Carrotia no1: Dawn In FuchsiaCarrotia no1: Dawn In Fuchsia11 years ago in Science Fiction More Like This
The lumbering pink spacecraft slid quietly through the darkness of space, lighting it up, not only with its very presence, but, in fact, also with the presence of several billion kilowatts worth of carefully designed light.
It stood in the off-pink janitor's closets. It pulsed to life along the sides of beautifully crafted hallways. It hung from the ceiling in immaculately decorated bridge rooms.
It was, however, remarkably absent from Radar.
Radar was a large section. A giant dome located near the foot of this Intergallactic Class space vessel, littered with consoles and smashed lightbulbs, which by far outreached the length of the ship or, indeed, any sort of common sense. It had never stopped any of the designers from raving endlessly about Impossible Space Dynamics, Colour Balance and cupholders, at least not before the entire governing body of Carrotia unanimously decided to have them shot for bad taste.
Radar was not a particularly frequented area. In fact, safe for two members o
Inaction and ReactionInaction and Reaction11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
This demon's taken control of me
I curse myself and my incapability
I wish, I hope, to go back to the day
When I didn't care about it, either way
Why are my thoughts so out of place?
Mayhap it's someone else with my face
Punish me, now, for I spit and I curse
It feels so bad, and I want it to be worse
I look for a way out of all this
Shadows hide me, my courage I miss
I see it there, my eyes it will haunt
I look for the moment when I can taunt
It looks away for a moment or three
I wait for too long, cannot get free
It holds me
It molds me
It makes me
It takes me
Possession is nine-tenths, don't you see?
Depression is deep and wont let me be
Regression perhaps is the way, but
Dispassion makes all those doors shut
Displacement causes me to sit and stare
Abasement is the punishment that I share
Chastisement is something I have heard
exclaimah!exclaim11 years ago in Typographical More Like This
the pound and the thud and the gasp
and the italian gesture
(! - !) verbose
physical - !
of clenched fists and swooping arms
-but this is
the sun !-gloriously! climaxes over the trees
the silent !-scream! of eyes
as they !-beam! and !-shine!
and - !
just - !
isn't it wonderful!
overriding any question
-a state of ecstasy confined to a mere dash and dot
it just is
a jump a dance a song
(the prelude to a smile)
it is the peak!
and the climax!
and !~vibrance!~ herself
but is also an acknowledgement
(in its silence)
of the silence
but that is tomorrow
addictionaddiction12 years ago in General More Like This
have you ever been an addict. and im not talking
about the hey-i-like-to-do-this-alot type of addict.
im talking about the
type of addict. im an addict. ive never blown anyone
to get it. i dont think i would. but i havent been
given the opportunity to either. the reason i say 'i
dont think i would' is because i like to pretend that
i still have something thats mine. dignity, pride,
standards. but i know i would easily toss those away
just to get it. i know because i have. so all i
really have is it. for one hour. for two hours. for
fifteen minutes or however long it last. however long
i can afford it to last. ill be high for fifteen
minutes if thats all i can get.
im an addict. i dont get high just to get high. i
get high just to get my mind off getting high for a
few hours. after a fix im good for eight hours.
maybe. then the last of my previous highs memory
cells dry up and i want. need. how ca
I never meant to do thisI never meant to do this12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
You were the perfect girl,
molded for me,
and me alone,
but it seems as though,
I was blind,
and wasted it all
for just a little fun.
but little did I know
that you would know,
and that I'd break your heart,
and stain your soul.
We had our lives
all planned out,
we knew the names of our children,
we knew it should have lasted forever.
I had the perfect girl,
in this semi-perfect world,
and I threw it all away
for something I never even wanted.
You haven't spoken to me in years,
Only one time did I see your number,
and when I called you back,
I had nothing to say.
See the cracked and tear stained glass
of those beautiful pictures of us,
together, wanting nothing more than
to be together, forever.
I said it'd never be like this,
I'd never be like this,
I'd never do this,
Can't escape the rhythm...Can't escape the rhythm...11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
The tick-tick-tock of the atom-bomb alarm clock
buzzing in my head reminds me of January neon lights;
those fly-baiting guardian angels hanging like a dead man,
over the entrance of the coffee shop where you and I were ostricised.
"Say, do you remember when..." Well, let's not start that again,
besides, why think about the things we tried to forget?
Such as cum soaked sheets beneath our wine soaked bodies,
pulsating, pulsating, pulsating... without rhythm.
Smoke a cigarette.
Let's try this again.
So now, two years older, ten cents richer and you a little bolder
and me, well, I've been waiting around and around since the start.
So I'm here with a handful of flowers, (White roses instead of red ones)
and a smile, and you greet me with a handful of boxes and guilt.
