[x]

Mirth is not conducive to...Mirth is not conducive to one's sonnet-writing skill,
Hence good poets sulk, with only sullen words to say.
It helps that certain artists often starve, which is the artist's way.
He who wrote those verses you found so romantic's likely ill
And molders in suits with ill-fitting shoulders, sucking on a quill
And scratching out a misspellt word, his eyebrows furrowed in dismay
Whilst, absent-mindedly, he picks at threads on hems begun to fray.
If this morbid image stirs up romance in you still,
This may be because you too've a poet's disposition.
Put on something stately, something dated. Still one step behind,
But once you'

Scenes From a Coffeeshopa solitary man strolls in
greeted by the background noise
of idle chatter
amongst the patrons of
a coffee shop
somewhere on broad street
somewhere near a college
some place he once knew
when he beheld the world
through younger, inexperienced eyes

strange how it looks
the same as it had before

another set of people
to replace the set of faces
he came to expect before
yet they all appear to have
exactly the same vexations
preoccupations with coffee orders
that mask the complexity of their lives
in some attempt to ask
the barista
to make everything right again

one person may ask for a latte
when they are truly asking
for

The Ill Fate of FiveViolent strikes and crumbling hearts,
Dearly beloved, we must now part-
As my innocence slowly demolishes,
I lie untamed longing for purity.

How can one not cry?
When one’s sanctuary is so viciously
Torn apart with a simple lie.
Fallen bodies, one by one-
Won’t you leave now, my son?

My beautiful daughter, hand me
That knife you clutch in fear-
Mother, mother, I cry with chaste-
Surely there is no need
As this won’t last.

No, my child, this is simply a test,
Now come into my arms, and lay
In my breast, as this may be
Your very last chance.

You mustn’t, I manage through tears,
As my body is controlled b

SubconceptWhat?
What?
What?

*Pause*

When?
When?
When?

*Pause*

Where?
Where?
Where?

*Pause*

Who?
Who?
Who?

*Pause*

Who is Human?

Over the bridge and under the lust,
A seed of self-obsessive dust,
Burns silently to spread and feed,
Leaving only bile and misanthropy

A skull-cage born of the gods,
Takes it's place beneath the above,

*Pause*

Who is Human?

Consciousness, to supress,
Ending the will to express,
A deeper desire for the excess,
And a dreaming blood-stained mess

It fights the biting pages,
It's bretheren ar toothed indeed,

*Pause*

Who is Human?

A dollar, a chain,
A lover, a gain,
To escape the thunder,
Single

Croixenlierre: poem prologue

C is for Croixenlierre, name of this town
R is for Rabbit Hole--Violet's gone down
O is for Ordinary (used in past tense)
I's for Inside, where nothing makes sense
X is for nothing that Violet can see
E is for Elsewhere--where she'd like to be
N is for 'Nonsense', her guardians say
L is for Lifeless, as everything's grey
I's for Investigating Croixenlierre
E for Enlisting the Labouchére pair
R's for Reality and Remaining sane
Like a flower stays growing though there is no rain
E is for Even a house can decide
If from three little children its secrets should hide.

~FIN

A Shade of AbsintheA shade of absinthe, so possessed with love
Vital as the air you breathe, vital as the love you see
A tear of doubt lingers upon her rosy cheek
Euphoria exists, but in her heart and mind

Why are you, child, so positively gorgeous?
A paintbrush in your hand draws many faces
Show me your experiences, so vivid on white
Sketch me legends that dwell in my thoughts

'Tossed in your salad dressing dreams', a young man says
He speaks the truth, you feed on your fantasies
A hedonist with motives to change humanity's wrongs
But too, an idealist dressed in silver and gold

Come out, little girl from the castle in the sky
He weeps for you eve

Phone call...Voice? What voice? My voice?
I hate it…
Just when I thought I made it…
Suddenly again I hate it
Did you ever listen to yourself talk alone?
Sitting all by yourself at home…
It may have looked different then
But now it's all gone again
So you pick up the phone to call
Just to decide better leave her alone…

Kiss The FloorKiss The Floor

He's just another, Fallen star
Watch him shimmer, From afar
He's out again, this Lazy night
Pale face, In drowning light
Bites his lip, He's in a trance
Give him money, Unzip his pants
He's so dirty, So narcotic
Standing naked, Now you've got it

Icy flesh, On finger tips
Feel hot breath, Against your lips
Tainted scent, Of cheap perfume
Take his hand, Up to your room
He's so young, This is wrong
His innocence, His seductive song
See him fall, Slam the door
Amongst the filth, kiss the floor.

