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POEMS

 
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Broken Spirit



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PostPosted: Sat Mar 29, 2008 10:34 am    Post subject: POEMS Reply with quote

Does anyone mind if we post some poetry here?
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Broken Spirit



Joined: 16 Aug 2005
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PostPosted: Sat Mar 29, 2008 10:36 am    Post subject: Schizophrenic Chimpanzee Reply with quote

Schizophrenic Chimpanzee


With ink and paper I scribble nonsense
To empty my head of wrong assumptions
About myself and the world

No way to explain or understand
Writing does not so much reveal
But most often conceals
That which lurks hiding in the bowels

Demons beckon me inward
A caring attitude towards them is necessary
Lest they come to dominate me

Until the soul gets what it wants
It will fall ill again
Caught in the grip of anxiety, fear,
Loneliness, depression, existential despair,
This is the deepening of soul

Mind - the result of torments
The flesh inflicts upon itself
Suffering - a clue to desire
Soul sees and exists because of its afflictions

Symptoms of disease mark the awakening
Of a psyche which will not tolerate
Any more abuse

Life hurts an awful lot
Digging deeper underground
It won't let me be
It is right here breathing me!
A sickness of the soul
A dark mood ... mental illness

Through depression we enter depths
And in depths we find soul
Disturbances are signs of Soul breaking through ...
Breaking through veils of conceptual vessels that contain It
True revolution begins in the individual
Who is true to his own depression

If I can just manage to flow with it
To experience it as pure energy
And not succumb to cures ...
There's no need to cure me of Who I Am

Understanding is no longer my goal
My goal is not self-improvement
Not even well-being
I don't seek a medical cure
Nor humanistic self-actualization
Nor spiritual enlightenment
I only seek to deepen experience

Goodbye hope, goodbye despair
Looking for light makes the cave darker
When you stop looking for light
Depression becomes less dark
Live down at the bottom
Give up hope of climbing out of it

I am the servant of my Muse
And I toil where She commands!
Any goal other than a deepening of experience
Will only distract me from my task

I poeticize inner experiences
To empower myself and others
Every night we enter a mythic realm,
A dark, primordial world of fear and desire

What comes from the depths of soul sickness
Could very well be more meaningful
Than any possible cure
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Some people hear their inner voices with great clearness, and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy ... or they become legend. They won't be using my sperm to create an army of slaves - that's for damn sure.
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xog



Joined: 26 Sep 2007
Posts: 413
Location: Hawaii

PostPosted: Sat Mar 29, 2008 2:28 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Cool idea.

ILLUSIONS

There is an illusion that ecstasy is an illusion of enjoying illusion, when ecstasy is truth in expression, to the degree the clear and direct communication is the only way ecstasy can manifest.

There is an illusion that communication is an illusion of exchange of illusion, when communication is the avenue through which will projects ecstasy en route from imagination to manifestation.

There is an illusion that imagination is an illusion about illusion, when imagination is the the throne room of will, where a twitch of the septre changes the universe.

There is an illusion that will is an illusion of moving illusion, when will is an instrument for universally manifesting that which consciousness desires.

There is an illusion that desire is an illusion of possessing illusion, when desire is the emotive catalyst that puts will in motion, and is Purpose expressing itself harmoniously through an individual.

There is an illusion that emotion is an illusion of real and natural response to illusion, when, other than pure ecstasy, emotion is no more than a condition knee-jerk reflex.

There is an illusion that love is an illusion of blindly and unconditionally giving emotional illusion, when love is the formula one must needs use when applying will to avoid destruction of self and the universe.

There is an illusion that time is a reality the unveils illusion, when time is the illusion that gives the illusion that all is not one, but is instead individual segments in biodimensional sequence with linear potentials in space.

There is an illusion that space is a reality wherein illuison portrays illusion, when space is the illusion that gives the illusion that matter is the limit of experience, expression and satisfaction.

There is an illusion that order is a reality that uses the "real" tools of time and space to measure illusion, when order is the illusion that gives the illusion that chaos is not in harmonious existence with itself.

There is an illusion that chaos is a reality of orderless illusion, when chaos is the order of all, and is the only field of operation of free will.

There is an illusion that free will is an illusion of choice of illusion, when free will is proof that chaos and self exist.

There is an illlusion that the universe can express itself through an individual using only one side of the Tao, when, in all ways, both sides of the Tao are always active and manifest.

