FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S WEIRD

[42BelowsBack]

YOU are invited To post what ever weird liminal poetical thing you are thinking or just plain doing. Feel free to @ add a friend or poet OR NOT Mwahaha mwahaha Your @ add may meh not answer mehehe mehehe

 

[42BelowsBack]

My Crunchy poetical creativity theory:
A liminal period exists between a scratch to a mark, to a formalized line in letters whether brushed, chiseled or scratched in marks in the way footprints imprint a mind's existence.

@_Land how do you write many poems so quickly?

 

[calmlikeabomb]

One mole two mole three mole four,
How many points did (sports team) score?
Sometimes I feel sitting on planes,
Like a fat rabbit hopping in the middle of Spain.
Tik tok tik tok cows go moo,
Roses are red, but are violets really blue?
Row row row your boat gently down the drain,
While I be a fat rabbit in the middle of Spain.

 

[42BelowsBack]

One mole two mole three mole four,
How many points did (sports team) score?
Sometimes I feel sitting on planes,
Like a fat rabbit hopping in the middle of Spain.
Tik tok tik tok cows go moo,
Roses are red, but are violets really blue?
Row row row your boat gently down the drain,
While I be a fat rabbit in the middle of Spain.

This reads like Joaquim PhoneXs Joker… BooOm thank you for sharing.

 

[SpermFactory]

Yes Mr President

Ohh Caroline shows us your patriarchy tits from the podium.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Yes Mr President

Dear Caroline shows us your patriarchy tits from the podium.

17 syllables in an American handmade in sentence.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Some Jewels from Pulp Fiction, “Say Wat one more time motha fuka I dare you” @Wat_Tyler

 

[Angeline]

Count Basie heard the notes he didn't play. So did Thelonius Monk.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Count Basie heard the notes he didn't play. So did Thelonius Monk.

In a melodic pounding around midnight on a Sunday afternoon, in Blue Monk's dissonance; touché'[d] into the nape of a piano; who could say the notes Basie couldn't play... only Thelinious Monk in his Bamboo shades.

Dissonance? Poetry in words and all that Jazz

 

[Angeline]

Thelonious in his shades and bucket hat,
foot jamming pedals, foot tapping he breaks
out a wild herky-jerky dance. Pure joy angel
capering around his piano.

There ain't no wrong notes, he says
and swings blue into a flatted fifth.

Oh beautiful dissonance! Oh jazz!

 

[calmlikeabomb]

I don't know what I've been told
Eskimo pussy is nice and cold
And if I may make so bold
I'm not too good at this rhyming thing.

 

[NivKay]

Sometimes, like fire, I obliterate
The very thing I am,
Iambic self-destruction

 

[SpermFactory]

Mouth Melting Moments
Irish ice cream loving sun,
those twin views are ice,
sweat, trickling diamonds

@ThatIrishGirl
my eyes come
tongue tribute
you in a poem.

 

[_Land]

[/QU

My Crunchy poetical creativity theory:
A liminal period exists between a scratch to a mark, to a formalized line in letters whether brushed, chiseled or scratched in marks in the way footprints imprint a mind's existence.

@_Land how do you write many poems so quickly?

“The Folders Where I Bled”

I don't write them quickly—
I just never stopped.
The poems were planted
in the open wounds of Tuesdays.
Each line a splinter I never removed,
each stanza a sigh I never exhaled
until the paper begged me.

They live in folders, yes,
but also in jawbone tension,
in the arch of my back
after holding space for someone else's sorrow.
Therapist hands can't always carry it—
so I feed it to metaphor,
let it bleed into couplets.

My ears take in the ache.
My pen becomes a sieve.
Rhymes cradle what rage can't carry.
Verse becomes the grave
I bury the day's weight in
so I don’t wear it to dinner
or dream in someone else's crisis.

I do not write them fast—
I write them true.
And truth, when it needs out,
doesn’t ask permission.
It breaks the door
and uses my hand to leave.

 

[_Land]

My Crunchy poetical creativity theory:
A liminal period exists between a scratch to a mark, to a formalized line in letters whether brushed, chiseled or scratched in marks in the way footprints imprint a mind's existence.

