Poetry for killing time

[Johnny_Ray_Wilson]

Genius by Mark Twain


Genius, like gold and precious stones,
is chiefly prized because of its rarity.

Geniuses are people who dash of weird, wild,
incomprehensible poems with astonishing facility,
and get booming drunk and sleep in the gutter.

Genius elevates its possessor to ineffable spheres
far above the vulgar world and fills his soul
with regal contempt for the gross and sordid things of earth.

It is probably on account of this
that people who have genius
do not pay their board, as a general thing.

Geniuses are very singular.

If you see a young man who has frowsy hair
and distraught look, and affects eccentricity in dress,
you may set him down for a genius.

If he sings about the degeneracy of a world
which courts vulgar opulence
and neglects brains,
he is undoubtedly a genius.

If he is too proud to accept assistance,
and spurns it with a lordly air
at the very same time
that he knows he can't make a living to save his life,
he is most certainly a genius.

If he hangs on and sticks to poetry,
notwithstanding sawing wood comes handier to him,
he is a true genius.

If he throws away every opportunity in life
and crushes the affection and the patience of his friends
and then protests in sickly rhymes of his hard lot,
and finally persists,
in spite of the sound advice of persons who have got sense
but not any genius,
persists in going up some infamous back alley
dying in rags and dirt,
he is beyond all question a genius.

But above all things,
to deftly throw the incoherent ravings of insanity into verse
and then rush off and get booming drunk,
is the surest of all the different signs
of genius.

 

[atmas]

Here I love you.
Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain.
I love you still among these cold things.
Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels
that cross the sea towards no arrival.
I see myself forgotten like those old anchors.

The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there.
My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose.
I love what I do not have. You are so far.
My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights.
But night comes and starts to sing to me.

The moon turns its clockwork dream.
The biggest stars look at me with your eyes.
And as I love you, the pines in the wind
want to sing your name with their leaves of wire

 

[atmas]

I should be able
to sense your step on the sidewalk.
I should recognise
your scent in the garden.
My fingers should
know the smooth of your skin in the silk.
I should see the fantastic freckles in your eyes
in the scant rays of light at sunset.

But the rain has cleansed
the sidewalk away.
The garden is gone,
turned to mere dirt.
My fingers have grown calloused
and numb to dulcet texture.
And the sun
has long since set.

The part of myself
that carried you inside
has been missplaced
on a sidewalk,
in a garden,
beyond a grasp,
at close of day.

Somewhere I have traveled
my heart is forced to forget
what the rain still remembers.

 

[butters]

beautiful

 

[atmas]

There will never be another you

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A_omszhwEAw

Thanks, Nat:

This is our last dance together,
Tonight soon will be long ago.
And in our moment of parting,
This is all I want you to know...


There will be many other nights like this,
And I'll be standing here with someone new.
There will be other songs to sing,
Another fall...another spring...
But there will never be another you.


There will be other lips that I may kiss,
But they won't thrill me,
Like yours used to do.
Yes, I may dream a million dreams,
But how can they come true,
If there will never, ever be another you?



Yes, I may dream a million dreams,
But how can they come true,
If there will never, ever be...
Another you?

 

[sweepthefloor]

I want to love so I can make love like lovers want. I don't know how so I will run two miles on the black top. This is my poetry for killing time.

 

[atmas]

"Don't you get that no means no? That maybe I'm not in the mood? That maybe the mood has passed, and we have passed, and we should just make the best of it?"
"No."

"Don't you know that my flesh has forgotten, my skin has forgotten, my breath has forgotten all how it changed back then?"
"No."

"Don't you know that for all that has been lost, for all the years that sentiment has died, for all the lack of your touch, that longing has not forgotten?"
"No."

"Don't you know that for all I've been open, for all I've been waiting, for all I've made myself accessible to you, you can no longer have me?"
"No."

"Don't you know how hard I've become, how blunt and coarse this life has made me, how petty and small?"
"No."


"Don't you know that I am powerless? Don't you know that my heart is not my own when you're here? Don't you know that only you can spread light on the stillness of my waters, to reveal they flow only towards your ocean? Don't you know that yours is the only concert hall in which my music can radiate? Don't you know that where you end I begin?"

"Yes."



"Don't you..."
"Yes. I do."