There is an illusion that shared illusion is reality, when the what that is real is the subjective movement in the moment, the value (deemed by personal experience) and virtue (identified by what a thing actually does) lasts no longer than the subjective movement in the moment.

Ther virute of the subjective movement of the moment can be evoked over and over to attain, through application of will, satisfaction of one degree or another that is made up on one degree or another of light and shadow. That is magic(k).

Or the virtue of the subjective movement of the moment can be evoked over and over to sail the Sea of Reminiscence into Oblivion. Happy or sad, that is apathy.

Or the virtue of the subjective movement of the moment can be evoked to transcend the reltavities, and venture on, to and beyond the source, to where all wrought wonders are forged and indwelled with the fire of being, in any where and in any when by anyone, and, once there, can be re-forged, re-indwelled and re-sent on mondaic pathways through chaos to manifestation. This course from subective reality to an illuminated speck of dust is the twinkly business of the Work.

Order demands the illusion of heirarchy.
Chaos demands the reality of responsibility.
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Broken Spirit



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PostPosted: Mon May 05, 2008 2:46 pm    Post subject: rice and beans Reply with quote

Rice and Beans

I wanted rice, she wanted H dee tee vee
And we didn't get cable in our homemade teepee
Is there any way out of this maze of manufactured needs?
How do we destroy the greed that this need feeds?

Now people may look at me like I'm a funny bunny
But the truth is I don't have a whole lot of money
We're never gonna shut down this culture of the mall
Until we learn to spend our days doing nothing at all

Knowing she is home safe and sound
I don't mind that she's not around
When it comes to deep thought, I sure do get down
And my intellect makes me stronger, pound for pound

Rice and beans keep me lean
But my ass is covered because I serve a queen
I do what I can, I'm kind of caught in between
But she's the realest woman these eyes have ever seen

Even when your own head's at rest
The ones you care about could be distressed
Sometimes you have to just sit there and digest
The fact that you're going insane or that you are possessed
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xog



Joined: 26 Sep 2007
Posts: 413
Location: Hawaii

PostPosted: Tue May 06, 2008 1:39 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Sunshine aka The One

There were times in my lonliness
when I found my life to be a useless mess,
full of wandering and meandering,
with no sense of the Purpose,
and with very little bliss;
just an empty darkness
echoing through my soul.

Now and then a rush of flames
from those I met along my Way
filled me.
But each one had set a price,
whether evil or nice,
that was their own only,
and nothing of mine.

I couldn't care.
I could only dare to wait
for one with no love of tastes of war,
one developed and willing enough
to bare and share her soul
that we might mingle
and meet our season's demands
harmoniously.

Then I met you,
at a hot springs,
on a Winter's eve,
amid swirling sulfuric vapours.
We had Delphic conversations
warmed by the Earth,
and found we had been bound from before
to know and sow the fabric of Life together.

You filled my heart.
You filled my mind.
You filled my soul.
You filled me so much
you filled all I could see,
and still
I was free to be me.

Our meeting opened doors we had known
but had forgotten,
portals illuminated by our love,
lubricated by your lust,
and traversed with our trust in each other.
Price paid; fearlessness with one another,
portal owned, alone and together.

The light radiant in our moments
exposed the movements around us.
We saw the apparitions and human illusions
looking half-baked in our light,
as we soared above the webs
woven by friends and enemies,
their forgotten or ignored shadows
blatant to the eye of the child of our union,
that subtle body we built and inhabit
between us,
where evil is known,
and good is sown.

Some aorund us
grasped for darkness
to cast on our Way,
in attempts to extinguish
or to run away with
the Graces we found in each other.
But we saw
they were only the Universe testing
just how much we
will to be together.

In our ever-changing moments
we take responsibility
for our creatings of The Makings,
as we forsake linear realities,
facing those facets of Saturn's might
that burn those who,
thinking in one's divided,
dare to look into the eye
of Medusa disguised.

We laughed so high we cried.
That joyful pain did not subside.
It wells up still in never-ending waves
of disproportionate pride evaportated,
and elates and rates our spirits
purely each others.
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Drift



Joined: 12 May 2006
Posts: 109
Location: Britain

PostPosted: Wed May 07, 2008 8:42 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Beautiful. A poetry shootout. I'd like to contribute.