"Deja-vu, holy shit! Man, haven't I seen this movie?
Doesn't everybody die at the end?"
Still, I'm gonna pay to see it, (hell I'm the star, aint I?)
I've gotta s
Bulgaria IsmetBulgaria Ismet12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Bulgária Ismét (Bulgaria Again)
The raze and wreck of Turkish troops
rent what was our land.
Yet only flesh and bone
was taken from the Bulkan hand.
I was fallen on the stone
with mightier men than me;
all my brothers in my arms asleep.
They and I-
we would never wake again
not to see our brown eyed girls
or to sing our Runic tales.
Réalité (après le Öldöklés):
I saw there many times now
the widows of windy souls
that clap on the shudders
and drift in the fountain pools.
The wolf is lapping
where Bulkan girls washed their hands
and spoke a jezyk far from ears.
It is silent in our ruins
from Turkic swords upon our necks.
But the bleating varjú weeps
onto a silken carcass.
She was Irene.
Pré-mort (mémoires d'elle):
She could wake blossoms
and milken perfumes that licked
her swan-neck and heavy lips.
They kissed with exactness
the perfection of her poise
that turned to quiet gazes
into the hills above
A LimerickA Limerick10 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
There once was a boy named Kricky
who broke my heart after a quickie.
So I let him go
(he's no Billie Joe!),
Besides that, online flings are tricky.
I met Kricky not long ago,
that's when he set my heart a-glow.
He's only nineteen,
thought I'd intervene,
and teach him the *things* that I know.
Dear Kricky is quite a hot boy,
and that's why I made him my toy.
He will not come visit
(now that's not nice, is it?),
I know I could give him such joy.
We all know that Kricky loves beer.
He drinks it each time he is here.
So give him a guinness,
and then you can witness
how Kricky gets his ass in gear!
Our Kricky's a talented guy;
just go see his prints (and then buy!)
He made a tattoo
just for me (not for you!)
His skills you just cannot deny.
Now Kricky in Assen does live.
Those blue eyes (my god!), attractive.
The dutch girls all die
when Kricky walks by,
yet no girl his heart will he give.
Oh Erik, my lovely dutch prince
(though Switchie i'll never convince),
your heart's made of gold,
swim like fishshallow streams of consciousnessswim like fish11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lap against ankles dangled
from piers of perception
fed by pools of thought which
shimmer briefly- scrutinized
dissipating under x-ray glares
aquatic remembrances writhe
in charred baked beds of
and in the end your throat
burns and we're all sick
living in surfacesliving in surfaces12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the winter we met, the rum kept us warm
while we waded in your shag carpet.
ashtray boats capsized and jettisoned
their flaky cargo into the pea-green water.
your white briefs slid across
the frictionless mahogany.
gripping skin and veneer we held on
through the spasms of the turntable
and made new rhythms, irregular
when sampled, intricate and magnificent
when the measures are strung together.
but the cold made our noses run
into our sloppy kisses, and the string
of mornings after were yellowed
by our collection of canker sores,
leaking ennui in the coffee.
i was just a little boy, my duct tape's
makeshift hold could not keep us together
so we took our final hits and
fucked one last time amid the debris
so our irregularly shaped photos
would not fit in the albums
or be remembered in anything
but ineffective words and carpet stains.
not forgottenNot Forgottennot forgotten12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
gaze back rainblack glaze
and I'm 800 years ago cold again and wide-eyed
a shiver in a cave
uncomfortable dangle between evolve and digest
unrest in even the simplest hardship
and see the storms end
breath the brine filled poem
which shakes the midnight pines
threads a melody among the tattered cane
on battered shores lined in crested copper moon
a tune half obscured
by the broken trellis
of cloud and star
conceived in fire
destined for dust
I've seen tomorrows pass
Prove Me WrongProve Me Wrong12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Advanced Bodies Absorbing Advanced Minds..
Still in a crippled state of mind.
Why has the majority chosen to do so little with their gift?
Blindly, yet faithfully following a system of duplication...
trimming power, leaving evolution up to another kind.
Even the genius with the perfect inventions...
sit and wait for the so called "right time"..
to release creations from their mind.
I fear their reasoning may be intimidation.
Knowing that if releasing creation right now,
they would be forced.
Forced to come up with something bigger..
Maybe it's the hesitation of their capabilities.
So as accustomed...
they simultaneously sit and wait...
While people below travel, work, pray, and patiently anticipate,
never even acknowledging their own existence...
Always shading themselves from their own reason of being.
And so words are said:
Be polite, and celebrate your date of birth..
because it's the "right thing to do".
