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List Poom
- after E.E. Cummington
I. like, i like like you) lik e a poem likes a meta 4
II. i am a cray - On magenta blue melting in The sun as if it were a star, really up close like
III. like you and me on e plus on e is two times threesome bondage bukake on Bukowski
IV. like like this lik e blond e valley girls with their like likes (
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The Depths
What for do we Scatter from Fear If not From our own Subconscious
A Fist Full of Bullshit
So everything I love I should deny? And bend all rules that form my work this time? Well, what the hell, sounds fun, ok, I'll try. I'm sorry, where you expecting a                  word with similar pronounciation?
So I guess this is where I go on to Break my rules, and the meter is next. And also I don't see at all why this should always be pentameter so I'll just forget that for this text.
Well, turning point, whatever would surprise you now? Maybe it's time now for me to return To the form, would that be surprising, no? What the hell, this sucks, just burn.
Steffen's #poetrydome (C) brings out the worst, So I hope this serves but as contrast. Cheers.
Oh also, have some #blood. Because displayal of cheap #hashtag marketing. #Atrocious. #Feature-#Whoring. #Attentionwhoring.
This is a poem but it should be one giant line of text scrolling burning past your optic receptors snorted up your noses to burst blood vessels in the brain — poetry should move you, should change you, be a bowel movement you never forget, burn you inside-out like an infection {Pck a spot on your body. Not one you write a love poem about. Not that one! Someone did a poem about it.} THESE WORDS SHOULD BE SPOKEN screamed shredding metaphors to become paradoxic, parabolic, a splatter of thesaurus-speak, a hundred pretty words strung together to lie that they mean anything at all. Nothing pretty is true.
I don’t write poems, I say this so that your critiques will never hurt. Anger cannot grow. Quote that out of context, we are metatextual because it is not art. All I want. This poem should come back to haunt you at night, mug you while awake. But it won’t.
You didn’t read this far.
Eat your heart out
The vastness of his urgent desire Creased my bones in turgid flesh. I willingly succumb to his rib cage, Locked inside with his pounding flesh, Beats per minute like the solo sung While I was meant to sing duet To his undulating cortex of hunger. I am consumed by him in pecks; Bite size nibbles across star struck collar bones. Give me over to his morbid wish Let me feed him on my salvation A submission of fodder for his lips.
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shit poetry wants the one who demands butchered thoughts stop asking for it-- you're no whore, not like me I'd sell a nickel for my mother that's how you butcher poetry and craft shit from beauty so let me command-- prompt. control. shift. delete. all I've learned just another poet waiting to happen
Hella Blood Everywhere
The man groaned a real groan- y groan. His bleeding heart bled blood all over the bloody grass.       He [stepped] in the grass; the grass blooded him. If you looked at him You’d be like dang, that guy Is really ~~stepping~~ in that grass. And he would BE. And we       all  hella are. And we
all
is
am.
a poem for Steffen Mitchell's PoetrydromeÂ
glistening hopes slicken the way like an icy patch on the road or some other slippery surface leading the path to my disaster but wait--I'm already there don't you see? it's everywhere like all the falling flakes outside would you say God's dandruff? or spunk dripping from clouds? manna as knuckle children, really are metaphors for my thoughts they come and go, mostly come at the sight of an apt semantic