There once was a woman from Venus
Whose head was the shape-

Oh no. Can't do that one. How about:

There once was a woman called Janus
Whose nostrils were just by...

Maybe not. I'll just go away and try again.
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Drift
"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face -- for ever."
-- From Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell.
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xog



Joined: 26 Sep 2007
Posts: 413
Location: Hawaii

PostPosted: Wed May 07, 2008 11:21 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

LMAO, drift. Lol. Limericks are fun, yeah? I'm sure Erato has spoken to you.

The question is not
will Erato speak to you,
it's will you quote her.

Yeah, a virtual poetry slam, with no competitive voting. I like that.
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Drift



Joined: 12 May 2006
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PostPosted: Fri May 09, 2008 5:02 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Erato won't return my calls. Perhaps I should stop sending her Limericks.
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Drift
"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face -- for ever."
-- From Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell.
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xog



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Posts: 413
Location: Hawaii

PostPosted: Fri May 09, 2008 9:59 am    Post subject: Reply with quote

Funny, Drift. :-) Yeah, Erato. I think she is as upward mobile as the rest. For a while she poured her affections on me. Poems would seemingly erupt from within in response to the slightest tremor of an experience. I kept meeting would-be patrons who expected me to sell out one way or another. As soon as I recognized the sell-out they were selling, I dropped them. After turning a few patrons down, Erato put me on hold. I haven't written what I call a good poem in over 10 years. It tends to make open mic poetry readings boring, at best studies of how the audience never evolves or how the latest media manipulation has effected people's responses. At first I missed the beeatch. Now I figure she can rot in the riches she is so attached to. I'd rather be content with myself and in the present than in some dizzy spin of fame and fortune, irregardless of the state of my finances. All my 62 years the most real people I've met have been the poor. It doesn't make then any more trustable than the rich, but they are more real. And I like their sense of humor more. It's less blood thirsty.
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Broken Spirit



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PostPosted: Sat May 10, 2008 6:12 am    Post subject: Charles Bukowski Reply with quote

O, We Are The Outcasts
by Charles Bukowski


ah, christ, what a CREW:
more
poetry, always more
P O E T R Y.

if it doesn't come, coax it out with a
laxative. get your name in LIGHTS,
get it up there in
8 1/2 x 11 mimeo.

keep it coming like a miracle.

ah christ, writers are the most sickening
of all the louts!
yellow-toothed, slump-shouldered,
gutless, flea-bitten and
obvious... in tinker-toy rooms
with their flabby hearts
they tell us
what's wrong with the world-
as if we didn't know that a cop's club
can crack the head
and that war is a dirtier game than
marriage...
or down in a basement bar
hiding from a wife who doesn't appreciate him
and children he doesn't
want
he tells us that his heart is drowning in
vomit. hell, all our hearts are drowning in vomit,
in pork salt, in bad verse, in soggy
love.
but he thinks he's alone and
he thinks he's special and he thinks he's Rimbaud
and he thinks he's
Pound.

and death! how about death? did you know
that we all have to die? even Keats died, even
Milton!
and D. Thomas-THEY KILLED HIM, of course.
Thomas didn't want all those free drinks
all that free pussy-
they... FORCED IT ON HIM
when they should have left him alone so he could
write write WRITE!

poets.

and there's another
type. I've met them at their country
places (don't ask me what I was doing there because
I don't know).

they were born with money and
they don't have to dirty their hands in
slaughterhouses or washing
dishes in grease joints or
driving cabs or pimping or selling pot.

this gives them time to understand
Life.

they walk in with their cocktail glass
held about heart high
and when they drink they just
sip.

you are drinking green beer which you
brought with you
because you have found out through the years
that rich bastards are tight-
they use 5 cent stamps instead of airmail
they promise to have all sorts of goodies ready
upon your arrival
from gallons of whisky to
50 cent cigars. but it's never
there.
and they HIDE their women from you-
their wives, x-wives, daughters, maids, so forth,
because they've read your poems and
figure all you want to do is fuck everybody and
everything. which once might have been
true but is no longer quite
true.

and-
he WRITES TOO.
POETRY, of
course. everybody
writes
poetry.

he has plenty of time and a
postoffice box in town
and he drives there 3 or 4 times a day
looking and hoping for accepted
poems.

he thinks that poverty is a weakness of the
soul.

