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 Posted: Fri Mar 03, 2006 3:23 pm
BOY SCOUT conTENT
You ain't complainin' now, are ya? Cause it was all decided.
Contents as of now:
Post one: BOY SCOUT conTENT
Post Two: BIOdome
Rest of them Godforsaken posts: Poemtry.
Back to Fishing
Irises Wild
This is Titled
Blown-out Insides
cellular
Oliviated, Because When You're Just A Boy The Chance Is Slim That You Can Lie Down And Be Felicitated or Sarahnaded
Slanguage and Cigaretiquette
Surf
Give Me Back Church
Curves for Women
Vol Canoes
terrible labor
Gramps
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Posted: Fri Mar 03, 2006 3:24 pm
BIOdomeLaverne's a thirteen year old me-chick who started writing horribly when I was about twelve. That's stuff's bad, man. Bad as Batman. You can find it all at www.hated-riddler.deviantart.com - you can tell it's bad from the devart account name even, I'll bet. Luckily I got a new account, www.lavernet.deviantart.com, so it's better. But anyways. I ain't been out of the state living-wise and I haven't left the country vacation-wise. My dad's an awesome nutcase but refuses to believe it, my brother's bi and obviously so, and my ma's not the brightest of the bunch but not exactly the stupidest either. I'm a cup of wild, a pinch poetic, a bottle of a decent critic, and a gallon of sarcastic cynicism. I would gather I'm fun to be around, cause people seem to like me. Whoo, go me. comPuter IMPPoetryProseNONE YET> LOSERS.
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Posted: Fri Mar 03, 2006 3:25 pm
Back to Fishing as edited by you guys, cause you rock, and no I'm not changing the first part, even though it's still not exactly great since it was written a while ago
This is the part
where you're the fish
and I'm the -erman.
She talked the interface
into rippling hold
with the un-girl on the line,
caught by the fishing wire.
She reminds me so much
of waterfalls and whim,
even though I suggest that I remember
she's only the woman behind
our robotic scarlet curtain.
She said one was for help,
and two for assistance;
I pressed both and hung up.
You're off the hook.
Irises Wild was written and edited for discourse's sunset project, at which I failed but still like the poem- the hotwheels bit is dedicated to armorfelix
"Honey," she said,
irises wild,
"we've only got
the rest of the day."
Her attitude gave hypothermia
like icy Hotwheels.
They could afford
to miss their effects.
The sky light rolled
slowly down to meet them.
"Baby," she said,
boring into the blankets
with her feisty stare,
"we've got one last hour."
They were satisfied with
their final secular time-waster.
Reddish heights sprang
as their idol touched down.
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Posted: Fri Mar 03, 2006 3:25 pm
This is Titled was just a random thing I decided to put into words as I finished reading an oxxidation.2- note it's two, not four- critique. if I can I'll find aehlea's- or was it almea's- idea about it I'll totally put it up, but I doubt I'll find it or put it up anyways
Fingersnapping ridicule
is the only thing to take
the foresight away.
I have seen the scene
and the sightof the site
and followed forest paths
to a worker's oasis, just to
dirty my knees and lips
for a shepherd's decomposture,
as I heard the herd bleating
in unison.
Jeer to the upbeat sounds
of funeral hymns.
Blown-out Insides is my very first good poem that I wrote thanks to Samael- now Ardimurti- and Glip who gave me the beginning idea when the first stanza was only three lines so I'd say this is my real starting point for my poetry
Her ribs tingle on the inside
when the metal and the bone
collaborate for health
that refuses to exist.
She's supposed to order something subtle
to run around the hills she's got,
not this backless fabric. So I
tell her she was overcharged
and she snored at me.
Four pupils tell me just to wait,
that she looks like a
godly whore after three days of
straight work. Then
they handed me cardboard
to support the tar lining:
'will work for lungs'.
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Posted: Fri Mar 03, 2006 3:26 pm
cellular is sincerely one of my favorite pieces and it got daily deviation at deviantart- I mean, I know they don't put up poetry as daily deviation much but the people who choose it pretty much know their stuff
Trill defines ring,
which in turn defines phone.
Yes, I've registered
that there's even electricity
running in my house;
waste it, and
I'm liking it less.
It's eating at my drums.
Telephones are so last decade,
let alone loud in vandalism.
This week, I'm
pampering myself.
Your name's still
emblazed on that screen,
and the other side's
still in your hand.
Just leave a message
and I won't get back to you.
Oliviated, Because When You're Just A Boy The Chance Is Slim That You Can Lie Down And Be Felicitated or Sarahnaded is a funny title, don't you think, and another sign of my improvement
The wedding arch was,
as she announced,
perfect in ways no man could make.
Don't dirty the two dollar cotton.