End.

From a Great Height

His eyes
flash
with anger
and
lust
His powerful
body creating
strong lines
and
marks in
the
air

His lips
melt into
the
beloved
with viscious
bites
and
stabs
Oh

Dieu
Mon couer
les
temps
ont
froid
Et
le
soleil
est
tres
chaud
Mais
Il
habite
avec
l'amour
de
vin
et
de
destruction
Oui
Il
est
solitaire
Mais
Il
est
heureux
parce
que
Il
est
un
homme
avec
les
yeux
des
pluie
Gracieux
Dieu
Oh

God
Oh
God
How can
one
heart
stand
so
much
bitter
pain
But he
cares not
All he
does
is
beat it
away
with his
raucous
laugh

His
steely
eyes
break all
he sees
but
kee

Memoir of an Afflicted Demigod

His fingers nimbly brushed the wall, and flicked on the light switch. A sickly light came on, and wavered for a while. The room was spotted with patches of this anemic light with darker, foreboding corners. This was what he had. This was all he had, besides the memories.
His fingers massaged his tired eyelids and then dropped to his sides. They then attempted to find a weak solace in his frayed pockets. Searching for some kind of treasure to lift him from this desolation, the thin rods of skin and bone found instead a bottle of pills. He took the container out and threw it to the ground. The bottle, glass in make, shattered and left sharp f

Skeleton ChicEverything is getting crazy, I can see your blood in your veins
Everybody's falling deeper into sleep, but my eyes are popping out of my head
I always knew you were beautiful but I don't think I ever saw
They called you the effect, I never thought you could be the cause

Splashing out on champagne, drinking rain clouds
Sucking up to sun beams, shouting over the crowd

Elegant, skeleton chic but there's nothing there to touch
Touch yourself until you feel release, it's the closest you're ever going to get

Splashing out on hotels, dreaming of bunk beds
Waking up to French toast, feeling half dead

On these dark streets your figure's fadi

"Sinclair Says..."

Sinclair says the world is round
And that I'll soon fall off
And the only way to solve my qualms
Is "et Kalashnikov."

Sinclair stands at 6-foot-four
And dyes his hair with lead
He paints my lips with red bromine
Which messes with my head

And Sinclair says that I'm insane
He says I'll petrify my brain
Sinclair pouts and says he's God
Sinclair looks at me and says,
"How odd..."

Sinclair says that Homer's dead
And history class was fiction
That people make a bit of sense
Through blatant contradiction

Sinclair tips his black beret
With a stern cross off his arms
He says opaque sunglasses
Make the most of all my charms

And Sin

What can it matter...What can it matter to not take my heart?
You speak as though the organ bears refusing.
But when I offered with the thing to part,
It was not at my leisure, nor my choosing.
Why, faster than your lips did part to cry,
"No, I will not have it," they did smile,
And left me weaponless with but a sigh
Upon mine answ'ring mouth. In a short while,
Blanched white and fearful for its every beat,
I nonetheless found, near my pink-primed lung,
There was a hollow. Bitter is defeat.
I weep to be so lost to you so young.
You can choose to pocket it or not.
The heart is yours to keep or to let rot.

There is a land to which one..There is a land to which one can no longer travel, caravan-
Wise. One must devise witchy plans, or arrive through a dream.
Once, a kind of passage waited, open like a lady's fan,
And lured in lovers, poets, painters, all seduced by what it seemed.
For gleam it did, and make one sigh, and long for what one could not hold:
A girl, perhaps, her mouth too small and too unsmiling to be kissed;
Or fame, perhaps, the fickle thing, who courts the warm and leaves them cold.
And those who suffer do it bitterly, and think they won't be missed.
And so they find the hidden door, behind a rose-tree, beneath roots,
Or underneath green mosses; and

It's in the poet's interestIt's in the poet's interest to pretend
That he could water gardens with his tears;
That he's in star-crossed love up to his ears;
That his cleft heart will never, ever mend;
That, as he hints, a pistol's his one friend;
That he's known sorrows strangers to his years;
That only illusion is what it appears;
That suicide is just around the bend.
Ladies and gentlemen, there's truth in this
Just like there's truth in stories that brides tell
To bridegrooms prior to their wedding kiss.
That is to say - poets have books to sell.
But here's a detail poets often miss:
They fall in love because they love it well.