he thinks your mind is ill because you are
drunk all the time and have to work in a
factory 10 or 12 hours a
night.

he brings his wife in, a beauty, stolen from a
poorer rich
man.
he lets you gaze for 30 seconds
then hustles her
out. she has been crying for some
reason.

you've got 3 or 4 days to linger in the
guesthouse he says,
"come on over to dinner
sometime."
but he doesn't say when or
where. and then you find out that you are not even
IN HIS HOUSE.

you are in
ONE of his houses but
his house is somewhere
else-
you don't know
where.

he even has x-wives in some of his
houses.

his main concern is to keep his x-wives away from
you. he doesn't want to give up a
damn thing. and you can't blame him:
his x-wives are all young, stolen, kept,
talented, well-dressed, schooled, with
varying French-German accents.

and!: they
WRITE POETRY TOO. or
PAINT. or
fuck.

but his big problem is to get down to that mail
box in town to get back his
rejected poems
and to keep his eye on all the other mail boxes
in all his other
houses.

meanwhile, the starving Indians
sell beads and baskets in the streets of the small desert
town.

the Indians are not allowed in his houses
not so much because they are a fuck-threat
but because they are
dirty and
ignorant. dirty? I look down at my shirt
with the beerstain on the front.
ignorant? I light a 6 cent cigar and
forget about
it.

he or they or somebody was supposed to meet me at
the
train station.

of course, they weren't
there. "We'll be there to meet the great
Poet!"

well, I looked around and didn't see any
great poet. besides it was 7 a.m. and
40 degrees. those things
happen. the trouble was there were no
bars open. nothing open. not even a
jail.

he's a poet.
he's also a doctor, a head-shrinker.
no blood involved that
way. he won't tell me whether I am crazy or
not-I don't have the
money.

he walks out with his cocktail glass
disappears for 2 hours, 3 hours,
then suddenly comes walking back in
unannounced
with the same cocktail glass
to make sure I haven't gotten hold of
something more precious than
Life itself.

my cheap green beer is killing
me. he shows heart (hurrah) and
gives me a little pill that stops my
gagging.
but nothing decent to
drink.

he'd bought a small 6 pack
for my arrival but that was gone in an
hour and 15
minutes.

"I'll buy you barrels of beer," he had
said.

I used his phone (one of his phones)
to get deliveries of beer and
cheap whisky. the town was ten miles away,
downhill. I peeled my poor dollars from my poor
roll. and the boy needed a tip, of
course.

the way it was shaping up I could see that I was
hardly Dylan Thomas yet, not even
Robert Creeley. certainly Creeley wouldn't have
had beerstains on his
shirt.

anyhow, when I finally got hold of one of his
x-wives I was too drunk to
make it.

scared too. sure, I imagined him peering
through the window-
he didn't want to give up a damn thing-
and
leveling the luger while I was
working
while "The March to the Gallows" was playing over
the Muzak
and shooting me in the ass first and
my poor brain
later.

"an intruder," I could hear him telling them,
"ravishing one of my helpless x-wives."

I see him published in some of the magazines
now. not very good stuff.

a poem about me
too: the Polack.

the Polack whines too much. the Polack whines about his
country, other countries, all countries, the Polack
works overtime in a factory like a fool, among other
fools with "pre-drained spirits."
the Polack drinks seas of green beer
full of acid. the Polack has an ulcerated
hemorrhoid. the Polack picks on fags
"fragile fags." the Polack hates his
wife, hates his daughter. his daughter will become
an alcoholic, a prostitute. the Polack has an
"obese burned out wife." the Polack has a
spastic gut. the Polack has a
"rectal brain."

thank you, Doctor (and poet). any charge for
this? I know I still owe you for the
pill.

