
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e
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Posts: 2
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Nov 29, 2001 0:30:53 GMT -5
Post by e on Nov 29, 2001 0:30:53 GMT -5
hehheheh I was just pissfarting around - you're all too kind. But I shall post something real, 'cause of poetry not holding much sway in common realms these days, whence it's few and too much apart/ Sadness (Reprise) <br>[[Ed Note: I nicked the title from Nat Merchant]] Deep cragged drop, line etched white and falling to pink, flattened landscape of channels and tides. Stretching from, and to, and radiating out, lines of titans in the spray, remembered scars. Harder outcrops of darker rock where the surface has worn thin yet fought against the hewn tempest o`erhead, or clouds whose rough grain touched this spot. Forces that have beat upon this palm, yet between it still feels soft and there are spots of mostly white. He uses it now to cling to a soggy, rolled end, sighs and looks down, places it to his dry, striated lips. His fingers now against stone, flat. The surface is smooth yet speckled, he can feel it's sedimentary birth and trace it's lineage to the wide ribboned expanse of sand in which it sits. The fat yellow moon sat upon the ocean, illuminating breakers in gold-leaf edge, swallowing the thin silhouette's soul. Words without letters, eat E.Pound's head. |
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Nov 30, 2001 3:56:12 GMT -5
Post by luceluna on Nov 30, 2001 3:56:12 GMT -5
e, that's incredible! amazing prosetry!
i love this:
"The fat yellow moon sat upon the ocean, illuminating breakers in gold-leaf edge, swallowing the thin silhouette's soul."
;D
don't even think about leaving this place! i wanna see more! you rock!
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Ect! post modern or Brecht, Husserl and Ted Hughes too.