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Time

Falling
The sands of time
Falling from future, through present, to past
A neverending stream
Something done stays forever
Something started continues forever
There is no stopping the tide
Sometimes we spend time remembering
A single grain of sand
A single memory
Nothing to most
Everything to one
They sort through the grains of the past
Trying desperately
To find that grain
Out of the infinite grains
There is no chance
But still they try
Remembering does not help
Remembering causes pain
And wastes the grains of the future as they fall unnoticed
So instead we focus on the future
We try to reach up and see what comes
We se

I Dream of Ravens

In a scape of green and gold
Black wings flutter, warm hands and cold
A gentle touch
A scary touch
A promise and a wish
A moving head
Two questing lips
A soft and gentle kiss

Talons slip between my ribs, and searching find their mark
With gentle bony fingers, they clasp on to my heart
A shiver changed from fear to joy, a question answered true
"Don't be afraid, just ask yourself, do you like me? 'cos I like you"

A soft flap and fading wings become
A shadow on the moon
But in the darkness of shut eyes
I listen for a croon
For feathers fall like memories
but one thing I know true
In my dreams are ravens
And in my heart is you

SimonDay broke, the sun glared through Simon's window. It began to creep slowly up the blankets, getting closer and closer to the quivering 12-year-old boy. He screamed and jumped from his bed. He would have hidden under his blankets but the creeping brightness could go through blankets so he hid under his bed. He waited.

A quivering head stuck out from underneath the dense blankets. It was OK. The vile light had swept through his room without befouling anything. Once the light had shone through his window and had made his paper turn evil and black. Luckily, Simon had jumped vigorously upon it and had broken the demon-infested thing before it att

Streets of my MindSometimes
Confused and ashamed
I wander the streets of my mind,
Passing headlights mirror mockeries
Of my self-imbued doubts
The highways of my sub-concious
Information avenues
Lined by streaks of white and yellow
Carrying with them boundless information faster than eyes interpret

I wonder
As I wander

Are they lights which approach
Or is it I who approaches?
Do I see what I see?
Or do I see that which is imbued in smoky haze
As a reflection of my own beacon
Myself shone back
From petrol pools and oil leaks

In these thoughts I find fear

Bringing with it a sense of understanding,
If I fear it
If I want to understand it
The

Wrinkled FeetI stumble
Small milk-white feet
Clumisly padding their way
To sit front row
And listen to the orchestra

The gulls and pidgeons
The pre-lude and wind ensemble
Whistles and tweets
Simple
Innocent
Carefree and Happy

Barely the cover
My hands lift to my bejewelled ear
To hear the patterned padding of feet
The tambarines
Dainty yet orderly
Sweet and pure
Yet understanding
Soft
Yet strong

A curious mix suddenly punctuated
With tear-drops from hurt eyes
And the crashing crescendo of waves
Pounding against the shore and lifting my heavy heart
Into my lungs
Betrayal
Love
Fear
And comprehension

A pause
Then
CRASH
Squacks

Her StoryBirdsong fills my morning hall
The creeping sun my wake-up call
Feet are burrowed, sandy mounds
A childish heart inside me pounds
Through weary eyes a remembered game
Against the ocean I once played
And although time has left me old
My story still waits to be told

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Just a Boy

by ~tnargwoxow, Jun 11, 2006, 2:04:13 AM
Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

I'm just a boy, Without a heart
I cannot write, I don't do art
I can't sing, Or talk or see
I can't love, But I CAN be
I don't have values, But I stick to them
Don't need weapons, But you stick me to them

I don't lie, And I don't cheat
I am honest, And I am neat
I live simple, I live well
I am happy, Can't you tell?