Custom-made, said the grapevine
while it was only two inches long,
just for the bride's surprise.
She was waiting on the groom,
who was living up to his title
as the boy combed through the rat's nest.
Olivia, the to-be-wed;
Olivia, who had the keys to his house,
always just in case,
never hesitated.
Man enough charm to forge a bracelet
and hang from every link.
She was his subordinate,
and he was hers,
and the groom could lie down and
hammer off the diamond finger.
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Posted: Fri Mar 03, 2006 3:27 pm
Slanguage and Cigaretiquette which was really fun, and one of my newer ones lately [it's 1/21/06 for the record]
He said 'chickadee,'
'cause that's what they've been
calling me.
The girl with the car
and her very own language;
with rehab for sophistication.
Behind their backs, gang hangers
rewrite official business men's
term papers,
and their leader lady
cavorts to the conversation tones.
I still give slang to the new boys,
the ones I meet, who
offer a smoke ever-why time.
I, ever-why time, convince
it's too much of a decision
to pick a cigarette.
He stuck around
after his initiation smoke,
trying to let this slanguage
slip into his fog.
Surf was done for Hoodimann's challenge, but I don't like it much
Jaime was made of funeral caskets,
the ones that tangoed down crowded aisles
and just couldn't float,
but she'd pass by for the hair-curler
generation.
In the sea-surge hangover,
where I's wet by salted sneezes
for every push,
she reversed Aphrodite
and dryly washed away.
Boy Lifeguard caught
our UFO, seal shaped, but
someone screamed shark
off the sandstorm laminate.
Dead weight sea splitter
was inhuman niceties, by all means
that I had in my dictionary.
An underwater tone of voice said
their vicious was just my girl.
Next, Jaime was waltzing up
thinned pews,
with all the liveliness
of the swell in her tummy.
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Posted: Fri Mar 03, 2006 3:31 pm
Give Me Back Church because I needed a transition back to poetry
My lips meet God on Sundays.
Sometimes it's more just an embrace,
fingers on spine and I'm showered
clean from skin to marrow.
We are circles when we want
on those weekends,
no sharp tongues or front or
backsides.
The piano is ivory cold
where my tongue meets the music.
Flats twist around my fingers
in ring-bearer cushion softness.
It's all they are, hymns of cradles
and other things I remember from
the first taste of Sunday.
Curves for Women happens to be my most recent on the third of March in 2006 and is apparently translated to be about pregnancy
She wasn't a mother,
then.
She was just that shape,
suddenly curvy
down at the waist
but she thought they
liked that, men.
Why she stuck around,
sitting on every
beer-stained barstool
all the labor made,
she needed to relax
not from vomiting dawns
but to count her years
since being underage
to the jazzy beat.
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Posted: Mon Mar 20, 2006 2:44 pm
Vol Canoes didn't get much attention from the poet society, to my dismay, so it still needs some criticism on it
The seniors are burning
down the retirement home
fireplace; they spat the coals
too high and left them
hissing on the mantle.
Everyone is an
ant, everyone from
the top of this tower
to them.
They're still children,
magnifying glass included free.
Their flabby dark arms
and suddenly balding
spots are together throwing
what's left of the old-home
at the everyone.
Altogether though,
it's what's left of the people
are thrown away from
the old-place.
terrible labor didn't get much either, but deacon nuno liked it, so here goes nothing
Tonight, it tried to be beautiful,
casting off its casual plus fours
and untucked shirts.
It stood strong in
the dining tables and chairs,
spread in the sandstone tiles
outside supermarkets.
It bent in the walls,
protecting our bare
skin and sensitive eyes.
It tried to be beautiful, showing
the town to dusty paths
and yellow unmown fields, offering
a bouquet of bony oaks, maples, ash.
They were something held dear
in the hearts of the
next generation
antiquists.
Tomorrow, the crude white sheet
covers its shriveled motherhood,
and what good the trees aren't
that seat us instead of fueling flames.
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Posted: Fri Apr 07, 2006 2:18 pm
Gramps was a random slightly-inspired-by-langston-hughes spiel done actually in school
Grandpa's palms blistered til
they fell off
on the sewing of threads,
or the welding of families--
excuse him,
metal.
He told us, work is measured
in aching backs and throbbing heads,
nights spent with cash for sweating beds.
He picked labor from his uniform,
energy no longer dripping
from those old hands,
but still he's got to fake it
to bring home any part of the pig.
He had stories to tell
and they were coming from him
like the choked-on blood
that poured after noon.
His dark face turned peach
in the rhythm of the machines,
electrified to living again
by the truth in these tales.
Grandpa's hands dropped
into the dirt again,
and the dirt and his hands
were the same
tired, overworked things.
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