@_Land how do you write many poems so quickly?

The non poetic answer is I am constantly writing...... As a life/relationship coach and empath and psychic who makes a living touching so many different personas and lives I use poetry as a release and to gain insight and understanding of various situations.

If you read The Quiet Autopsy, that came through a moment in speaking with and old highschool classmate who became the coroner non the island I grew up on.

The empath aspects of my gifts literally saw the imagery, it was haunting and beautiful.

She only told me she dealt with death regularly as a coroner. We were talking about my poem Im Not Funny at the time.

Not everything comes fast..... I've got shit that's stuck.... Read Gospel in C minor

When I write inspired it comes easy. When I try and create not so much.

Hope that isn't as convoluted as it feels sometimes.

Oh I also write a lot in my profession, classes meditations, writing prompts , ceremonies, rituals etc....

 

[42BelowsBack]

The non poetic answer is I am constantly writing...... As a life/relationship coach and empath and psychic who makes a living touching so many different personas and lives I use poetry as a release and to gain insight and understanding of various situations.

If you read The Quiet Autopsy, that came through a moment in speaking with and old highschool classmate who became the coroner non the island I grew up on.

The empath aspects of my gifts literally saw the imagery, it was haunting and beautiful.

She only told me she dealt with death regularly as a coroner. We were talking about my poem Im Not Funny at the time.

Not everything comes fast..... I've got shit that's stuck.... Read Gospel in C minor

When I write inspired it comes easy. When I try and create not so much.

Hope that isn't as convoluted as it feels sometimes.

Oh I also write a lot in my profession, classes meditations, writing prompts , ceremonies, rituals etc....

_Land, for me, I feel this exemplifies the creative writing maxim, write what you know, write what you don’t now.

Thank you for sharing.

 

[_Land]

_Land, for me, I feel this exemplifies the creative writing maxim, write what you know, write what you don’t now.

Thank you for sharing.

I know one of the things that it really challenged me to do when I started this work, not just the poetry LOL but my real life job was stepping outside of my own shoes and experience. Trusting that gift to really allow me to feel what they felt in those moments and then transferring that into the poetry.

I've really found inspiration in the aspect of stepping outside of my own experience. One of the exercises that I utilize now is to give voice to the inanimate I think that helps my mindset as far as being able to give something else or someone else The voice from their experience rather than mine.

I think that's one of the toughest challenges in poetry and in writing. Well at least for me !

 

[SpermFactory]

The non poetic answer is I am constantly writing...... As a life/relationship coach and empath and psychic who makes a living touching so many different personas and lives I use poetry as a release and to gain insight and understanding of various situations.

If you read The Quiet Autopsy, that came through a moment in speaking with and old highschool classmate who became the coroner non the island I grew up on.

The empath aspects of my gifts literally saw the imagery, it was haunting and beautiful.

She only told me she dealt with death regularly as a coroner. We were talking about my poem Im Not Funny at the time.

Not everything comes fast..... I've got shit that's stuck.... Read Gospel in C minor

When I write inspired it comes easy. When I try and create not so much.

Hope that isn't as convoluted as it feels sometimes.

Oh I also write a lot in my profession, classes meditations, writing prompts , ceremonies, rituals etc....

This is a superb technique, poems written in lived experience.

 

[SpermFactory]

I know one of the things that it really challenged me to do when I started this work, not just the poetry LOL but my real life job was stepping outside of my own shoes and experience. Trusting that gift to really allow me to feel what they felt in those moments and then transferring that into the poetry.

I've really found inspiration in the aspect of stepping outside of my own experience. One of the exercises that I utilize now is to give voice to the inanimate I think that helps my mindset as far as being able to give something else or someone else The voice from their experience rather than mine.

I think that's one of the toughest challenges in poetry and in writing. Well at least for me !

I think gifted poets can’t see themselves. They see the world in between the lines. In a way, their lines are their eyelashes.

