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View Full Version : Poetry and Junk (PEACH, I guess.)



Phae Nymna
2010-02-09, 09:51 PM
Herein lies the inane ramblings of a boy who never do better than dream.

Suburbia

go bravely in the fields of our forefathers
take with you the sickles and axes of our havest
and reap the blossom of your strength
the fruit of efforts spent in hot summers
dripping from your arm
from your neck
from your spine
falling through the cooling evening air
watering a suburban lawn
warm and sticky night air rolls in like fog
jasmine and mint float by
you collapse now in the chair youve made for yourself
cicadas
crickets
angry in the trees
close your eyes and feel the brush of wheat on your face
sitting in a field
sun bakes you
your face is taut
when the sun goes
wake up
its near morning
nothing make noise
birds start first
Insomnia #1

"Morpheus is whispering in my ear and he's trying to wrap his arms around me. I wouldn't let him, but he's so strong and soft. Morpheus take me away, take me to sleep."
Feeling Julienned

I am lacking in so much lately. Love, money, courage, all of it. Inspiration is arid and fleeting. I wish things were like they used to be. I was so innocent and fresh about it all. Deco motifs and paintings of summer bring me back there, but not all the way. My confidence is rotting and my mind is slurred and aching.

I want to write until my brain bleed but I can't get the keys or the pen to move. Every time it rains or every time the windows fog up I think of Interview and of Strawberry Spring. God how I want to film Strawberry Spring. New Orleans is so complimentary to it. The French Quarter just deserves a Springheel Jack.

I want to photograph people, and not just at lunch and around school, I want people to model for photography. I need people to do it. There have to be people who will stand around in a setting or something. I mean, Emily has been Johnny-on-the-spot about it, but I don't feel like I could ask someone else. Alfred Hitchcock, Truman Capote, Andy Warhol, Tyler Shields, they all come to mind. I'm just not confident enough to walk up to people and say "For twenty dollars would you wear a bunch of film around and let me take some photos?" I would just sound inept and creepy.

Not to mention drawing. I have a damn epic in my head and I can't get it out. And then there's the full 78 card tarot deck buzzing in my skull. Oh god I need to work.

There's so much in my eyes I can't even try anymore.
Sonnet to Emo Hair (Joke from Last Year)

Underneath your hoodie, soaring layers
Converge on a frightened, angsty, young man
Polished blackened shine, you’re all just players
Feathered silky curtains look like a fan

Dyed dark and bright with chemicals so sweet
Goes well with your paper skin, all pallid
Skinny jeans and tight tees, I think they’re neat
Listen to your dirges not our ballads

It’s all for your hair- oh, dark and greasy
I know you do have pain, it’s real easy
Especially when they all think you’re gay

In the end of the end, it’s just your hair
That I want to tell lies to in cold air
Hollow

Razors swept across naked skin,
Flexing his face, fearing the sting,
Wondering where this sensation’s been.

Now he’s learned it, a sweeping scrim,
Knowing not the pain it brings,
Razors swept across naked skin.

His feelings pouring from within,
His soul is not a petty thing,
Wondering where this sensation’s been.

Longing for time lost again,
Something childish always clings,
Razors swept across naked skin.

Hand on heart he raises din,
Hidden thoughts now efforts ring,
Wondering where this sensation’s been.

His last chains are wearing thin,
Out to the world, now truly can he sing,
Razors dragged across naked skin,
Wondering where this sensation’s been.
Especially with Hollow here, it's funny to see how much symbolism leaks into what you're writing.

With another, another man

One high school night,
I say to my love,
Trap them under a thin veneer. There is a picture of the three of us.
He was a young boy, probably about my age
In an empty room. The telephone
painted green,
I could never tell if you knew I was talking to you
I want nothing more anymore
With another, another man
Two distinct beams
I think. All they do in the end—
It wouldn’t always be like this,
He slept upstairs
Rushed through the dark house.
Like now. Take my hand,
In a tiny house one the Vineyard,
It’s always free. Here I can see
Actors in a high school play
I loved are now gone
Legs jammed apart
I stare long into the line of faces.
And the swoon of jasmine
Or a wet kiss under the moon.
I gave you a poem that I had been writing
It was an evening with a moon,
Making it impossible to breath
His childhood friends are saying
I grieved for you then
I was there. Remember?
Sing to me now if you can, or
Die, your own heart shuddering
Anything,
Soothing like a lullaby which is afterall a parting.
And find ourselves, for a panicked second
Where the world begins.
Nothing left to tame.
I think,
At the end of town.
Among us we can imagine ourselves
Searching for lost pieces of clothing
I tell him, I have no time, I have things to do.
How much later we would be
Waking up in the morning
Just lying on the couch and being happy.
And we stroked it
So I could be loved,
This is called déjà vu—
Always someone’s on the way out. You?
An instant between his sweet sleep
I stood inside that sound.
This once is a cento composed of lines from What Have You Lost, compiled by Naomi Shihab Nye.

Hadrian & Antinous

Interfering, mangling hands, spattered with blood,
Wrenching the two apart, tearing them from their lock,
Screaming as they’re dragged, This is me! You can’t take this away!
Wilting primroses, slashed apart by stinging shears.
Past the fences, weathered and rough, and dead. . .
Hated by earth, and man, for only a kiss.

Love was white and silver, shown in a kiss,
Now the ships sail with black, drippy in their blood.
Blood spilled through poison, they both lie dead.
As horsemen rode, and war drums beat, they held their warm lock,
Then all slipped, their passion a gush of rage upon the shears.
When all is gone, it seems so simple now, they say they are gone away.

They say they’re gone, I know they’re not, their love hasn’t gone away,
His and His and so on and so forth, his and his kiss,
That’d be unacceptable though, so we bring the shears.
Me and He drenched, soaked, and gushing, all our own blood,
He’s one I’m one, each of us is something far between, joined in a lock,
Put simply, I might be, He might be, and for all of this we’re dead.

As we were then, and as we are now, we are forever dead,
The sepulchre;s hatch was shut, the showers hiss, our breath’s all gone away,
Lines of poor ensigns, standing with their Mausers, aimed at our lock,
Officers oversee the murder that now rules, kick to break our kiss.
All is black, nothing’s here, they’ve cleaned all the blood,
We’re back again, undying, no matter how they use their shears.

Echoing our clues, the truths are shears,
In the end of the end we’re not dead,
Not yet, so far, at least we haven’t lost blood,
But still, they really are sending them away.
We are going to, we’ll leave with a kiss,
We might join them in their tight lock.

Perhaps, as long as we don’t have what they do, a lock,
And when we finally get broken by shears,
Or when we ever finally, y’know, kiss!
The beast looked on beauty, and, well, he’s dead. . .
Maybe, though, together, we could fight them away,
Or, like the ones before, we avenge and pave with blood.

I think, when we kiss and feel our own lock,
We will surge with blood, safe from shears,
In a sense we’ll be dead, and them, not them, but they, they will be gone away.
This one is a sestina. Kinda crappy, but it's from a while back and I'm revising it.

This is just some crazy preliminary stuff, but I'll add more. Feel free to PEACH if it's worth PEACHing.