 

[sweepthefloor]

We cried in the night.

 

[atmas]

wind came in from out of sight
and carried a scent to cringe
of dying leaves and shorting breath
sunlight taking and daylight creeping.

wasn't new when the end of
a song has filled a cup,
the beginning of the next
empties it,

time has come to close your eyes
and let the waves wash over.

 

[Dr_Banzai]

“There are days when solitude is a heady wine that intoxicates you with freedom, others when it is a bitter tonic, and still others when it is a poison that makes you beat your head against the wall.”
― Colette, Oeuvres complètes en seize volumes

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

You Remain in Me

My usual distractions and amusements,
Distant places, different men,
Fail to remove you from inside me.

Over the sound of my own fear, and regret,
I still hear you, only you, reading aloud for me,
"Like this, like this, like this."

Your voice, your thoughts, your words,
The idea of you, possibility of you, promise of you,
Lead me, follow me, haunt me.

No matter how far I look away,
Pull away, run away, hide away,
You remain in me, beside me, on me.

Maybe I'm changed forever now,
Like a rusty engine or flooded house,
By the addition of you to me.

Without meaning to, or wanting to,
You left me with a constant reminder of you,
Of what may have been, but never was.

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

Unwelcome

It's 7:18 am. I am tired.

Your indifference to me is unwelcome, you see,
because it reminds me of my own.

I am haunted. Crippled.
The battle I am waging is life or death.

Love.
Friendship.
Hope.
Tomorrow.

You have no power here.
Can't help me. Won't save me.

I can't even save myself.
I don't want to. I don't know how.

Surrounded, protected, by everyone, everywhere.
I feel alone. Empty. Defeated.

I want to sob. Need to shout.
Get away from me. Get away from you.

I swallow my tears instead.
Swallow you instead.
Disappear instead.

Make my bed.
Wash my face.
Brush my teeth.
Move my body.

I wonder how high a surface I need to jump from.

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

Kissing You

Sometimes you part my lips,
Like a familiar road,
My cunt,
The sea.
You taste my tongue,
Like it is the sky,
My clit,
Your own.
You make a metaphor of my mouth,
A messenger,
A meteor,
A myth.
You make me ache,
Imagine,
Move,
Hope.

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

The Way You Kiss Me

Sometimes you part my lips,
Like a familiar road,
My cunt,
Your hair,
The ocean.
You taste my tongue,
Like it is the sky,
My clit,
Your own.
You make my mouth,
A messenger,
A meteor,
A myth.
Make me ache for it.
Hope for it.
Imagine it.
Know it.

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

Menstruation at Forty

Menstruation at Forty by Anne Sexton

I was thinking of a son.
The womb is not a clock
nor a bell tolling,
but in the eleventh month of its life
I feel the November
of the body as well as of the calendar.
In two days it will be my birthday
and as always the earth is done with its harvest.
This time I hunt for death,
the night I lean toward,
the night I want.
Well then--
It was in the womb all along.

I was thinking of a son ...
You! The never acquired,
the never seeded or unfastened,
you of the genitals I feared,
the stalk and the puppy's breath.
Will I give you my eyes or his?
Will you be the David or the Susan?
(Those two names I picked and listened for.)
Can you be the man your fathers are--
the leg muscles from Michelangelo,
hands from Yugoslavia
somewhere the peasant, Slavic and determined,
somewhere the survivor bulging with life--
and could it still be possible,
all this with Susan's eyes?

All this without you--
two days gone in blood.
I myself will die without baptism,
a third daughter they didn't bother.
My death will come on my name day.
What's wrong with the name day?
It's only an angel of the sun.
Woman,
weaving a web over your own,
a thin and tangled poison.
Scorpio,
bad spider--
die!

My death from the wrists,
two name tags,
blood worn like a corsage
to bloom
one on the left and one on the right--
It's a warm room,
the place of the blood.
Leave the door open on its hinges!

Two days for your death
and two days until mine.

Love! That red disease--
year after year, David, you would make me wild!
David! Susan! David! David!
full and disheveled, hissing into the night,
never growing old,
waiting always for you on the porch ...
year after year,
my carrot, my cabbage,
I would have possessed you before all women,
calling your name,
calling you mine.