 

[_Land]

So this is an example of some of the stuff that I am writing continually throughout the day

This particular writing was inspired this morning by

https://www.literotica.com/p/the-word-hate-the-word




Hate Is a Four-Letter Word

Worse Than Fuck, Worse Than Shit


---

Opening Poem

A Four-Letter Word

Hate is a blade sharpened in the mouth.
It splits the tongue in half,
leaving you fluent in fire.
It is the mold behind drywall—
quiet, black, seething.
It learns your name in whispers
and carves it backward in the mirror
so that every time you look at yourself,
you see enemy.

It is not passion.
It is poison with rhythm.
It is war dressed as righteousness,
a throat that sings only dirges.
Hate doesn’t scream first—
it smiles.
And waits
for your children to sleep
before it sets fire to the house
and blames the wind.


---

Essay: Hate Is a Four-Letter Word

There are four-letter words that burn the ears and rattle the nerves—
fuck, shit, cunt, damn—
but none of them, none of them,
carve through the architecture of humanity
the way hate does.

“Fuck” can be desperate worship.
It can be the frantic reaching for something warm
in a world gone cold.
“Shit” can be the crumbling of certainty,
a laugh through gritted teeth when life takes a turn.
Even “cunt”—drenched in blood and rebuke—has roots in the sacred,
a misused relic of power once revered.

But hate—
Hate is a razor
built to sever connection.
It is the funeral dirge of empathy.

It is the sound of bridges collapsing
with children still on them.
It is genocide wrapped in policy.
It is lynching made legal.
It is the heartbeat of every system
built to cage breath and classify bodies
as less than sacred.

It’s easy to call someone a motherfucker.
It’s harder to look at the ones we’ve called enemy
and admit the names we gave them were armor—
a cheap defense
against the mirror of our own pain.


---

The Truth Behind the Teeth

Hate is always the child of fear.
Not the kind that trembles,
but the kind that calcifies.
The kind that says: I don’t understand you, so I will destroy you.
Or: I once trusted someone who looked like you, and they broke me—so now you all must pay.
Or worse still: My god is better, my skin is holier, my flag bleeds justice even when it strangles you.

We speak of hate as an emotion,
but it is a strategy.
A currency.
An inheritance passed down from the mouths of bitter men
who’d rather rule ash than heal.

And the wildest part?
Hate can feel righteous.
It gives the illusion of power.
You don’t feel small when you hate.
You feel like a god with a matchbook.

Until the smoke chokes you too.


---

What Hate Costs Us

Hate is not just a word.
It’s a policy.
A dinner table.
A church sermon.
A subtle look in an elevator.
A judge’s gavel.
A teenager’s final breath.
A mother’s wail behind crime scene tape.

Hate doesn’t always wear a hood.
Sometimes it wears a badge.
Sometimes it holds a Bible.
Sometimes it calls itself “family values.”

And yet…
the price is always the same:

A piece of our shared humanity, carved out and buried.
Another heartbeat we don’t hear anymore.
Another truth we silence with slurs.


---

The Way Forward

We have to stop pretending hate is just a feeling.
It is a weapon.
And like all weapons,
it only gets dull when we stop sharpening it with silence.

We unlearn hate
the moment we make space for grief.
Grief for the parts of ourselves that were taught to fear.
Grief for the history we were too privileged to examine.
Grief for the lives lost while we debated tone.

To resist hate
is not to be nice.

It is to be bold enough
to face the lies we were raised on—
to name them,
to dismantle them,
and to replace them with a love fierce enough to hold complexity.

Because love,
real love,
is the scariest, most rebellious four-letter word there is.

And hate?
Hate can’t survive where love refuses to flinch.

 

[_Land]

For the Love of All That’s Weird

Praise be the glitter on the subway rat,
the one-eyed sock with abandonment issues,
the deli that sells Tarot next to tuna melts—
yes, bless the mustard prophet behind the counter.

Hail the girl who flirts with parking meters,
offers them poems and gum wrappers
in case they’re lonely gods
with expired hearts and no coins left.

Let’s throw a parade for that guy
who walks backward on Tuesdays
because forward feels too arrogant
and Wednesdays require moonwalking.

