love on the brain - meow poems

[shammy718]

o no! did he just pass? he was one of my favorites out of the black mountain crew. he really brought out a physical sense of poetry. i especially like "Massachussetts" and "The Edge".

[randall fairbrook]

yeah, yesterday...

[shammy718]

bringing Selected Poems to my hotel this weekend.

rest in peace*

HEMORRHAGE

boy I love your soul
& mine is hemorrhaging
you take my heart with you
when you go
& so soon you'll go

I like how you speak in the future
I like how you know
instead of hope
are your mind & your heart at war?
take me to the battlefield
let me blow the bugle
wave the flag

boy do you know you listen well?
you are the best
& you give
'cause it brings you happiness
& you keep a good catalog

boy
my soul & heart
& all the insides
are bloody & distressed
& they are yours

meow © 1998

The Queen

I have named you queen.
There are taller ones than you, taller.
There are purer ones than you, purer.
There are lovelier than you, lovelier.

But you are the queen.

When you go through the streets
no one recognizes you.
No one sees your crystal crown,
no one looks at the carpet of red gold
that you tread as you pass,
the nonexistent carpet.

And when you appear
all the rivers sound in my body,
bells shake the sky,
and a hymn fills the world.

Only you and I,
only you and I, my love,
listen to it.

-pablo neruda

[happy]

"Look at Me, I'm a Poet"

Blah, blah, blah
Precious, puerile claptrap.
Boo, hoo, hoo
Bleeding heart pap.

Adults who write poetry
Could stand a beating or twelve.
Nothing rhymes with poetry
I like to stab wops.

[liquid mass]

Originally posted by happy


"Look at Me, I'm a Poet"

Blah, blah, blah
Precious, puerile claptrap.
Boo, hoo, hoo
Bleeding heart pap.

Adults who write poetry
Could stand a beating or twelve.
Nothing rhymes with poetry
I like to stab wops.

hmmm... it needs more salt.

[sanjay]

i see it lying upon the street
i wonder if its good enough to eat
roadkill.

i scrape its flesh off the ground
and twist its head round and round
i like this thing that i have found
roadkill.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root

My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence

Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.

Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.

How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out

Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;

All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

-ted hughes

Le regard du dedans furieusement tue. Feuille carnivore la débilité la nuit haletante en cette place risque la destruction. Tu me manges. Je ne mange d ne me man- que pas. L'enfermée à double tour des manifestations: la scène papa maman marque à l'os la peau surtout. Je suis épinglée pin up cravache des creuses paroles du père mère dans la vie vécue qui n'a pas d'importance. Je tiens le poignard je porte ton revolver la nuit m'est fatale je ne peux pas écrire. Dissoudre tranquillement je veux cela va mal exprimer.


-France Théoret

[nagasawa]

As any one is

So is his God

And thus is God

Oft strangely odd.

[nagasawa]

Less profitable
than writing on the waters
of a flowing stream ---
such is the futility
of unrequited passion.

Anonymous

[650lex]

leaves slowly growing
moving by the wind
only the air is still

he falls back
on a field of dirt
and lands in lush green grass
voices around are muffled

the cigarette smoke she exhales
travels and surrounds his space
he slowly sinks lower
and lower to the sand
his body induced
mental coma

he opens his eyes
and sees her
dancing above him
she slithers to his feet like a serpent
he lies there trapped by vines
feels her fingers
slowly moving up his legs
he want to move
but he is afraid
all he can see in the dark
is her movement
swaying gently
eyes wet as dew lined blades of grass
he closes his eyes
swallowed by just one kiss

blinded by the morning sun
he awakes from intoxicated sleep
alone
in a field of dirt
paradise interrupted by reality
she is gone
but a half crushed cigarette lies by his side
he sees the lipstick rimmed filter
and puts it to his lips
knowing that this is the closest
he will ever get to her again.....


aed
4/28/05

[lakeside resort]

Originally posted by randall fairbrook


rest in peace robert creeley


*sigh.....

oh wow. I saw a Robert Creeley poem on the train this morning. they have some posted by the city or something, and it was about him walking into a quiet room and outside is half-snow and half-sleet and everyone is just always hanging out in that room and the door to the room is his door. RIP Creeley.

You are there and there and there, nameless,
and here I am older by far and nearer,
perplexed, trying to recall what you looked like
before I dissected your face–you, threat,
molesting presence, and I in a white coat
your enemy, in a purple one, your nuncio,
writing this while a winter twig, not you,
scrapes, scrapes the windowpane.
Soon I shall climb the stairs. Gratefully,
I shall wind up the usual clock at bedtime
(the steam vanishing from the bathroom mirror)
with my hand, my living hand.

~Dannie Abse