 

[raindancer]

Anne Sexton, yes!

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

She likes to bathe with me.

https://i.imgur.com/sCQpkHT.jpg

 

[raindancer]

My Voice

Within this restless, hurried, modern world
We took our hearts' full pleasure--You and I,
And now the white sails of our ship are furled,
And spent the lading of our argosy.

Wherefore my cheeks before their time are wan,
For very weeping is my gladness fled,
Sorrow hath paled my lip's vermilion,
And Ruin draws the curtains of my bed.

But all this crowded life has been to thee
No more than lyre, or lute, or subtle spell
Of viols, or the music of the sea
That sleeps, a mimic echo, in the shell.

by Oscar Wilde

 

[IrezumiKiss]

Sometimes you part my lips,
Like a familiar road,
My cunt,
The sea.
You taste my tongue,
Like it is the sky,
My clit,
Your own.
You make a metaphor of my mouth,
A messenger,
A meteor,
A myth.
You make me ache,
Imagine,
Move,
Hope.

Sometimes you part my lips,
Like a familiar road,
My cunt,
Your hair,
The ocean.
You taste my tongue,
Like it is the sky,
My clit,
Your own.
You make my mouth,
A messenger,
A meteor,
A myth.
Make me ache for it.
Hope for it.
Imagine it.
Know it.

Both of these are similar, but still get me in that

https://media.giphy.com/media/Cq1wCPU4zHkMU/giphy.gif

zone.

 

[Hypoxia]

I gotta little song,
H'it ain't very long;
H'it's all about a MUR-der!
Jim Hopkins' dog,
H'it et my frog;
An' h'it don't go no FUR-der.
--trad.

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

Both of these are similar, but still get me in that

https://media.giphy.com/media/Cq1wCPU4zHkMU/giphy.gif

zone.

Thank you, Zumi. I’m glad it’s not just sexy to me.

I kept revising it and revising it because it’s taking a long time to get approved. Finally I just decided it’s finished.

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

Do you embed an animated gif here the same way you do an image?

I tried to do it the other day and couldn’t figure it out.

 

[AlotLikePsyche]

You know I can do this indefinitely, right?

<takes selfie>

Like, I’m the only child of a single mother who worked full time. I never got married, never had kids, and never made many close friends. I’ve been alone in the world and not talking to people for like 30 years.

And you want to watch me and notice me and discuss me like my one useless, ordinary life matters at all in the least.

Uh, okay. I like this game. I can do this shit forever.

<picks cuticles>

I’m not really sure why you’re still here, though. You might want to reconsider that. I have no plans to become entertaining or productive or anything. Just so you know.

There’s no transformation coming soon. No happy ending. No redemption song. (It’s not that kind of story.) So, don’t be sitting over there secretly hoping for something more or something better from me. Because I feel no obligation to excel for you, or perform for you.

And if you think that’s criminal?
A catastrophe?
We’re in a concentration camp?
This is Chernobyl?

(Oh, no! Not that!)

Please. It’s more like when you buy a bunch of bathing suits online and none of them really fit you that great but you decide to keep them all anyway because returns are a hassle and you already removed all the tags and those paper stickers they put in the crotch and you knew going in they were all gonna suck because they’re bathing suits and it’s basically their job to make you feel awful.

This is like that. Call me crazy, but I think we might survive it.

And, hey. Guess what?

Tomorrow we get to eat toast and watch porn.

Get ready!

<cries>

 

[oneblueye]

hey...

"you get nothing for nothing in Life or Death
I'll keep on living till my dying breath
but while I'm here---,
Yeah, while I'm here---,
give me meat--,
hmmmm, something sweet
yeah, give me meat."

Matches: featuring, Spooks on the 3rd Floor

 

[butters]

you held me close
slid your fingers into that space
halfways between sternum and navel
pressed deep through flesh and tissue
created that special wound
that special emptiness
gifted me the insomniac rat
that runs and snaps at my insides
its sharp-tipped toes scratching at my softness
fur clotted with my dismays

and i lie awake hoping
your fingers find their way back
enter the wound (it never really healed)
to grasp the naked tail, slick with blood
a hot worm, a headless snake
hoping they'll
withdraw the blind, the biting bag of fear
return what you stole
then seal me closed
so i don't stain your sheets