Clap for the woman with mango-sorbet hair,
whose laugh sounds like a wind chime
tumbling down a fire escape
on a dare from the thunder.

Kiss the chaos of mismatched shoes,
socks with conspiracy theories,
pajamas at brunch,
and taxidermy frogs in Shakespearean poses.

Raise a toast with pickle juice and bubble tea
to the drag queen who reads palms
and roasts your aura
with rhinestone wit and an arched brow.

Applaud the man who names his potted plants
after dead rockstars and ex-lovers,
whispers to Bowie at dawn,
begs Stevie Nicks to forgive him for overwatering.

Worship the child who builds galaxies from buttons,
rides the grocery cart like a space chariot,
insists her stuffed possum speaks fluent Latin
and channels Amelia Earhart on Tuesdays.

Bow to the woman who sings to moldy bread,
calls it penicillin's ancestor,
tells it bedtime stories
and swears it dreams in Morse code.

Let the normies gawk.
Let the neat freaks wince.
We—the holy eccentric, the saints of odd—
wear our nonsense like a crown of crayons.

For the love of all that’s weird—
we are the glitch in the algorithm,
the misplaced semicolon in God’s syntax,
the reason the universe giggles in its sleep

 

[_Land]

By the way as an additional weird note to the poem above my toenails are currently blue

My daughter is in cosmetology school and as part of her practice and getting ready for her licensure she has to perform tasks on people.

So is the supportive dad of course I volunteered LOL...

It was a bit of a surreal experience as when she was growing up in her 5 to 8 year old stage mom would let her paint her nails and she would exuberantly come ask me if she could paint mine and of course I couldn't tell her no.

Not that she ever got much paint on my nails but my toes were always lovely.

Sitting in the professional chair and getting all of the treatments brought back a lot of memories it was quite beautiful.

 

[SpermFactory]

Mmmmmm cerebral palsy pussy.

 

[_Land]

Broccoli Salad

Chop florets.
Small. Smaller.
We’re not here to taste green.

Scoop mayo. Big dollop.
Creamy like you mean it.
a splash of vinegar
enough to make your jaw flinch.

Sugar.
Yes, real sugar.
Two spoons for balance,
not guilt.

red onion diced.
sharp, but we’re adults now.
Toss in raisins
or cranberries if you’re fancy.

Sunflower seeds.
Always.
They pop between bites
like good gossip.

Crumble bacon.
Not optional.
The reason you came back
for seconds.

Stir like you’re hiding evidence.
Let it chill,
marinate in its own makeover.

I love broccoli salad mostl
because it doesn’t taste like broccoli.

It’s a lie I’m happy to eat.

 

[42BelowsBack]

Broccoli Salad

Chop florets.
Small. Smaller.
We’re not here to taste green.

Scoop mayo. Big dollop.
Creamy like you mean it.
a splash of vinegar
enough to make your jaw flinch.

Sugar.
Yes, real sugar.
Two spoons for balance,
not guilt.

red onion diced.
sharp, but we’re adults now.
Toss in raisins
or cranberries if you’re fancy.

Sunflower seeds.
Always.
They pop between bites
like good gossip.

Crumble bacon.
Not optional.
The reason you came back
for seconds.

Stir like you’re hiding evidence.
Let it chill,
marinate in its own makeover.

I love broccoli salad mostl
because it doesn’t taste like broccoli.

It’s a lie I’m happy to eat.

So for me personally, titles are incredibly important and I personally like to have a tie in from the title to at least one line or stanza within the poem or to the overall context.

I find this poem title and line technique absolutely unique. I think you are really onto something here. It offers a lot for further exploration. For example, a single poem where the title and lines operate in a game of Snakes & Ladders. Many will be thinking of existing forms where lines resituate themselves. Which is different to what @_Land is doing.

In keeping with the singular i.e. the title ties in with a single line, it strikes me this could operate like a trap door in a short form poem. One where I reader fall through, into discovering the poems deeper meaning. If done consistently, this would be an effective way to hide a poem in a poem. A bit like a Fabergé egg.

Consistency in a poem’s language choices aid the reader to thoroughly feel the poem.