Your poem is not too good
but at least I got your starch up.
most of your stuff is about as lively as a
wet and deflated
beachball. but it is your round, you've won a round.
going to invite me out this
Summer? I might scrape up
trainfare. got an Indian friend who'd like to meet
you and yours. he swears he's got the biggest
pecker in the state of California.

and guess what?
he writes
POETRY
too!
_________________
Some people hear their inner voices with great clearness, and they live by what they hear. Such people become crazy ... or they become legend. They won't be using my sperm to create an army of slaves - that's for damn sure.
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Broken Spirit



Joined: 16 Aug 2005
Posts: 1117
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PostPosted: Sat May 10, 2008 7:51 am    Post subject: in search of the poetic mood Reply with quote

shall i be free of grammar?
shall i be free of rhyme?
do i do away with reason?
without sense of space and time?

that bukowski there is super funky
with the table manners of a drunken monkey
with a big set of balls
and great confidence
he stood and fought
when i would be jumping the fence
and somehow he wrote things
that made a great deal of sense

he may have been
stoned drunk as a dead monk
whose funk stunk worse than
the spray from a skunk
compared to charles bukowski
I'm a little runt punk
whose soul has been sunk
i'm not even drunk
and that poem stunk


Last edited by Broken Spirit on Sat May 10, 2008 11:51 am; edited 1 time in total
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Broken Spirit



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PostPosted: Sat May 10, 2008 9:48 am    Post subject: bad dog Reply with quote

i am relaxed for ten minutes
until part of me begins to demand
another cigarette space-monkey!
another cigarette!
more sausages and ham
i'm tired of spam

i rhyme like a child because i'm so simple
my teeth are rotten
and i don't have a dimple

am i killing myself with tobacco?
is my life pathetic, absurd, a sick joke?
the truth can be so unpleasant
it hurts my brain when i poke
i complain that my song is dying
and yet i continue to smoke

everywhere i stay i need a place
where i roll my own cigarettes
usually one at a time
unless i'm set to prowl
most of the time
i sit and i growl
or make a mess in the tub
and clean it up with a towel

my writing is boring me beyond belief
does my spirit have any claws?
can i muster up some comic relief
with paws and dangerous jaws

there, there, let all those words
that rhyme with mind just float by
i just need to recover from hip hop
one day i might try to write a poem
or i might begin to sin like jeroboam


Last edited by Broken Spirit on Sat May 10, 2008 1:27 pm; edited 1 time in total
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xog



Joined: 26 Sep 2007
Posts: 413
Location: Hawaii

PostPosted: Sat May 10, 2008 1:15 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Saying what Bukowski wrote is poetry
validates that life is art.
Something like:
I write,
therefore I am...
a poet.
Which means, by no big stretch that,
no matter how many children are left behind,
GWB is literate,
assuming he can write.

(Beatles music background)
I took a bath today. Oh boy,
it had bubbles and a lot of toys
floating around inside the tub,
as I made sounds
like something was hap'ning
besides in my mi-eei-eei-eeind.

Then I pulled the plug,
sloshed on the floor,
and dried off my wet bod.
Then combed my hair,
dressed in my best,
and walked out of the door,
to go down to the store, where (end of music)
the same cutie who everytime rings up what I buy
treats me like an old and musty invisible ghost,
forcing me to say "senior discount"
after the total is rung up,
so she can sneer about her inconveninece,
and smile about mine.

What did I bother cleaning up for,
what is the use of drooling anymore,
when some dreadlocked dog humping her leg
gets more quivering ooohs and aaahs, and
much more
besides,
and around,
and behind,
and on top
and below.

For sure, she is sure
she is the reincarnate representative
of some goddess of yore
due, with smiling ease, everything for free,
and every euphoric that pleases her,
not to mention
every door opened and every cape spread in the mud,
along with fearful and nasty
rusty bladed rights of liberatees.

And I?
I, as a man,
am a germ spreading sneeze,
cursed instead of blessed?
Such Matriacrhal harmony!!!
I'm not impressed.

To think that,
as a young freak flagged boy,
I used to call that shit desirable,
worth waking up early for,
and staying up late,
just to dance to that tune.

Oh yeah, whip me, baby,
leave me scarred and bloody,
call me a diseased by age sleezey sneeze
you imagine trying to cop a squeeze,
when all I did is allow myself
the illusion of a plesant memory.
Oh yeah,
treat me like candy when you are needy,
call you being sated you doing me a big favor,
and then leave
at the slightest notion of
more of any kind of motion
in your visual periphery,
you off in search of new conquests,
and more gold for the Queen;
namely, you.

The true war mongering soldier a warrioress;
the less clothes,
the more armed and dangerous.
Conquistidoresses,
hacking off body parts of native slaves
to insure they remain slaves, who are
thankful for any healing smiles
that trickle down to them,
when and if they are given,
whether or not they are real.
Compasionate conservative warrioresses
playing footsie in the bathroom stall of life.
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