See my easy painted smile?
Completely real, Without denial
I stand straight, Do what I'm told
I'm not too young, I don't grow old
If I'm broken, I can be fixed
I can be lost, but never missed
I'm back again, round a bend or two
A coin exchanged, between him and you

And now i'm here, and in your hand
Just like you, had always planned
And so I am, your fantasy
One cup for you, And one for me?
Maybe you, will raise my arm up high
Paint me with symbols, a mustache and a lie
Without a question, of if it's right
In your minds eye, the Jews I'll fight
Or maybe it's, the greeks today
Or asians or, Sudam Hussein

Although these events, cause hurt for some
I'm cold inside, my thought is none
But if toys could speak, I'd tell you true
I am more me, than you are you

Just a Boyby ~tnargwoxow

Literature / Poetry / Human Nature / Traditional Fixed Forms

Ok this is a very different style of poem for me... I personally hate when poems are written in this style. So rhyme based and I dislike it but I was trying to convey rigidity, both of the concepts and to portray the movements of the boy... I'm trying really hard not to give anything much away about this poem... The major issue I want the reader to realise. So when you read this if you could give me your interpretation that would be AWESOME

I know there are alot of places where it doesn't flow well. And I have written much better poems than this... But I found it interesting and decided to submit it just for curiosities sake. Tell me what you think eh?

The idea kinda came from the Dresden Dolls song "Coin-Operated Boy"... only kinda though...

~lunarleviathan Jun 16, 2006

ooh ur pimping me... i only have two poems tho lol.

I love it, but when do i not love ur poems. Theyre always good/fantastic, even if you dont like them, or if they are not as good as others u have done. i didnt like the ryhming at the beginning very much, seemed not to flow so well, as you said, but i think it definately improves later on. What a cool idea. Hey i finally dl coin operated boy the other day. Yer i see the influence tho its not about the same thing really, at all.
It seems to be more about a toy, but i think it could definately be about children and youth. So impressionable... they dont really have their own beliefs and stuff developed, and its all what theyve been told, theyre innocent, in a way even if they do awful things because they dont understand, they cant judge for themselves whats right and wrong. This i got mainly from the third paragraph, like nazi youth, and how children are used as soldiers in some poor, war ravaged countries.
I have some idea of some other things it could be about, but thats the main one for me. So good!

~tnargwoxow Jun 17, 2006

Wow!! What an awesome interpretation!! I really like that idea!!! *croons* I love finding out what my poems mean!

*SaCliliad Jun 14, 2006 Professional Digital Artist

Wow. I think this worked out really, really, really well.

I just see a boy who's been in the army or something, or not that.. just... I'm not sure, something to do with war, and such. The uniforming of the rhyming sort of adding into that interpretation. It's done really well, I realy like it! What's it actually about?

~ Sarah Jennifer

~tnargwoxow Jun 14, 2006

It's about everythign really... I was unsure wether to keep my original interpreation which is why I'm unwilling to explain it... I guess it doesn't matter wnow.

I had in mind the idea that a toy solider is more perfect than any peson, any saint. A toy soldier is exactly what it is and nothing more. It's the most truthful th ing. Additionalyl we give it guns and weapons but it never uses them to harm... There was more but I have to rush and Id need to read it to remember. Thanks for your aweosme comment

Read the one I put up before it

*SaCliliad Jun 14, 2006 Professional Digital Artist

Yes, I actually read about the toy soldier thing after I commented--- wow! So well done! To think it was all sweet metaphors when really it was the actual thing. That makes me so curious about other things--- what else am I seeing in sweet metaphors that is really what it tells me it is? Awesome concept, actually, just there.

~ Sarah Jennifer

~tnargwoxow Jun 15, 2006

yAy! Yeah that's what I was trying to do... I just remembered James Ross writing a story once for year 10 and the story seemd like a lovers break up. Then at the end we find out it's a bus stop sign... I guess that's what made me think about it... It was such a good story

*SaCliliad Jun 16, 2006 Professional Digital Artist

Wow! Things like that are awesome... what story is that?

~tnargwoxow Jun 17, 2006

James ross wrote it... That's what I said

I don't know what it was called if that's what you mean..

~chaotic-angel-raven Jun 13, 2006

Rhyming definatley works in this piece, so cold and clockwork. Sounds like the boy is a Jarhead. Very very cold. Good job!

~tnargwoxow Jun 14, 2006

yAy!

Thankyou

I'm glad you liked it

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