WastedWasted12 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
pour out your bloody ink in some faint rhythmic whine
while the dark, thick rain falls endlessly to earth:
the night sky is still the night sky,
and like all things it will continue.
though your blood may rush and roar like water
until in a faint whisper you finally run dry:
still the stars endure and the rain falls,
and will go on falling.
go on and make your thin poetic moan
and cut, and cry, and shake your tiny fist at the sky
but rain is the blood of the stars,
and they have no sympathy for you.
I'm SorryI'm Sorry9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
today I accidentally
killed your ladybug
tangled in my mess of hair
onto my shoulder
not thinking I grabbed
for the tickle and
with a fingetip
on her round
and I watched her fade
scarsand i would ratherscars11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
lie to myself
-than to you
(and sometimes that line becomes gray, though)
where i end and you begin
(and marginal and liminal)
::search for answers elusive as this night::
-something (as dark and vague)
(as jumbled and worn)
(as lost and alone)
and so i YIELD
-and try to become so intoxicated by
-the high of it all
-and the rush
He Thinks By FireCastlesHe Thinks By Fire11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Set the scene in Vienna, Rome
Tripoli - countries in cities.
Restaurants in the shade.
Men in chairs
With white straw hats, the sun curve
Of the day, and buzzing of motors on
Family visits an old man.
A hearty dinner, the sun a shine on the glass.
She says tell
Like you used to.
The boys poke the ground,
Fiddle with the earth,
Before he sighs.
I sign in blood.
A column splits, spoken
Ramparts, assailed corridors.
Degraded anarchs in the veins.
I hear Fire.
Random chaos in
The voi- voi- Void.
And my entry read:
'Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate!'
Abandon all hope, ye who enter!
The stun is complete. Boys caught moving
Sag down and shake.
She asks why? How?
And he repeats, numbly:
Abandon all hope, ye who enter.
AfterlifeAfterlife11 years ago in Scripts & Screenplays More Like This
A desert road.
A body lies on the road. SAM is sitting on it. It is his corpse. He gets up. Looks at the body, and looks at himself. He feels himself for fat. He goes stage LEFT. As he reaches the end, he stops. He then goes stage RIGHT. He stops. He looks out toward the audience. He goes upstage. He goes downstage. Finally, he glumly takes a seat on his body again and sighs heavily with his chin in both hands, elbows on his knees. He stares at the ground and takes no notice of his surroundings.
Enter CHARON, stage RIGHT. He is wearing simple brown robes and a walking staff. Middle-aged and balding. He drags his feet, hunched over and head down, like someone who has been on his feet for a long time. Noticing SAM, he straightens himself. He takes a scrol
I dance in clown shoes.I dance in clown shoes.11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
You compose your conversations.
Fitfully gesturing with whatever you hold,
ending arguments with a flourish.
Make a point, now whirl, quickly.
Make it impossible to counter with your unpunctuation.
You duck and weave, spin, sidestep, pirouette:
One, two, one, two, faster, harder, stronger.
You leave me confused and two steps back,
just far enough behind to appear lost and unsure.
And if I catch up, if I make a point,
you spin again, a trail of words falling like pixie dust
as you make your escape.
And as you storm out, you slam the period behind you,
Ending your sentence with a door.
And I must follow you, my thuds down the stairs preceding my statement,
trying to catch up before the page break.
Now I capitalize a W, and follow with an a, i, t.
And you pause, spin, speak, gesture, spin, continue.
A waltz to counter my four-four.
You don't dance your words-
you speak a dance.
You speak a dance Baryshnikov couldn't follow.
You rapidly reverse the rhythm,
changing tempo in a blur of sound
Coffee MugsCoffee Mugs11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
It's a man's world,
you can tell
from the dirty coffee mugs,
huddled together on the table.
The lone water bottle stands above them,
imposing, clear and tall, as its owner,
Her pregnant belly precedes her like a shield:
a neon sign flashing "here I am".
In the elevator, two people dare a smile
while they talk of things they know
no-one else cares about.
They wear glasses and awkward clothes.
In this place time hangs like tepid air,
which no fresh wind can ever disperse.
Ink StainThe poem is all too plain, but IInk Stain8 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Am intricately constructed,
Octopus armed and lazy fingered,
Some great mass growing greater,
More spineless with each
Inking. You ask, what is it called?
And what is the point of it anyway?
The oceanographer researches, responds,
States the purpose is immeasurable.
Two. Smoke screen, and
Three. Mass confusion.
But darling, I am nautilus, and
My tentacles are
God gave me eight limbs: two arms, two legs,
The rest, male, you can imagine,
Two labia (why all this counting?), and a clitoris,
An umbilical cord suspended, and in its place,
I grew a pen.
Its got no fancy name; its called an ink sac,
A weapon that I have no sense to
Claim nor comprehend. And to the numbers?
To the years since, to the fingers,
Diligent fingers that have entered, exited,